If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Irvine Welsh

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Rattlesnakes

  If You Liked School, You’ll Love Work …

  1. Trees

  2. Cynth

  3. Em

  4. Seph

  5. Marce

  The DOGS of Lincoln Park

  Miss Arizona

  Kingdom of Fife

  1. Jason and Sexual Jealousy

  2. Jenni and Death

  3. The Fife Style of Play

  4. His Girlfriend

  5. Discipline

  6. Anniversary

  7. Appeal

  8. Transit

  9. In the Goth

  10. Tanning

  11. East Port

  12. Traditions

  13. Exile on High Street

  14. Vet Dobson

  15. Perth Pack

  16. Gypsy Boys

  17. Bike Crash

  18. Head

  19. Funeral

  20. Floored

  21. Jason’s Mum

  22. New Horse

  23. Trevlin

  24. Snogging

  25. Twelve Inches Tall

  26. Fife Poetry Slam

  27. Demise of Ambrose

  28. Hawick and Bathgate

  29. Old Four-Legs is Back

  30. Trip

  31. Spanish Postscript

  Afterword

  Copyright

  About the Book

  In ‘Rattlesnakes’, three young Americans find themselves lost in the desert, held captive by armed Mexicans; in ‘The DOGS of Lincoln Park’, a mysterious Korean chef may or may not have something to do with the disappearance of a socialite’s pooch; an English bar owner battles to keep all his balls in the air on the Costa Brava; a film biographer becomes a piece of movie memorabilia himself in ‘Miss Arizona’; and in the ‘Kingdom of Fife’; an ex-jockey and table-football star of Cowdenbeath takes on the charms of Jenni Cahill and her remarkable jodhpurs…

  About the Author

  Irvine Welsh is the author of eight novels and four books of shorter fiction. His most recent novel Skagboys is the prequel to the bestselling Trainspotting. He currently lives in Chicago. www.irvinewelsh.net

  ALSO BY IRVINE WELSH

  Fiction

  Trainspotting

  The Acid House

  Marabou Stork Nightmares

  Ecstasy

  Filth

  Glue

  Porno

  The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

  Crime

  Reheated Cabbage

  Skagboys

  Drama

  You’ll Have Had Your Hole

  Babylon Heights (with Dean Cavanagh)

  Screenplay

  The Acid House

  For Max Davis

  Rattlesnakes

  THE AIR CONDITIONER on the silver Dodge Durango had fucked up earlier: the filter and cooler malfunctioning. Instead of sweet, chilled air, it had inexplicably started blowing hot desert dust into the vehicle. It streaked their sweaty faces and hands, merging with the previous layers they’d kicked up during their weekend of intoxicated dancing madness. Throats, dehydrated by drug and desert, dried out even more, as tearless eyeballs burned. They had been forced to switch it off.

  It had been a long trek out from the Burning Man festival, and a treacherous drive across these back desert roads. Now they were lost in this dust storm. Eugene’s spine was starting to hurt; his large linebackers frame uncomfortable in the seat. The dirt on his wet and slimy hands was turning to mud on the wheel and it was getting hotter all the time. His big chest rose and fell as his lungs struggled to fill up with the warm, dead air.

  This damn Dodge of Scott’s! 40,567 miles on the clock and the fucking air con doesn’t even work!

  As the storm continued to kick up, the sky growing murkier by the second, Eugene was feeling the sense of his own stupidity snapping at him like a rabid dog. The short cut hadn’t materialized and as far as he could make out there were no fellow travelers around of any description. Eugene studied his pasty, wan reflection in the mirror, his filthy hair scraped back in a ponytail, the sweat from it now running down his big forehead in rivulets of mud. Picking up an old white towel by his side, he wiped it, glad he couldn’t see his eyes under his shades. Fatigued beyond tiredness, Eugene pressed on as demons danced slowly in his peripheral vision. A bolt of lightning crackled in the phosphorous sky in front of him. He was unfit to drive; he was unfit for anything, he considered ruefully. The drugs and the sleep deprivation had taken him into a mildly psychotic status quo, which was now even starting to bore him. He was praying for clarity soon, both in the wild environment outside and in his troubled mind.

  One thought was burning him: Scott and Madeline should be awake to take their turns at the wheel. But he knew they were on a different trajectory to him, and so he’d been stuck with the driving. Rancorous bile rose in Eugene’s gut as he pushed on. Thunder quaked and rumbled in his ears on top of a tinnitus bass line that he feared would stay with him forever.

  This goddamn mess.

  And Madeline. Asleep on the passenger seat next to him, his eyes straying onto her long, bare legs; tan augmented by surprisingly arousing streaks of muck, making her look dirty, real dirty, suggesting a mud-wrestling slut dried out and he could see those legs right up to the cutoff denim shorts … running towards him on some plowed-up field … her long, curling blond-brown hair cascading onto her shoulders, heavy with desert dust … dirty … filthy … running towards him …

  It was hot.

  It was goddamned hot.

  Eugene glanced down at his groin, and swelling was already very much in evidence through his camouflage shorts. The storm had made visibility poor and he could really do without the further distraction. However, the rational side of his brain was shutting down and his eyes kept turning to the easy swell of Madeline’s breasts through her brown cotton tank top.

  This goddamn cock-teasing bitch has been stringing me, and for all I know, Scott, along for days. Those lingering, enticing gazes. Then, when you get too close, she just freezes over.

  After the festival they had elected to drive out to the desert for a yagé experience, looking to try out the contraband a Peruvian shaman had sold them. It had been Madeline who had spotted the tent of the Temple of the Mystic Light and insisted they attended the shamanic healing ceremony presented by one Luis Caesar Dominquez, self-styled Peruvian mystic. Madeline and Scott were more impressed by the slide show and lecture than Eugene, who had some good hits of X burning a hole in his pocket, and resented missing this German techno act he’d wanted to catch.

  When it was over, Madeline thrust a pamphlet into his hand. — It says that Mr Dominquez trained for years with the Kallahuayas shamans of the northeast Lake Titicaca region, the Amautas of the islands of the Andes, and the Q’ero Elders of the Cusco region, who they reckon are last remaining descendants of the Incas!

  Eugene shook his head as they stood outside the tent, watching the people file by. — I’m clueless about that kinda shit, he confessed. — Kallahuayas? Q’ero Elders? Means jack to me, he shrugged.

  Madeline was unmoved. Eugene once had a sense that she found his open, straight-down-the-line, proud-to-be-a-dumbass act somewhat endearing. He resolved in future to be more circumspect in his ignorance. He recalled that old adage: it is better to remain silent and let people think you are an idiot, than to open your mouth and confirm this impression.

  Scott was happy to pitch in. Eugene had almost forgotten how he read and preached all thi
s New Age bullshit. He’d known him long enough to just tune him out when he started with that stuff. — It means he’s the Bill Gates of fucked-up shit, Scott grew animated. — It means he’s one of the top teachers who share ancient and hidden knowledge to awaken the latent healing abilities in everyone who’s ready. His eyes widened, big and spooky. This time Eugene listened with intent because he saw how much this crap was impressing Madeline. — It’s all based on an ancient Andean prophecy that is part of the Inca legend of the Pachacuti – a time when the world is turned upside down and a new consciousness emerges.

  — I’ll bet the dude can get a hold of some good shit, Eugene conceded.

  And that was when they’d approached Luis Caesar Dominquez, and the shaman had taken them back into his tent and discreetly sold them the yagé. Madeline and Scott were instantly smitten. To Eugene, under the ethnic garments, Dominquez looked as mystical as a vote-seeking politician, or a real-estate salesman.

  But they had the yagé.

  The setting was perfect; it had been a clear, cool night and they’d constructed a fire in the red soil and pitched up the big, easily erectable, family-sized tent they’d shared at the festival. Scott and Madeline had gotten very excited, and as they looked expectantly at the cups, they seemed high already. Almost in spite of himself, Eugene couldn’t help pissing on their parade. — That Dominquez guy is just a glorified drug dealer. He’s got access to that shit and knows how to harvest and prepare it into the elixir. And he goes around with that lame slide show calling it enlightenment. Fuck, man! I should’ve done that the time I got busted for dealing coke in that shithouse on Haight; just given the judge a power-point presentation and talked about energy and go-getting, he laughed, exposing his big, capped teeth, replaced at cost after a college football training accident a few years ago. — That’s if this shit is yagé, he added, then forced another smile as he saw Madeline looking grimly at him.

  Inside each capful was a reddish-brown concoction. Scott took some first, with the others following suit. It tasted bitter and salty. They all drank a second cupful, as recommended by the shaman Dominquez, who had told them that it should produce an experience lasting three or four hours. Then, if so desired, they could drink some more.

  The nausea seemed to hit Scott first. He staggered to his feet and moved over to a line of big rocks where he started barfing up. Eugene was just about to shout ‘pussy’ at him, when he was overcome by a sickening, queasy sensation, which seemed to start in the balls of his feet. Soon he, and then Madeline, were staggering toward the pile of rocks as they threw up small quantities of intensely caustic liquid, in short, wrenching spasms.

  The shaman had warned them about this vomiting effect, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. The liquid had tasted far fouler coming back up than it had on the way down, and was so bad that they were all feverishly shuddering for a few seconds.

  Then the effects started to take a hold of them. Scott and Madeline began to space out, giggling and euphoric. But Eugene was disappointed. He’d been expecting a really heavy trip and in the event it was all pretty mild. He took another cup. Then another. He didn’t feel bad, but it was obvious that for Scott and Madeline it was the mind-blowing high of a lifetime. Eugene looked around the barren desert, and tried to see what they were seeing. He felt like a ragged urchin pressed against the window of a great, opulent house where a raging, decadent party was taking place. He upped his consumption to six cups of the elixir and felt his heartbeat race, but the big doors of the mansion house stayed fastened shut. Why was he excluded? Eugene had done big hallucinogenic acid trips with Scott and even, recently, Madeline. He knew that both were seasoned acid-heads. But they had their set of keys. Where were his?

  As he sat wondering what to do next, Eugene heard Scott reciting something to an open-mouthed Madeline as the pair of them sat side by side, looking into the sky, — ‘When the Eagle once again flies with the Condor, a lasting peace will reign in the Americas and will spread throughout the world to unite humanity.’ These words are from the Andean shamans who believe we’re living in the Pachacuti; a time when we must go within and know ourselves more deeply, to heal our emotional wounds of the past, and use the power of that healing to help others in their healing.

  — That is sooo awesome, Madeline gasped. She pointed upward. — Lookit that sky …

  While they were taking off onto another astral plane, all Eugene had done was to shit: loads and loads of it, deposited with the puke behind the closest big boulders in the rock-strewn terrain. He’d listened for a while to Scott going on about the internal purging actions of the drug, and then simply lain down in the tent for the best sleep of his life. Meanwhile, Scott and Madeline hallucinated, partied and talked till dawn. Something in Eugene had resisted the trip, and that concerned him. He recalled Dominquez saying in his lecture, though, that the drug often got you where you needed it. Eugene conceded that his body, with all the charlie and booze he’d indulged in recently, was crying out for a cleansing. Since splitting up with Lana, he’d taken up residence in several North Beach neighborhood bars, his psychosis drawing in on him, the walls of those temples of liberation shrinking to become prison cells. His jailers were the other drinkers and their obsessions. They would crowd his head with their stupid advice. He needed to get out of town for a bit, and Burning Man seemed to fit the bill.

  It had been Scott’s idea. Madeline had come along, in her usual pushy way, Eugene thought, although he had very much welcomed it. He had tentatively lined her up as a possible replacement for Lana.

  Eugene and Scott, old college buddies, had met Madeline last Halloween. They were drinking in Vesuvio’s Bar when she came in with three girlfriends. All of them were dressed as Storm from the X-Men; skintight black catsuits, big boots and platinum-blond wigs. At first all the girls looked identical. It was a while before Eugene recognized one as Candy, a student and an ex-co-worker in a North Beach tavern he once bartended in.

  They all chatted sociably, drinking some more before heading off to join the packed throngs of revelers on Castro. Eugene had found himself talking a lot to Madeline, but in the crowd they had all gotten separated from each other. As the night wore on, the carnival mood on the streets had then turned sour. One man was fatally stabbed as a small mob of Mexican youths rampaged through the crowd. They had taken exception to what they perceived as the hijacking of the ancient Day of the Dead ceremony by the city’s gay community. Paranoia hung heavily in the air. There was a lot of jostling and screaming and Eugene, who was on a nasty coke comedown anyway, had been happy to call it a night and head home. That night he thought of that hot chick – they were all hot in that Storm get-up but the one he’d talked to – and wondered if he’d see her again and hoped that she’d gotten home okay with all the trouble of that night.

  Eugene needn’t have concerned himself. After this, he seemed to keep running into Madeline. The next day he saw her in Washington Square Park, practicing t’ai chi on her own. He’d been sitting reading a newspaper. She waved at him and it took a while for Eugene to connect that she was one of the Storm girls at the bar the previous evening. After a bit she came over and they went for a coffee, discussing the previous night’s events with concern. Then he saw her again a couple of days after, in the City Lights bookstore. They went for a drink, which quickly became several; trawling some neighborhood bars they both knew, ending up in a place on Grant. Despite Madeline being quite new to town (she’d told him she’d come in from Cleveland at the end of last summer), they had a few mutual haunts and wondered how it was that they hadn’t run into each other before. They planned to go for some sushi, but somehow ended up at a dive bar on Broadway, sandwiched between strip clubs and sex shops that buzzed with neon. Eugene was impressed that Madeline was totally at ease there, even though she was the only woman present who wasn’t obviously touting for business. They’d talked about sex then, but in an abstract way, as he was at the time too depressed about the Lana situation to make a move.


  They started hanging out a lot together: Madeline, Eugene, and Scott. Even at the time, he thought it was weird the way she fussed over them like they were fags, bought them little presents and cards on their birthdays and the like. When Scott had mentioned the Burning Man trip to Eugene, she’d interjected, — Count me in! with such bushy-tailed zeal that it would have been an injurious snub not to do just that.

  And while Eugene was rapt in his anticipation, Scott appeared downcast. He liked to engineer what he called ‘buddy time’. A frat-boy thing, Eugene supposed.

  The developing relationship with Madeline was mystifying to him, though. Eugene was twenty-six and had never been friends with a chick he hadn’t banged. He wondered whether she was a dyke, but then she would casually go and bring up some guy she’d once fucked. He knew everything about her and nothing at the same time. In those North Beach bars Madeline would sometimes look at him so tenderly; it unequivocably told Eugene that she harbored fervid passions for him. She was still shy of twenty, and he wondered how much experience she’d really had with guys. One time they’d kissed drunkenly, but not particularly passionately, with Eugene holding back, still wondering about Lana. But when his former girlfriend’s ghost receded, Eugene’s feelings for Madeline grew exponentially. Sometimes he could sense that she wanted him, perhaps so desperately that if she let herself go, she’d fall totally, unreservedly in love and give herself completely to him. Be his. In his power. To be neglected. Hurt. And he wanted to tell her: I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t know what sort of shit you heard about me and Lana, but I’m not that kind of guy!

  But it was only sometimes that she looked at him like that. On other occasions the look of loathing she vented at him could glaciate his blood.

  So Madeline confused Eugene. He’d never met a girl like her before. That was because, despite his wastrel behavior and occasional bohemian affectations, his big, strong, athletic build and his overt sporting sensibilities did not encourage vacillation in girls, who tended to be obviously attracted or completely repelled from the off. But Madeline was different; a constant enigma to him.