text: ‘Fuckin’ bastard!’ screamed Anto. Today just wasn’t his day, and the last 730 hadn’t been either. ‘Wassa matter with ye?’ hollered Anto’s Da, Fergal, ‘Quit that fuckin’ bellowin’ or I’ll come up there an’ give ye somethin’ te yell about!’ ‘Fuckin’ aul bastard, fuckin’ sittin’ there in his fuckin’ chair thinkin’ he’s got it all fuckin’ figured out, the big fat ballix.’ Anto’d been filling in his CV, and was just done tweaking his meagre GCSE results into more promising grades when the laptop crashed, along with a whole morning’s worth of effort. Ever since his arrest for drunk driving things had gone steadily from bad to worse. He’d been nicked one night picking his girlfriend up from the local bar where she was having a girl’s night out. It’d been him and Big Crick, and he’d only sat down to three beer when the phone had gone. Caoimhe’d fallen out with her mates, they’d gotten into it over Niamh’s new boyfriend and Caoimhe had called him a drug dealer, which the fucker was, but that’d not stopped Niamh from trying to empty a bottle of Gallo’s white all over her head. Anto’d long harboured the suspicion it was those two having at it what alerted the PSNI as they’d pulled him over barely a mile down the road. That’d led to rows, Caoimhe had accused him of putting her in danger, and Anto had argued that she was responsible, as she was meant to get a taxi, but after the fight insisted he come instead. ‘Sure wasn’t ‘at not me night off? Can’t a man sit down an’ have a wee swall wey his mate and be left in peace?!’ He’d lost that row, and worse rows followed after he lost his job, being unable to drive to work. He got banned for a year and ordered to go to a therapist to discuss his relationship with alcohol, plus do 200 hours community service. The community service was rough, he’d be sent over to East Belfast to scrub the racist graffiti off the walls of a house of a black family which had been targeted by the local paramilitaries. Anto avoided the East at all costs. Apart from seeing his mate Marty in Short Strand the place was a no go for a fella called ‘Anthony Patrick Joseph O’Hara’. He’d taken to drinking more, especially before the community work where he brought a half bottle of vodka and kept it in his back pocket. Sure, he reckoned, if yer gonna get death threats for having to scrub off other racist death threats, you may as well do it absolutely rotten. The therapy appointments were worse yet. He’d have to sit there and get grilled on his drinking, which he knew had increased, but had only done so in response to the situation in which he now found himself. ‘Have ye ever told someone yer not an alky?’ He’d screamed at Caoimhe one night after they’d argued over his loss of income, ‘Well, the more ye fuckin’ try te tell ‘em yer not one, the more ye fuckin’ sound like one!’ Soon after they lost the flat, Anto’d been unable to pay his half of the rent, and the social wouldn’t cover it. Caoimhe’d moved back in with her Ma and they’d stopped speaking. They broke up soon after. Anto found he couldn’t look at her anymore, and the drink was turning him nastier than a dose of watery shite. He was forced to move back into his old room with his Ma, Da, brother and two sisters. There was no room in the house, and the room he shared with his 19 year old brother Michael was barely fit for a child, let alone two grown men. His drinking continued unabated, and the drugs too. He’d not touched them for years, but there was no reason now not to bang in a load of coke and gobble up a few tabs. Plus, Feeney Rubberlips from down the street had some good gear on offer, and he’d sort ye out on tick too. Anto had existed in this state for last year and a half, he’d continued trying to seek work, but each rejection justified another trip to the offie, and put him in the mind for a fat line. However, on the jobsite he’d noticed a job he was definitely qualified for, it was even better than the one he’d lost. More pay, more benefits and what’s more, it was in walking distance from his house. The sort of thing that could get him back on his feet, maybe get Caoimhe back, and definitely lead him to getting out his Ma’s house and away from getting his head melted to fuck every single night. ‘Awh fuck Da, am on applyin’ for this here job an’ the laptop’s shat itself. Fucker wiped me applications n’all.’ ‘Well why the good fuck are ye fuckin’ yelpin’ ta me ‘bout it, ye born in a barn?Jesus Christ wee lad shut yer fuckin’ hole! An’ here, yer Ma wants ye down the laundrette to pick up the washin’. It’s down Lonergan’s, all paid for, the washer’s onna fritz again.’ ‘Fuck sake’ muttered Anto, getting his coat and heading out the door. ‘Ma better have stuck my fuckin’ jeans in there. Paid good money for them n’all afore Michael went an’ spilt his whole fuckin’ dinner on me, fuck sake.’ He arrived, got the clothes and headed straight back home to finish the CV, he looked and his jeans and shirts were there too. ‘Thank fuck for somethin’ today’ he thought, as sat back down again and flicked open the laptop. Halfway through the CV and application form he got bored, and noticed his jeans were still warm from the press. He swiftly got changed into them, his legs embracing the heat. The fit felt a little off, but he thought sure they always do, always a wee bit tighter after a good wash. Anto breezed through the form, and re-wrote his CV, remembering courses he’d been on that were applicable and training certificates he had but had forgotten he’d earned. All in all, the application seemed to look good he thought, he even felt bothered enough to write a cover letter telling them just how he was the man for the job. A ‘Digital Marketing Executive’, he could see it now. The past two years would be a memory. Hell, he’d even tell them about the conviction if it came up and point out how his therapy had cured him. He’d be able to spin it around, they’d maybe even think it was funny. Anto the full-time mad bastard. Anto the Pintman, nicked for only three beer. After all he thought, why let the truth get in the way of a good story! Crick rang him up that evening, he said he’d found a hundred notes in a baggy on the ground down Cupar street. ‘Mon me n’ you’ll getta wee swall on, out for a rake of pints and we’ll hit up Rubberlips for summa ‘at good stuff. None of that cut shite.’ ‘Fuckin’ right!’ answered Anto, he’d have a good one tonight. After all, how often is it ye find notes lying about round the West? And no doubt no fucker’s gonna be raising a stink either as it was likely dodgy in the first place. After changing shirts, and brushing his nuggets, Anto met Crick at 8pm down McEnaney’s opposite the cemetery, and the lads swiftly proceeded to commence wineing and bineing as the culchies are so aft of saying. Soon they were joined by Marty, Wee Steeker and Bonzo who’d sourced the gear and brought a bag of workerman’s glue for desert amongst the tombstones. When Anto awoke the next morning, fully clothed, he found he still had a full memory of the previous night, plus £20 unspent. He’d gotten a girl’s number last night, and he could remember getting with her before she left. What made it even better was that he still felt pissed, so he didn’t even have a hangover to deal with yet. On checking his phone to see if the number had all the digits he saw he’d been called five times that morning by a number he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t the girl’s either as he’d saved hers under ‘Fuckin’ Ride’. He phoned the number and a woman answered. ‘Hello, this is Anthony O’Hara, I’ve got a number of missed calls from you and I was just ringing up to see why.’ ‘Oh! Mr. O’Hara, so glad you rang us back! We’ve be trying all morning! My name’s Sarah Waters, we’re ringing you back about your application yesterday. We think you’d be a great candidate and we’re actually having online interviews this morning if you’re still keen on the position?’ ‘Umm oh, aye, woah, I wasn’t expecting that, I’ve slept in a wee bit this morning, it was a friend’s birthday last night, em, what time are the interviews at?’ ‘We can fit you in in about an hour if that suits, we’re sorry about the short notice, but we really are very eager to get this position filled as soon as we can!’ ‘Aye, sure, no bother that’s grand. I’ll send you my Skype now, and we can speak in an hour! Thanks again, I wasn’t expecting this, it’s really appreciated!’ ‘No problem at all, we’ll contact you in an hour Anthony, and good luck!’ Hanging up the phone Anto felt strangely calm. In the past he’d be shitin’ bricks and peeling the scalp off himself with anxiety, but for some reason, today he just felt as confident as ever, and he knew what he needed to do. The old laptop took 20 minutes to load up, but everything else got up and running without a hitch. Anto went to the bathroom, pissed, brushed his teeth, threw some water on his face and decided against a shower. He opted instead to reapply some wax to his hair, and put in some eyedrops, as his eyes were as red as strawberries. With ten minutes to go he put on a new shirt, but left the jeans, after all, he’d be sitting down. He could even talk to them with his knob hanging out the fly, but he decided against that. Then the call came, he answered every question, made good natured jokes, and asked more questions back. He explained the gap in his employment, he’d been caring for his Granny (dead 10 years) and he’d been helping his mate out in his landscape gardening business on the side (selling some of Crick’s homegrown weed to teenagers). When the call ended he felt great, positive for the first time in years. Everything he’d gone through could now be put right. All his education (first one in the family at University for Digital Media) would finally be put to use, and his bad luck would finally come to an end. Anto decided on a long, hot shower before he went downstairs to tell his Ma n’ Da. They’d be glad to hear it, and it’d get them off his back for the day too. Fighting for the bathroom was always a constant in the O’Hara house, but as he walked onto the landing it was free, and even better, it didn’t stink of his Da’s arse! ‘I left the immersion on so there’s plenty of hot water there son’ shouted Anto’s Ma. ‘Fuckin’ A’ thought Anto, ‘This day’s goin’ grand!’ However, upon getting undressed and emptying the pockets of his jeans Anto found something he didn’t recognise. A faded and wrinkled receipt for a hammer and some nails from Brannigan’s Hardware. ‘The fuck?’ said Anto, as he looked at the label of the jeans and found they said ‘C. N. Toner’. ‘Huh? What the fuck, these here aren’t my fuckin’ jeans!’ ‘FUCKIN’ BASTARDS!! The cunts have gone an’ fuckin’ gimme some o’r cunt’s jeans. Who the fuck’s Toner, n’ why’s the cunt still labelling his fuckin’ jeans like a fuckin’ child?’ Anto’d spent good money on his jeans, they were his favourite pair and now he began to realise why they felt a bit tighter. He had no idea how he hadn’t clocked it until now, they were even a different shade of denim. This sort of thing always pissed Anto off no end, as a child he’d lost it when his Ma had lost his favourite Celtic top and then tried to replace it with the newer version. It had lost everything he’d loved about it, the old 1993-94 away design, the fit, the smell, the feel. He felt his hangover coming on with a vengeance. ‘What da fuck’ve I been playin’ at? What’d I say to thoseuns for the job?’ He couldn’t remember, it was all a blur. He’d probably been rambling, off his nut, he’d fucked it now, he’d made a fool of himself. Anto began to feel very strange, his skin felt clammy, even as he was under the hot water, he didn’t feel clean, everytime he closed his eyes he kept imagining he’d lost his hands and instead they just ended in conical points. He’d overdone it this time, he was going to die. He tried switching to cold but images just flooded his head of when he was in Donegal as a child and his Da had scared him shitless with tales of the Kelpie, and then afterwards pushed him into a pool of water in the bog. He could see the mad water horse now and he stumbled and fell out’ve the shower gasping for air. He dressed quickly, in his own clothes now, and headed downstairs. His sister’s were watching Love Island and the inane Essex accents were making him nauseous. ‘How could any cunt sound like ‘at?’ He screamed at them, as he went back to his room to lie down. His brother was in the room, playing his music, shite homemade techno that he thought sounded sweet, but Anto just didn’t have it in him to say was shite. He lay down, got under the covers, put his head under the pillow and lay there until he fell into a sweaty and fitful sleep. He dreamed off everything the previous day, dreamed of Caoimhe, and the other girl he’d got with, dreamed of Big Crick and the feed of pints. Dreamed of that cunt Toner and how he’d had such a good day and night in another fella’s jeans. He woke up to his phone ringing and felt sick. ‘Hello, is this Anthony?’ ‘Yeah it is, who’s speaking?’ ‘Hi Anthony, this is Sarah again, Sarah Waters, I just wanted to let you know that we were absolutely delighted with your interview and we’d like to offer you the position. When would you like to start?’ ‘Awh, I’m sorry, I cant...’ ‘Anthony?’ ‘Look, I cant, I’m not interested. Alright? It was all a fuckin’ lie, now fuck off.’ ‘Excuse me, is this you Anthony? I’m very confused!’ ‘Well this here won’t be confusin’ ye, get te fuck, and shut yer fat fuckin’ hole or I’ll come round there and bate the ballix out the lotta yiz, YIZ FUCKIN’ CUNTS!’ He hung up, turned his phone off and rolled over to go back to sleep. There was no way he’d’ve been able to accept that job. Not after the circumstances. It was all fake, it was all wrong.