The Dirty Works of Shane Levene

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SIR, IF IT'S not too much to ask, could I trouble you for a cigarette... Perhaps even half? You see, I've trodden through an age of agony and I need a few light lungfuls for the journey back. A cigarette, Sir, yes... Even just a half? You have? O, that's very kind of you... Very kind indeed. I could fall down upon your feet. Don't worry, I won't... At least I've never done so yet. An expression of relief is all. Yes. This world is getting meaner, Sir... As I'm sure you have noticed? The richer this world gets the tighter a man holds onto his balls. Don't you find that bizarre? Ah, I knew you would. I knew it! One hour and 45 minutes, Sir, that's how long I've trod for a cigarette. Almost six miles and I count myself lucky at that. Don't smoke Don't smoke No Fuck Off Buy your own Nothing Nothing Nothing No Fuck off Nothing Nothing.

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NOTHING, Sir, that's surely the worst, isn't it? Not even the slightest acknowledgement of your existence. No fly squatter, no gobful of spit, not even a punch in the guts. Nothing. Squat diddly. Absolutely nothing. The silent ones, Sir. The very worst by far. Yes. It's as if you don't even exist. Less of a nuisance than a bed bug. Now that's some way to crush a soul, is it not? Those kind, Sir, the silent ones, they're the type who'd step right over a man OR stride right on through him. The ones who look at you like you're the devil's shit, well, at least they react. And, when a man reacts, you are halfway between somewhere and nowhere: it's fifty/fifty at that stage. NO! Don't smoke! No! Fuck off! Nothing! No! Fuck Off! Don't smoke! Don't smoke! It seems to me like people just don't want to kill themselves anymore. Have you noticed that, Sir? Which poses an urgent question: if they're not killing themselves, then what the hell are they doing with their lives? There's no such thing as preservation, not really. You can postpone the inevitable, I suppose, but that only lengthens the amount of time you remain an invalid. No, outside of a long, drawn-out suicide there is only boredom or sadism or suffering. At least that's how I see it. You too? Ah, that's a beautiful thing to agree on. Though I suspect you're being generous... Again. A light? Yes Yes, I'd half forgotten. Here, give it here. See how the wind suddenly starts to work now we need a moment of calm. The world is a funny old place. Nature has a great sense of humour. Here, look at that fella for instance... his back. How do you suppose a fella gets a humpback like that? Yoga! Yes. Too much yoga would do it! Ha! Fooled you Wind! That evens it up a little. We all need our victories. Have you ever seen a man who knows nothing but defeat? No. Well, all I'll say is that he'd give that hunchback a good run for his money. It's not a pleasant sight, Sir, not a pleasant sight at all.

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Ahhh... That's like Nirvana. What cigarettes are these? Black what? Ah, black market. Yes. These could be the very ones from Italy. Have you heard about them? No? Well, cross your fingers and light one yourself and then I'll tell you all about them. Ah, that's better. Now I don't feel so alone. It's pleasant like this, is it not Sir? Just two gentlemen smoking away through a summer's evening. Of course, it used to be a 'thing'. Yes. Once upon a time it was a 'thing'. Ah, this really is a pleasant smoke. Yes.

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The what, Sir? Ah. Yes. Indeed. The Italian cigarettes... Well, Neapolitan to be exact... It's something quite different. You, being a connoisseur of the Black Market, I must say I'm surprised you're not familiar with the story of the radioactive cigarettes. RADIOACTIVE: yes, that's what I said! And rightly so; the news should make you cough! Chernobyl. The fallout at least. A whole cigarette factory in Naples contaminated, apparently. Yes. And they've only now just hit the market... 30 years later. Over 4 million packets - quote-in-quotes... Whatever the hell that means. Does sound pleasant though doesn't it, Sir - quote-in-quotes? It's not always the most important thing that words make sense. In fact, it's often more important that they don't make any sense at all. As a retired chronic drunk I know what I'm talking about. Often sounds and noises have an inherent sense. Do you find that to be true? Yes. Like screaming or bawling. Go and scream or bawl any words you like into that hunchbacked fella's face and he'll understand them, all right. Yes. Often the sound is the meaning. The song, I call it. The Song. The melodic agony of getting from one end of life to the other. There are no words or letters for that.

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Sir, I won't beg you for another. No. That would be imposing upon your generosity. If you'd have given me the first begrudgingly I'd almost certainly ask for another. Though it would lessen the agony of the walk home... But No. No! That would be ______ . O no, I couldn't. Please. Put them away, Sir. Keep them for yourself. Your road back may be uphill too and you might find you'll need them yourself. No, no, I couldn't, Sir. Well... only if you're sure? You are? Then I am too and I put myself graciously in your debt. My hat, Sir. Well, whatever's left of it - I tip the remains your way. The old-fashioned way. The dying way. Do you know this trick, Sir. Here. Wrap it in newspaper and then it won't snap and break up and crumble in your pocket. That's beautiful, isn't it? How men of nothing take such great care of the little that comes their way? There's a great beauty in survival. I've always thought that. There is a woman who walks around here, white. Her hair is one long matted dreadlock that almost touches the ground behind her. Yes. She walks about around here and she survives. O, you've seen her? That's funny. Well, that is survival. Sir. And here's another thing: that woman is my daughter, and she came with a magical mind. Yes. She's not yet 30, Sir. She came with a magical mind. Unicorn, that's what I named her but she has since changed it to Mary. She blames me. She says that the name affected her, that everything stemmed from that. And she may be right. I often wonder about that. Yes, she may very well be right.

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Do you have children, Sir? No. Well, that might be a good thing. Apparently men without children live longer. I'm not sure about that. One day they tell us one thing and the next it's something else. I try not to second-guess any of it any more. What I do know is that having a child is a pretty queer experience. We live this life and we trudge through it and our bad choices don't really mean anything - it's only us who'll perish. But when you've a child, Sir... Things change. Your own life carries less meaning and less worth, well, in a certain sense. Yes. You are ready for sacrifice. You would forsake yourself for that newborn lump of screaming DNA, that which will have the better chance of sowing more seed. It's like having a whole new book of philosophy shoved right into your brain. From the moment that life comes forth you are a different person. Well, some of us are. But I've also seen young mothers and fathers go the other way. Yes. I've seen enough of that to know that I'm quite wrong again. But that's how I felt. There was the soul of a dog that got into me then, Sir. I was ready to fight to the death. And then, before you know it, that's all gone and your children have minds of their own and become stronger than what you have left and a sense of darkness descends into your existence and you no longer know what there is to carry on for. I've been thinking of these things, Sir. I've walked through an age of agony and that is what's been on my mind. The squalor of it all now starts to bury me. Yes. But there was once a time when I thrived in it. For even with the food cupboard filled with bugs there were beautiful days... Hope-filled days... Days when this world really did seem glorious.

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Hmmm. This evening does strange things to me. Do you feel it, Sir... The waning light of the universe? Ssshhhss. Ssshhhsss. Not now. We must whisper. Can you sense the real queer quiet that has descended? This is ghost time, Sir. This is when all the spirits of this town return; for a few fleeting minutes, Sir, even the river slows to an almost still and those birds, always just them few, heading off in line through the darkening sky of a dying evening. A whole metropolis that seems drugged by fragrant parks and gardens, a city offering up everything for just a brief moment. Sir, what a fine evening it is. What a heart-crushing evening it really is. The tragedy that returns, Sir. It touches me in some terribly deep way, like I could hold onto someone and sink into them. Yes. Can you hear the chattering rustle of the great trees? Listen, Sir... Listen. Doesn't that sound ominous? This is the hour of death, Sir... It's like any moment now you'll hear three loud clangs of a funeral knell and everyone will fall in grief to its echo. Sir, it's magic. Yes. Yes. She came with a magical mind.

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Sir, I've some fantastic news! O, never mind the way I clapped my hands like that, it was just for dramatic effect. Sir, it's our lucky day: these most certainly are not the radioactive cigarettes. Isn't that great news, Sir. We've survived another. Yes. The unnamed sniper has missed again. And now look, Sir. The low has lifted. The raucous evening has pushed right on through and our moment of sombre reflection is over. Thank you, Sir. Thank you. O, never mind what for. That doesn't matter. There is a good chance you'd not understand anyway. It gets awfully lonely out here, Sir. Just you and the great old expanse of your mind. They say a man's intestines could stretch from here to the moon, but a man's mind... A man's mind, Sir, is the entire universe and everything within it. Tell me, what is there without the mind? Nothing. That's right. Well answered. There's absolutely nothing at all. I don't know what that means but it's never felt like a good thing to me.

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Well Sir, I shan't keep you any longer. No. We'll lose the rest of our teeth if we chatter on like this for too much longer. Always keep a little back for tomorrow, Sir. That's how I think. You don't want to exhaust yourself in a fight only to realize it was only round 1. No. That's never a good thing. No. Pardon, Sir? My way? North. One long road, I'm afraid. That road there, Sir. Hotel after hotel and they get dirtier and cheaper the further you go. North. One hour and 45 minutes as The Good Crow Flies. If my old legs don't fail, I should make it home for 10 PM. Yes. And you? Ah, South-west. I knew it! Don't ask me how, I just knew it. I just damn well knew it! Ha! That's nice. South-west. That may even be perfect. Well, I thank you kindly, Sir, and bid you a good one. Yes. I bid you a good journey, Sir. Bon Voyage and all that. Bon voyage.

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