didn’t train, he’d have to cart his belly around in a wheelbarrow.
The other kind of sweat Pierce likes is the kind to be had from a right good sex sesh. Because he has such a hairy chest he sweats a lot in the act of making love to a lady. But it’s not only on his head that he’s losing hair. With a bit of energetic up and down he sheds hair like nobody’s business. The girl he shagged the other night ended up with almost as much chest hair as he had. She looked like Tarzan by the time they were finished. She was nice, she saidshe liked muscles on a man and a hairy chest and she never mentioned the bald patch. It’s a pity she was married. Pierce started a piece about her. He’s working on a collection of romantic poems, writing one for every girl he humps. It’s called For all the Girls I’ve Loved Before . He thinks it’s a pretty good title but he can’t help thinking that he’s heard it somewhere else. It could be Poyumtree’ s inaugural publication. But he needs time to write.
Pierce has always to guard his RAT time, his reading and thinking time; so many demands are made upon him. He’s always scooshing about like a burst hose. He feels duty bound to attend readings and book launches, even where there are few networking opportunities there is usually free drink and ladies to be pulled. If it’s not business meetings with Tam or lunch with his dad, it’s Wednesday night Poets and Pints, or Thursday afternoon reading group or the gym or the fucking buroo.
The buroo is getting to be real nuisance. Not content with him signing on every bloody week, now they want him to attend some stupid Restart interview. They’re threatening to stop his money and he’s running out of strategies. It was okay when Miss McLaren was in charge of his case. She’d haul him in at some ungodly hour in the morning for one of her wee chats but he’d show her some phoney job applications along with a haiku he’d written for her and she was quite happy. And quite fit for a woman of fifty. He would have given her one but Pierce feared it would spoil their professional relationship. As it turned out, he missed his chance because Miss McLaren was transferred. Now he has some hairy-arsed hot shot with the unshakeable belief that everyone is employable. The guy actually had the cheek to ask Pierce if he was embarrassed to be living off the state. Pierce replied that the state would have no problem living off him when the time came; taking fifty per cent of his income in taxes once his book was published.
As he turns the corner into the street Pierce is preoccupied with how he can get this guy off his case and get on with the work of being a poet. He has a Restart appointment with him tomorrow morning. It’s not going to be easy, the guy is a fucking terrier. Then he sees Daphne, her purple goonie cracking in the sharp springwind. At first he thinks she must be washing the windows, she always does mad things at this time of year. He stops and watches her for a moment. She’s just sitting there. There’s no sign of cleaning ; she hasn’t got a cloth or water or anything. Then it dawns on him. Oh no, the stupid depressive cow is trying to top herself.
Chapter 12
‘Daphne!’
She looks up but only gives him one of her ‘you’re-shit- on-my -shoe’ stares.
‘Daphne, stop!’
She doesn’t even look at him this time. Ah fuck her, he thinks, but it only lasts a second. He can’t bear the idea of Daphne, of anyone, splattered all over the pavement.
He takes the stairs two at a time. His heart is pumping, he’s buzzing with excitement. Pierce has been waiting all his life for this moment, the moment when he saves someone’s life. She’s not really going to kill herself. He’s going to talk her down. Pierce is the best man for the job. He, better than anyone, can explain to her how beautiful life is. As a poet he does it every day.
This is going to be all over the papers. POET RESCUES SUICIDE . ‘Pierce’s poetry
The other kind of sweat Pierce likes is the kind to be had from a right good sex sesh. Because he has such a hairy chest he sweats a lot in the act of making love to a lady. But it’s not only on his head that he’s losing hair. With a bit of energetic up and down he sheds hair like nobody’s business. The girl he shagged the other night ended up with almost as much chest hair as he had. She looked like Tarzan by the time they were finished. She was nice, she saidshe liked muscles on a man and a hairy chest and she never mentioned the bald patch. It’s a pity she was married. Pierce started a piece about her. He’s working on a collection of romantic poems, writing one for every girl he humps. It’s called For all the Girls I’ve Loved Before . He thinks it’s a pretty good title but he can’t help thinking that he’s heard it somewhere else. It could be Poyumtree’ s inaugural publication. But he needs time to write.
Pierce has always to guard his RAT time, his reading and thinking time; so many demands are made upon him. He’s always scooshing about like a burst hose. He feels duty bound to attend readings and book launches, even where there are few networking opportunities there is usually free drink and ladies to be pulled. If it’s not business meetings with Tam or lunch with his dad, it’s Wednesday night Poets and Pints, or Thursday afternoon reading group or the gym or the fucking buroo.
The buroo is getting to be real nuisance. Not content with him signing on every bloody week, now they want him to attend some stupid Restart interview. They’re threatening to stop his money and he’s running out of strategies. It was okay when Miss McLaren was in charge of his case. She’d haul him in at some ungodly hour in the morning for one of her wee chats but he’d show her some phoney job applications along with a haiku he’d written for her and she was quite happy. And quite fit for a woman of fifty. He would have given her one but Pierce feared it would spoil their professional relationship. As it turned out, he missed his chance because Miss McLaren was transferred. Now he has some hairy-arsed hot shot with the unshakeable belief that everyone is employable. The guy actually had the cheek to ask Pierce if he was embarrassed to be living off the state. Pierce replied that the state would have no problem living off him when the time came; taking fifty per cent of his income in taxes once his book was published.
As he turns the corner into the street Pierce is preoccupied with how he can get this guy off his case and get on with the work of being a poet. He has a Restart appointment with him tomorrow morning. It’s not going to be easy, the guy is a fucking terrier. Then he sees Daphne, her purple goonie cracking in the sharp springwind. At first he thinks she must be washing the windows, she always does mad things at this time of year. He stops and watches her for a moment. She’s just sitting there. There’s no sign of cleaning ; she hasn’t got a cloth or water or anything. Then it dawns on him. Oh no, the stupid depressive cow is trying to top herself.
Chapter 12
‘Daphne!’
She looks up but only gives him one of her ‘you’re-shit- on-my -shoe’ stares.
‘Daphne, stop!’
She doesn’t even look at him this time. Ah fuck her, he thinks, but it only lasts a second. He can’t bear the idea of Daphne, of anyone, splattered all over the pavement.
He takes the stairs two at a time. His heart is pumping, he’s buzzing with excitement. Pierce has been waiting all his life for this moment, the moment when he saves someone’s life. She’s not really going to kill herself. He’s going to talk her down. Pierce is the best man for the job. He, better than anyone, can explain to her how beautiful life is. As a poet he does it every day.
This is going to be all over the papers. POET RESCUES SUICIDE . ‘Pierce’s poetry
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