The Pick Up

For feck’s sake, again?

I’m here. Here. I’m here ye feckin…

What’s the point? It’s no bother to me anyway, so why trouble myself.

Only it gets sort of boring. You always think, don’t you, that you’d do anything for a few days to just… do nothing. Sit still and do nothing. But then, if it comes, it gets sort of boring. I think to myself, I think, I wouldn’t mind just watching a film or something, you know? My favourites are the films with the car chases in them. But even those ones, I wind up just staring out the window wanting to be away to somewhere else. Some of us were just built for adventure I suppose. And so it gets kind of boring when he….

Hey! In here! Did your mother clout you too hard or something? I’m here!

It’s feckin dark in here as well. Ah, it’s warm enough alright, a little too hot if anything, but there’s nothing to look at at all. Oh, I like being comfortable well enough, who doesn’t like to be comfortable? All snug, womb-like you might say. But even feckin Einstein did nothing to write home about in the womb, did he? You’ve got to get out there, feel the wind tickle your nethers! If you’re after making anything of your life at all, you’ll not do it from under your mammy’s skirts. Ah feck it.

In here! No, right here! Yes! Right here, keep coming, you’re doing grand, you’re nearly….Jesus feckin Christ, is this guy a feckin eejit? I cannot believe it.

Do you want to know the longest time I was here? Five days. Five days! Your man there couldn’t find a fleece on a ewe. Mary mother of God I hope it’s not five days again.

It’s a good thing that I’ve no call for respiration, I’ll tell you that. Its feckin stifling in here. Sure he’d make more progress if he stopped running about like his arse is on fire. If you ask me, he’s having a panic. They’re only after going to the shops today, but tomorrow we’re away to a party, and they’ve been preparing for days now. She’ll not be happy if she can’t go now, will she, not after she’s done all that plucking and waxing and trussing herself up like a goose at Christmas. You’d think it would be him would be more disappointed, the way he talks, but if you were stuck with a husband a few sandwiches short of the picnic, you’d look forward to a party I would imagine.

Speak of the devil, here she comes. She’ll be after knowing where he’s already looked and then…yes, she’s checking again, all the same places. I’d not trust him either, the muppet. Last time, we missed the party altogether. He seemed pleased enough to pop on a film and have an early night, but she turned as sour vinegar in a wine bottle.

Hello! I’m here! In the feckin…. Is she coming over? She’s coming over. She’s patting him down. Yes! That woman’s smarter than a priest on Sunday. Yes. She’s reaching in, I can feel her…no, he’s wriggling away….no….yes? Feckin handkerchief, you’d not think you could hide a thimble in there, but here I am. Ok, no, she’s after him emptying his pockets now. Here it comes….

I’m free! Sure, she’s biting his head off and all, shrieking like a banshee about my special hook and everything, but when they’re done we’ll be on the road, touring the town, cruising the car park. I can’t wait. And then tomorrow we’ll be to the party. Ah, sure they’ll take a taxi, but they need me all the same. It’s a grand time, these parties. Not many places where the keys get to mingle like that, all together in a smooth wooden bowl, rubbing up against each other. Then some other woman, not her, will pick me out and dangle me between her finger and thumb like she’s found me all over again, and he’ll reclaim me like I know he always will. I’m the glue, you see, that holds all this together. The hook there, the one on the wall? Pride of place there, you see? It’s a grand night, these parties, for a car key.