The Delegates’ Choice

‘No,’ said Israel. ‘No. I don’t even know what it means, up to high dough with it. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s an expression.’

‘Ah, right yes. It would be. Anyway, I’m up to…here with it.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m going to hand in my resignation to Linda.’

‘Excellent,’ said Ted.

‘Before the meeting today.’

‘First class,’ said Ted.

‘Before she has a chance to trick me out of it again.’

‘Away you go then.’

‘I am so gone already. I am out of here. I tell you, you are not going to see me for dust. I’m moving on.’

‘Mmm.’

‘I’m going! Look!’

‘Ach, well, it’s been a pleasure, sure. We’re all going to miss you.’

‘Yes,’ said Israel.

‘Good,’ said Ted.

‘So,’ said Israel.

‘You’ve time for a wee cup of coffee at Zelda’s first, mind? For auld time’s sake?’

‘No!’ said Israel. ‘I need to strike while the—’

‘And a wee scone, but?’

Israel looked at his watch.

‘Meeting’s not till three,’ said Ted.

‘What day is it?’ said Israel.

‘Wednesday.’

‘What’s the scone on Wednesdays?’

‘Date and almond,’ said Ted, consulting his mental daily special scone-timetable.

Israel huffed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But then we need to get there early. I am definitely, definitely resigning.’

They’d had this conversation before, around about mid-week, and once a week, for several months now, Israel Armstrong BA (Hons) and Ted Carson—the Starsky and Hutch, the Morse and the Lewis, the Thomson and Thompson, the Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, the Dante, the Virgil, the Cagney, the Lacey, the Deleuze and Guattari, the Mork and the Mindy of the mobile library world.

Israel had been living in Tumdrum for long enough—more than six months!—to find the routine not just getting to him, but actually having got to him; the selfsame rainy days which slowly and silently became weeks and then months, and which seemed gradually to be slowing, and slowing, and slowing, almost but not quite to a complete and utter stop, so that it felt to Israel as though he’d been stuck in Tumdrum on the mobile library not just for months, but for years, indeed for decades almost. Israel felt trapped; stuck; in complete and utter stasis. He felt incapacitated. He felt like he was in a never-ending episode of 24, or a play by Samuel Beckett.

‘This is like Krapp’s Last Tape,’ he told Ted, once they were settled in Zelda’s and Minnie was bringing them coffee.

‘Is it?’ said Ted.

‘Are ye being rude about my coffee?’ said Minnie.

‘No,’ said Israel. ‘I’m just talking about a play.’

‘Ooh!’ said Minnie.

‘Beckett?’ said Israel.

‘Beckett?’ said Minnie. ‘He was a Portora boy, wasn’t he?’

‘What?’ said Israel.

‘In Enniskillen there,’ said Minnie. ‘The school, sure. That’s where he went to school, wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Israel. ‘Samuel Beckett?’

‘Sure he did,’ said Minnie. ‘What was that play he did?’

‘Waiting for Godot?’ said Israel.

‘Was it?’ said Minnie. ‘It wasn’t Educating Rita?’

‘Riverdance,’ said Ted. ‘Most popular Irish show of all time.’

‘That’s not a play,’ said Israel wearily.

‘Aye, you’re a theatre critic now, are ye?’ ‘Och,’ said Minnie. ‘And who was the other fella?’

‘What?’ said Israel.

‘That went to school there, at Portora?’

‘No, you’ve got me,’ said Israel. ‘No idea.’

‘Ach, sure ye know. The homosexualist.’

‘You’ve lost me, Minnie, sorry.’