SIGNING ON:Our long-term unemployed columnist takes pleasure in saving money and endeavours to keep making an effort
NORMALLY, when things went wrong, he remained unruffled. It was one of the characteristics his wife had found most attractive in him – over the years he had honed the calm.
Now it too seemed to be sliding: the water pump in their 1996 VW Passat – bought sans NCT for €550 to replace both his gas-guzzling Subaru and her pram-swallowing Volvo – has failed. He drains the rad (one upshot of being unemployed is that he is learning to fix things), establishing that the fool who sold it had filled it with water to save money on coolant. Christ!
He borrows his father’s car. It is 30 years since he has been in a scrapyard – last time he was driving a Capri. This yard, near the Red Cow, is busy. A queue of men, all ages, all nationalities, snakes toward a rickety Portakabin. There, a big-bellied Dub in overalls listens to requests.
“Auto box for an ’02 E-Class Merc? Sorry pal. ‘Heater matrix for a ’00 Mondeo?’ Yeah, 75 quid if you take it out yourself, 125 if I do it.”
Mondeo man – dressed incongruously in the top half of a pinstripe suit – winces, says he’ll return with a pal. The unemployed man is glad he has brought tools. And worn an old tracksuit and steel-toed boots.
Next! The yardman says yeah, he has a ’96 Passat, rear-ended, but all the engine stuff is good. He fetches keys, hands the unemployed man a battery pack, gives him directions to a corner where cars that are still running lie scattered. The unemployed man attaches the pack, starts the car. Sounds good. So good he decides to remove the rad into the bargain. Takes nearly two hours, but eventually he has the bits he needs.
The door of the Portakabin is closed. He knocks, is told to hang on two ticks. He waits one, then places the rad in the boot of his father’s car. He returns, with just the pump. The yardman opens the door, asks whether or not he was successful. He hates that word. I got what I wanted, he says. Right so, 60 quid, says the yardman. Will you take 40? I’m between jobs? The yardman agrees.
He feels no guilt for stealing the rad, and wonders, idly, if this is how bankers feel about bonuses, TDs about pensions? A matter of course. Almost an entitlement. It would’ve just sat there rotting, right?
He drops home his tools, and the parts, leaves the car back to his father – with whom he has yet to have a proper conversation about his unemployment – takes a bus home. He is covered in dirt and oil. But doesn’t care. Saving money feels good.
He rises early – lovely to have a purpose – and fits the rad, easily. The pump is a different matter. The belt is a bastard. Finally he gets it on, scraping his knuckles raw. He walks to a nearby motor factor, devoid of worry for the first time in weeks, simply because he has a task. Man, he misses work.
He buys coolant, calculating that though Halfords is cheaper, the return bus fare makes it all the one.
A nervous moment before the VW splutters back into life. He leaves it idling. Watches the temperature rise. Hears the fan cut in, coolant circulating. Lovely. Leans against the car, smoking. Wondering why, despite all his so called “free time”, it has been months since he hit the gym. Make the effort.
He lifts weights until muscles scream. The pressure in the showers is glorious – they’d planned to install a pump at home, but that, like much else, is on the long finger. Standing under the water, eyes closed.
Important thing is to keep trying, keep fit, keep away from red wine, stop smoking so much.
Stop worrying so much.
Home. His endorphin rush is swiftly cancelled out by the arrival of a ludicrous gas bill and a Dear John letter for a job application, salary of which was barely 60 per cent of his last.
He knows enough, however, to keep discipline mustered. He hits the gym every other day, familiarises himself with other out-of-work men, some of whom seem to be punishing themselves, some of whom advertise, with dressing-room swagger and ribald laughter, the fact that none of it is getting them down, some of whom have forgotten, utterly, how to smile. He realises he flits between all three categories, weekly.
Dole day. Despite handing in a letter from her college explaining that for five weeks his wife’s part-time gig had been cancelled due to weather and flooding, they continue to make deductions. So quick to swoop. So slow to remedy.
Two vaguely officious-looking men at the door when he arrives home. Instantly paranoid: like every other middle-class person on the island, he told certain small lies during his assessment. As a matter of survival.
Are they here to cut him off? They are forming an action group. Will he walk around the area one night a week with other “responsible” men?
“Burglaries are up, they’re after gold, lot of old people is worried sick.”
Sure, no problem.
Out on patrol. The other men are twitchy. “I hope we don’t run into trouble.” He hopes they do.
The writer of this piece wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the Editor
