to life than this!’ he concluded with a wince.
His friendship with Kenny Coen had stood the test of time. It went all the way back to kindergarten. Originally enemies, battle lines had been drawn when both four-year-old boys proclaimed themselves captain of a tired old row boat adorning the backyard of the centre. Along with a slide that gave you splinters and a rickety flying fox, it represented the typical line up in outdoor entertainment for pre-schoolers at the time.
It wasn’t the most renowned pre-school centre in the area but it wasn’t the worst either. Being partially funded by the Catholic Church sealed it. With living in the general vicinity and producing a valid certificate of baptism being the only prerequisites, it was amazing the number of young families returning to the faith on account of a discount in child care.
The boys had squared off, neither giving an inch. The ensuing fight resulted in a distraught and very underpaid teacher actually walking off the job. Parents were called. Threats were dispensed. Floyd knew he wouldn’t be sitting down for a week but it was a successful mediation. The young boys became co-captains. Then, by working tirelessly together ensuring no other kids could get near the old boat, the foundations of friendship had been forged.
‘Please, I’m begging you, turn down the volume!’ pleaded Floyd, pivoting to confront his former co-captain. ‘Can’t you see I was up all night studying!’
‘Well, you’ve got the bloodshot eyes, my friend, and the pallid complexion of one who has pulled an all-nighter under cheap florescent light. I’m afraid though the fragrant aroma of sickly sweet elixir gives you away. My guess is that you were embarking on, shall we say, less noble pursuits!”
Floyd was about to protest his innocence when Kenny burst out laughing.
‘So what was the name of the wild cougar that attempted to tear the stuffing out of our most intrepid adventurer?’ Kenny smirked with pleasure. ‘It is Dr Livingston, I presume?’
‘Doctor what?’ asked Floyd innocently. The strain was obvious. ‘You idiot, what the hell are you even talking about?’
‘That’s exactly what my father asked you, when you called our house at about quarter past twelve last night! You don’t remember, do you?’ ribbed Kenny. He was trying hard to contain himself. ‘You informed my father that you’d found the woman of your dreams. You said that she was about 40 years old, but age wasn’t important. You were going to marry her anyway!’
‘Yeah, well nice to see you made the wedding,’ grimaced Floyd, the memory of the drunken phone call returning. ‘I guess I couldn’t go through with it in the end; not without my best man there to hold my hand, anyway!’
‘What is it with you? Don’t you give a shit at all about your final exams?’ tested Kenny wearily. It was text book McGuinness though. He’d seen it all a million times before; falling to pieces at the first sign of pressure.
‘My little friend,’ recovered McGuinness, shaking his aching head, his tone ardently low. ‘my sad, soft, pathetic, little friend. Now haven’t I always told you there was more than one way to skin a wild cougar?’
And with that he flashed his miniaturised notes. They were expertly crafted to fit snugly into the palm of his hand. Kenny wasn’t impressed.
‘All the time it took you to prepare those and if you’d actually studied instead, you wouldn’t even need ’em!’
Now it was Floyd’s turn to grin.
‘What do you take me for?’ he asked; a curt nod then a wink of a bloodshot eye. ‘They aren’t my notes!’
CHAPTER three
‘Is that party still on at your place for end of year break-up?’ challenged big Glen Harkin, as he sauntered past Floyd in the school yard. Kenny altered his gaze. ‘The word’s out. Nobody likes a bullshit artist.’
‘Abso-bloody-lutely!’ came Floyd’s reply. ‘It’ll be the biggest thing since Christmas, and that does include the pudding!’
‘Yeah, well if it’s anything like your last one … ’ grinned big Glen menacingly. Then he leisurely made his way off in the direction of some frightened looking kid in the distance.
This was it; their final day of contact at St. Stephen’s College. A last chance for the class of ’88 to fire off a few final lies. Goodbyes, so longs and good riddances; empty pledges of eternal friendships to guys you’d hardly spoken to in six years. All the while wondering where you’d all really be 10 years down the line.
The solid comfort of solid brick and mortar, conforming to a plan, another cog in the machine, being told when to work and when to eat; traditions framed through indoctrination, it was all at an end. The bell was tolling for the final time and the cold, hard, unforgiving realities of life were about to beset them all.
‘What the hell are you even inviting that big goose for?’ shot Kenny. Glen was safely out of range. ‘You know the bloke’ll get off his face and then nobody will be safe; I’m talking men, women and children!’
‘Don’t be an old woman!’ replied McGuinness. ‘You can’t label the guy forever because of a few wild incidents! Granted he’s about 6’2”, probably tips the scales at about 220 and he’s on a church sponsored anger-management program. We go back a long way though. For guys like that, loyalty’s the key. Well, loyalty, and the fact that if I didn’t invite him he’d probably crash anyway. I wouldn’t look very loyal then, now would I?’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve known him for at least as long as you have,’ whined Kenny. ‘Why the hell does he hate me so much?’
‘He doesn’t hate you, he just doesn’t like you much. Anyway, just forget about it!’ Floyd rolled his eyes to the thick cumulus clouds gathering overhead. His mind was already on other things. It was going to rain and it was going to rain hard.
He surveyed the surrounding school yard; the high cyclone mesh fences and freshly marked sporting grounds. The buildings were a uniform deep red brick, in stark contrast to the rich green playing fields. This was a school with a focus on performance, both in the classroom and on the track, and it was a prison. Six years earlier his parents had been peddled that familiar rhetoric; that tired old line of “turning boys into men,” but it was a lie.
The reality, the truth, was a little more sobering. If you hadn’t measured up; in the classroom, on the sporting fields, or even in the P. E. showers for that matter, making the transition was always going to be tough. Floyd’s performance, on reflection, hadn’t been overly disappointing, just unremarkable. The comparisons right from day one had been unforgiving. From there, moving beyond the shadow of his older brother, the great Douglas McGuinness, was never really on the cards.
There were no illusions of any great prison break. He’d done his time. He’d done it hard, but done it fair. He was going to walk out the front gates, sentence served, no remissions. Thankfully, a single decent rain shower was all it would take. Just one decent shower to wash away any trace. It’d be like he’d never set foot there at all.
‘Come on, what is it? Try me!’ challenged Kenny. His school blazer was too small, some sock was visible through a split in his shoe. Kenny had made several efforts to like Glen in the past. He’d looked long and hard for any positive attributes of substance. The popularity of the rude oaf though, it still baffled him.
McGuinness turned, sizing up his best friend. He took a moment to finish his daydream.
‘Covering your exams when the guy’s purposely sat beside you; what were you thinking? Then asking him, however stupidly, to stay away from your older sister. You’re lucky he didn’t flatten you on the spot. It’s pretty obvious you just don’t respect what he stands for.’
‘Stands for!’ repeated Kenny belligerently. ‘I’d love to know what he stands for, please enlighten me – what does that clown stand for?’
‘Are you crazy, man? The bloke’s living