He brought a couple of other lads along with him. We had a few pints, talked the usual bullshit and settled in for the night. A few hours later we were standing in line waiting for the doormen to give us the nod to go into the Kitchen Niteclub. Some idiot in front was tanked and we were all held up as the doormen ever so politely told him that he could not enter. It was doorman language for fuck off home but idiot wasn’t getting the message. Eventually we reached the front of the queue.
“Alright John” a doorman greeted one of the guys in our company.
“How's it goin man” John replied.
“You still on the bike?”
“Yeah” John answered as we moved through the door and toward the ticket desk.
“Take it easy” the doorman called after John as we descended the stairs into the music pumping chamber that was the Kitchen.
“What's the bike?” I shouted over Johns shoulder as we pushed our way past a couple of girls wearing hankie tops and way too much make up.
“VT 600” he answered as we waited to be served at the back bar.
“Nice bike”.
“Not bad” he agreed “You got one?”
“I haven't been on a bike in years” I said as we grabbed our pints and headed to a spot near the dance floor where the other guys were already standing and scoping the floor. John and I talked about bikes for a while. He was selling a Honda KMX 200 and I arranged to go and have a look at it a couple of days later.
“She's a beaut” John gestured toward the bike with his free hand, he held his lid in the other, “wait ‘till you hear her goin”.
We were standing in the driveway of a three story house in Rathmines. Overgrown trees shadowed the entire area.
“How much?” I asked.
John didn’t answer. Instead he sat on the bike and pulled his lid on. He pushed the kick-start out with the toe of his right boot. With practiced ease he kicked down and twisted the throttle back. The Honda growled to life. A puff of smoked belched from the exhaust. The unmistakable smell of a two-stroke engine filled the air.
“I do love that smell” I said more to myself than John as he was busy revving the arse out of the bike. He kicked the bike into first and eased off the clutch. The bike pulled smoothly forward. I watched the exhaust but it all looked ok, not too much smoke. I followed him out on foot to Grosvenor Road. John accelerated to the top of the road before turning around. He held the bike motionless for a moment, balancing perfectly as he revved the engine twice. On the third rev he let the clutch go and the front wheel shot up off the ground. John wheelied the entire distance back to where I was standing before easing the front wheel down so gently that the forks of the big scrambler barely compressed. He put the bike on its stand without stopping the engine and whipped his helmet off. He handed it to me.
“Have a go” he invited.
Norwich Union was the only insurance company insuring bikes.
“I'm going to look for a job where I can work on the bike” I explained to the girl across the counter.
“What are you working at now?” she asked.
“Barman”.
I received my insurance certificate. Under Limitations as to use it said I was insured to use my bike for work delivering food and or courier work. Later that week I was scouring the Situations Vacant section of the Herald. I rang a Chinese takeaway in Rathgar and a Solicitor in Ballsbridge. I made appointments with both. Then I saw it, the advertisement jumped out at me COURIERS EARN MORE AT SECURICOR. Securicor was a household name. I called the number and spoke to a man who told me to come by at eleven the next day.
So there I was standing outside of the place I was to work in for the next three and a half years. I could see two doors at opposite ends on the front of the building. I chose the one on the left. I entered into a dimly lit room. Battered and tatty chairs were scattered around the floor. Two guys dressed in full biker gear sat in on corner drinking mugs of industrial strength tea. The room was about fifteen feet in length and the same in width. Close to halfway down on the right hand wall was an open hatch. The room was filled with a mixture of strong odours. A damp mustiness tried hard to outdo the wack of oil and wet leathers. I looked to one of the guys drinking tea.
“Where's Alan?” I asked.
He pointed to the hatch. I walked over and looked through. Two desks were situated immediately against the wall on the other side. Two computers sat back to back on the tables.
“Alan?” I asked the two guys sitting there.
“You here for the interview?” the taller of the two asked.
I nodded.
“Come on through” he pointed to the door behind him.
I walked through an open doorway at the back of the room I had just entered and opened the door on my right.
“Go ahead” Alan spoke loudly into a microphone on the table in front of him, “I’ll be with you in a minute” he added gesturing toward a chair at the end of the table where he sat. A garbled voice shouted over a speaker near the computer. I couldn’t understand a word.
“That fella's a muppet” Alan exclaimed to the guy sitting opposite him. He then issued a rapid fire list of directions over the radio.
“Ten four” a voice boomed back at him. He passed the microphone over to the other guy “watch that Mark”.
He ran up the stairs at the back of the room and returned moments later with a white sheet of paper in his hand. He gave it to me and sat on the edge of the table.
“Fill out your name address and telephone number”.
I looked at the page on the table in front of me. At the top of the page it said ‘Company Name’ in brackets but there was no company name. Immediately underneath it said ‘application form’. I filled out my details in the space provided. Alan asked me what I was doing at the moment. I told him I was a barman.
“Have you ever worked as a courier before?” he asked.
“No, is that a problem?”
“How well do you know the city?”
“I can find my way around” I ventured.
“You need to get a Dublin Streetfinder” he said, “It's the bible”.
I glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Here” he handed me a copy of the Streetfinder which was beside his keyboard on the desk.
“An A-Z” I mumbled.
“Yeah you’ll need it” he warned “you can get one in Easons”. He pointed to the bottom of the form “Sign that at the bottom”.
As I finished off the application form Alan explained the basics of the job. Collect here, deliver there, head down, arse up, be a good boy and you’ll get good money.
“Can you start next week?”
I nodded.
“Come in at nine on Monday, Sean will be here, he's the Manager. He’ll give you a bag and radio” .He pointed to a line on the application for which stated ‘I confirm that where I am provided with a company jacket, bag and or/other item, I am liable to the company for such item to the full value thereof’.
“I need your RSI number”.
“I don't have it with me”.
“Bring