My teenage summer–pt3

IF YOU were an alpha male and disagreed with John, he could politely invite you outside for a boxing match on the street, shake hands when it was all over, and buy you a drink. Where did he get this from, he was only a teenager, had he read Hemingway? If so he never mentioned it, of course if he did, we might not have noticed. John also watched for our quirks and encouraged them, unusual movers who danced awkwardly, shy inventors who feared embarrassment, quiet loners with lofty dreams. John admired all of those and said so in a cultured voice that none of us were accustomed to, not even from the adults who liked us.

‘Dat dive was absolutely mad John, just out of this world, Pierce and I are so quasteeged, we were just sayin dat, were-ent we Pierce?’

I wasn’t sure about using my made-up words in front of John, he encouraged originality, but was always on the look out for bullshit too. Jemmer and I relished a bit of bullshit, we loved silliness, it was our shtick, I didn’t see any reason to endanger that pleasure by risking it on others.

I had overheard Marie Finnegan exclaim ‘What a man!’ as we crossed the bridge ‘Man! Who wants to be a man?’

She now feigned over John while standing behind Paddy O’Brien. Paddy was searching in vain for a fag in his right inside pocket, that was where he also kept his sixpences, the left hand pocket, next to his heart, was for shillings and matches, John was in a generous mood and offered him one of his.

Where Jemmer got his little blue Prinz from I don’t know, he could barely afford the petrol. If he took you anywhere, you would have to cough up something for the fuel. Usually a full car would pay thruppence each. Petrol was seven and sixpence a gallon, Jemmer would pull up to the pump and order ninepence worth, keeping thruppence for himself. The attendant would no sooner have the pump in, when he’d have it back out again.

As I sauntered home, down the bridge towards the shop, Penny Lane came in on my Japanese transistor. The sky was bigger than usual, rich blue air filled the far away heavens. Around the piccolo trumpet solo, I noticed a farmer who had been herding sheep to the mart, pushing in the door of the record shop. Panic! What the hell was going on? Every part of me quickened, before I knew it, I was running.

By the time I got to Kinsella’s Coal Yard, I could hear Sputnik going stone mad in the shop. The dark side of his personality had surfaced, a side of him that was not shown in his daily routine. I hammered through the door, and there he was up on the high counter leaning forward in attack mode, snarling and fuming. The farmer was paying no attention though; he was frantically trying to grab the fully-grown sheep that was sliding all over the tiled floor of the record shop. The stirring air caused the catgut mobiles, with attached album covers, to fly around like clotheslines on a hill.

‘She goh away from the herd and managed to push de spring door open,’ said the flushed farmer.

I told Sputnik to shut up, and he grudgingly held back, still growling beneath his breath, he was almost crying about me interfering with his duty.

I ran over and pulled both doors back while the farmer carried the sheep away in his clenched arms.

“As I sauntered home, down the bridge towards the shop, Penny Lane came in on my Japanese transistor. The sky was bigger than usual, rich blue air filled the far away heavens