The Bad Book Affair

‘No man knoweth the hour,’ said Minnie.

‘Right,’ said Israel.

‘Never mind,’ said Ted.

‘Never mind what?’ said Israel.

‘Thirty. Bad age.’

‘It’s not a bad age. I have no problem with reaching thirty. That’s the least of my problems.’

‘Good,’ said Ted.

‘I’ll leave you boys to it, then,’ said Minnie. ‘Enjoy your coffee. And happy birthday for next week.’

‘Thanks,’ said Israel.

‘Thirty,’ said Ted, shaking his head.

Israel had no problem with thirty, actually. Thirty is not that old. When you think about it. At thirty, really, you’re still on the cusp of your twenties. At thirty you’re an honorary twentysomething—that’s a good way of looking at it. It’s like you’re the top of your year at school. You’re a September baby. At thirty you might still conceivably be a late developer. You have a whole lifetime still ahead of you. At thirty the world remains your proverbial oyster…

‘Buddy Holly,’ said Ted, slathering his scone with butter.

‘What about Buddy Holly?’ said Israel.

‘He died young,’ said Ted.

‘Right. And your point is?’

‘I’m just saying, like. He was, what, twenty-one, twenty-two?’

‘Right.’

‘And the other fella.’

‘Which other fella?’

‘The actor fella. The leather jacket and the T-shirt.’

‘Marlon Brando?’

‘Ach, no, the other one.’

‘James Dean?’

‘Aye, that’s yer man. How old was he when he died?’

‘I have no idea, Ted,’ said Israel.

‘Twenty-five? Twenty-six?’

‘And?’ said Israel.

‘You’re a young man no more at thirty,’ said Ted, taking a huge bite of scone, as if the scone itself might bite him back if he didn’t get at it quick enough.

‘Yes you are,’ said Israel. ‘Of course you are.’

‘You’re not in your twenties in your thirties,’ said Ted, chewing, his mouth wide open.

‘Yes, right, that’s very true, Ted. Brilliant. Thank you for pointing that out. You’re not in your twenties in your thirties. You did maths in school, then?’

‘Big difference, twenties and thirties,’ said Ted, ignoring Israel, swallowing. ‘Big, big difference.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘I’m telling ye. Yer movers and shakers, they’ve all done their moving and shaking by thirty, haven’t they?’

‘Well, some of them have, but—’

‘Maurice Morris here.’ Ted nodded towards the pinstriped figure of Maurice moving among them. ‘Look what he’d achieved by the time he was thirty.’

‘I have no idea what he’d achieved, actually. But I’m sure—’

‘Well, what about yer Romantical poets, then? What about them?’

‘Who?’

‘All done in, weren’t they, by thirty?’

‘Who?’

‘Kates, and—’ Ted attacked the scone again.

‘Keats?’

‘Aye. All hanged themselves, didn’t they, by the time they were—’

‘No, they did not all hang themselves,’ said Israel, factually. ‘And I think Wordsworth lived till—’

‘Exception that proves the rule,’ said Ted. ‘Like Johnny Cash.’

‘What?’

‘Oldest swinger in town.’

‘You’re losing me, Ted.’

‘That’s why you’re depressed. The birthday, and breaking up with the girl—’