Keitel as Ted, maybe, and a nice little cameo for Steve Buscemi, although obviously he’d have to beef up a bit, and Salma Hayek would be perfect as Gloria.
The trouble was, though, he wasn’t in the film of the book of his life. He was in his life, in which he had split with his long-time girlfriend Gloria, was living in a converted chicken coop, and was paid exactly £15,000 a year as a mobile librarian on the northernmost coast of the north of the north of Northern Ireland. And he was nearly thirty. He had somehow become a shadow of himself, as though he were somewhere else and this thing—this body—was having experiences on his behalf. It was as if his own life had become a series of ancient lantern-slides, or an old video, or a shaky cine-show, or a snippet on YouTube, or a cinema trailer for a blockbusting main feature called Failure. He had no idea what he was doing here, or what the point was, or how he was feeling. All he knew was that sometimes, in the chicken coop, he’d wake in the night sobbing and sobbing, his chest heaving, and there were these black beetles all over the floor, and when he switched on the light the beetles froze, as if they were holding their breath, waiting for something, their own destruction, or salvation, possibly, or the dark again, and that’s exactly what he felt like…
‘Time up!’ said Ted, bashing back through the door. ‘Not ready?’
‘Look, Ted, I’m really not feeling the best this morning. Can we maybe reschedule?’
‘Reschedule?’
‘Yeah, look—’
‘Reschedule?’
‘Yeah. Just, if you could give me a couple of days maybe and I’ll get back to you.’
‘Ye’ll get back to me?’
‘Yeah. I just need a little time to take stock and—’
‘Take stock!?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ach, Jesus. Fine.’
At which Ted walked over to the bed, bent down, locked his knees and grabbed hold of the bed frame.
‘I’ll tell ye what,’ he huffed. ‘Take stock.’ Huff. ‘Of.’ Huff. ‘This!’
And he stood, flinging the metal frame up as he stood.
Israel fell on to the floor, only the quilt protecting him from serious injury and a thousand cuts from the smashed wine bottles.
‘What the hell are you doing, you madman!’ screamed Israel, leaping up, winceyette-pyjama-clad, from the floor. ‘I could have broken my back!’
‘Your back!’ said Ted, straightening up. ‘Your back! I could have broken my blinkin’ back, ye eejit!’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Ahh!’ said Ted, painfully.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m not blinkin’ all right, ye eejit! Aahh!’
‘Shall I get George, or—’
‘No, ye shall not,’ said Ted, drawing himself up stiffly to his not inconsiderable shaven-headed height. ‘What ye’ll do is get dressed in the van is what ye’ll do, or I’ll—’
‘What?’ said Israel.
‘Ahh!’ said Ted.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Just, some of these joints haven’t been moved in a while, that’s all. Now. Where were we?’
‘You were just—’
‘Ach, aye. Yes. In the van, come on. Now.’
‘Or?’ said Israel.
‘Or,’ said Ted, ‘I’ll ring your mother.’
‘No—’ said Israel. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Yes,’ said Ted, hobbling towards the door. ‘I would.’
Israel’s mother had recently made a brief and disastrous visit to Tumdrum, where, as a loud, extravagant, wildly hand-gesturing, menopausal, scarf-wearing, middle-aged north London Jew, she had made quite an impact on the local dour, largely Presbyterian, muttering community. She and Ted had formed an unnaturally close bond, and Ted had spent much time with her, taking her to visit Northern Ireland’s supposed tourist attractions—the place where the Titanic was built, for example, and the colourful sectarian murals of Belfast—leaving Israel to single-handedly man the mobile during the day and having to sit up waiting for their return late in the evenings, flushed and smelling suspiciously of cigarettes and drink. Israel’s mother had successfully managed to embarrass Israel the entire length and breadth of Tumdrum, including at an agonising dinner at the Devines’, the farm where Israel stayed as a lodger, during which she had flirted outrageously with old Mr Devine, and had spent all evening urging George to adopt a rigorous daily beauty routine.
‘And I’ll tell ye what,’ said Ted, gesturing towards the debris in the coop. ‘When she hears about all this auld nonsense she’ll be over on the next flight.’
‘No!’ said Israel. ‘You wouldn’t—’
Ted had his mobile phone in his hand.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘In the van. And don’t ye dare waste another moment of my precious time.’
Five minutes later, Israel was in the van.
‘There we are, then,’ said Ted.
‘Humpff,’ said Israel, miserably.
‘I tell ye what, son, ye want to learn to count your blessings,’ said Ted, as he slammed the van into first and pulled out of the Devines’ yard.
‘What?’
‘Ouch!’ said Ted.
‘You OK?’
‘My back. Never mind it. Yer blessings. Ye want to count them.’
‘Right. All right, Ted, thank you. I’m here, all right? I don’t want to hear any more—’
‘Go on, then.’
‘What?’
‘Count ’em.’
Israel sighed.
‘Go on,’ repeated Ted. ‘Count ’em.’
‘Ted. I’m really not in the mood. I have a headache and I’m really not well.’
There was a pause of a few seconds.
‘Ye counted ’em?’
‘I am not counting my blessings, Ted. Thank you.’
‘How many d’ye get?’
‘I’m not counting blessings!’
‘Aye. Because ye’re scared.’
‘What? Scared of what?’
‘That yer miserable life is not as blinkin’ miserable as ye like to think, ye streak of misery. I tell ye what, as long as ye’re dodging the undertaker ye’re doing OK.’
‘Right. Sure.’
‘Good. Are ye ready?’
‘Do I look like I’m ready?’
‘Count them.’
‘All right. All right,’ said Israel, who had learnt from long experience that the only way to conclude an argument with Ted was to lose it.
Israel attempted to tot up his blessings in his mind, while Ted pulled on to the main coast road back into central Tumdrum.
‘So, how many d’ye get?’ said Ted.
‘Two,’ said Israel.