Holding up the Bypass
I swear to you, this is how it happened, honest.
December. Yeah, it was December, Christmas eve, that song was playing on the radio. Tom was kinda singing along, but his own version He was blasting it out at the top of his lungs. "I'm holding up the bypass, up yours!" He stuck two fingers up out of the cab window to all the cars behind. "None of you bastards will ever get past, oh no!" His little add-lib of 'oh no,' wasn't actually 'oh no', he used different words. Tom was a construction worker, you work out what he said. When I think about it, he never actually used the word 'bastard' either.
"I'm holding up the bypass, up yours! You rich bastards'll never get past, f*ck you. In ya seven series and ya s-class..... Ha ha!" The man was tone deaf!
So anyway, fat Tom's rolling along at a snail's pace in his big yellow JCB, singing, and scratching parts of his body that not even his wife will go near. Stretching out for miles behind Tom's digger? Bumper-to-bumper traffic going way way back. And cones, enough cones to let every driver know they were stuck there for the duration. Immediately behind Tom, in a brand new gas-guzzling, four-wheel drive, extremely shiny, BMW, was Gerry. I swear it's the truth, no word of a lie. Their name's were Tom and Gerry.
Where was I? Yeah, Gerry. Gerry's late for some big corporate meeting, or a Christmas do, whatever. And he's getting proper stressed. The man's sweating like a pig. He's stubbed out his cigar and he's pumping on his asthma inhaler thing like there ain't no tomorrow. He's honking his horn, banging on the wheel. The guy's losing it, big time. He's cursing.
"What's holding up the bypass. I need to get stuff out of the way and get home to my family."
Do you think Tom gave a *stuff*? Hell no! It's 7.00am, the Pogues are on the radio, and Tom's singing with a mouthful of pork pie.
"..and me balls are hanging out on Christmas day!" He eyed Gerry's car in the mirror. The irony of it all. Tom saw Gerry as a fat cat. Now that's funny!
Are you ready for this? Here's the thing. Gerry's started cursing. Tom can lip read. Well let's face it, those two words are easy to spot. So Tom's gone to give Gerry the bird, you know the finger, knocked the coffee out of the makeshift cup-holder, and hey I ain't saying where the coffee went, but, seeing as it was Christmas... If I just say, Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, you get the picture, I'll say no more So Tom's squealed like a bitch and hit the brake. Gerry's still busy gesticulating and cursing. Yup, you guessed it – BANG!
Let me tell you. BMW versus JCB ain't even a contest. It's like my sister's four year-old kid taking on Mike Tyson. The BMW's totalled, I mean mashed, JCB, not a scratch.
So now the traffic's at a standstill and these two are arguing in the middle of the street, you know, two fat guys proper going at it. Tom's gone bright red, his string vest is covered in coffee stains and his ass is hangin' out of his jeans. Gerry's lookin' kinda grey. Maybe it was an account of Tom choking the guy with his own neck-tie, who could tell?
"Why couldn't you pull over and let some of us pass?" snarled Gerry.
"You just gotta queue like everybody else, like us working class buggers." Tom shouted back. Again, I don't think he actually said, bugger.
"It's rush hour, you're holding up the bypass." Gerry says.
"Well this is one of those times when your fancy car and your money won't get you there any faster." Tom was yelling, laughing at the guy.
Next thing, Gerry's gone down, hit the deck like a sack of spuds and Tom ain't even landed him. Gerry's laying in the dirt looking like he's doing some crazy break-dancing or body popping or some shit like that, and Tom's just shouting at him.
"It's the bypass, it's a single lane, it's roadworks. Everybody waits their turn, you get me? There ain't no queue jumping. It doesn't work that way." By this time Gerry's turned some ugly shade of blue. And it's not like the paramedics are gonna be here anytime soon because the traffic's blocked up.
Tom's calmed down and done his best for Gerry. He's loosed the guy's collar and called for an ambulance. "I can't see the rush," he says. "Wherever you're going, you'll get there in the end. Apparently it was a straight race between, the paramedics, the priest, and the undertakers. Turns out the paramedics won on account of they had a chopper and the others got held up in traffic.
It's all good though. The paramedics used their jumper cables, gave Gerry some serious voltage and took him off to the hospital. Any repairs to Gerry's BMW would take more than jumper cables. Maybe the priest and the undertaker could do something for the car? Anything's possible.
At work now, Tom's not feeling too good. Maybe it was the stress of the earlier situation. You know what I'm talking about, the melee. Yeah, I bet you didn't think I knew words like gesticulate and melee did you? I love being here in England. I failed my exams, wanted to stay, and sure, there was a girl involved. But anyhow now I gotta work this dead-end job, and it seems like I'm stuck here forever. To make matters worse, I gotta wear this dumb uniform. None of this is the point. The point is, Tom's decided he's lacking sustenance coz he dropped half his pork pie. Enter into the equation the van selling breakfasts. Tom goes for four, yeah, repeat four, rounds of bacon sandwiches, or butties as those guys like to call them. Personally, I don't know how those guys can eat that greasy shit.
Well, so now he's rejuvenated, he's good to go. Remember, it's Christmas eve, nobody's going to do any real work. Most of these guy's are Irish for Christ's sake. As soon as the pub's opened, they've downed tools and they're straight in. All the guys are very soon drunk as skunks dancing and celebrating, and shit like that. It was Christmas, plenty of Guinness was flowing, I'll tell ya. Tom's doing the jig or whatever that Irish dance is called with the barmaid, Rosie. The Pogues are on the jukebox. Tom's sung at the top of his voice.
"You're and old slut and drunk!" Unfortunately these tuneless words arrived just as somebody kicked the power cable out.
"They're not even the right words!" Rosie's thrown her drink in his face then slapped him, hard. You know, one of those Mae West full-blooded hay-makers. Whack! It had to hurt! Tom's gone over, fallen through a table, drinks have gone everywhere, and everybody's laughing. Tom's not laughing, he's out cold and he don't look like he'll be getting up anytime soon. The Paramedics were out again, and it was a good thing they never put them jumper cables away, but they had recharged the battery.
Christmas Day, Tom wakes up in the hospital. He's got wires and tubes stuck in all kinds of different places. According to the doctor, after thirty-years of binge drinkin' and cigarette smokin', Tom's heart had finally put it's foot down. I think maybe Tom would have been okay, but with the poor diet and all, his heart thought he was taking the piss, and duly served notice to quit. Tom's immediate problem was that his heart did not agree work out its notice, you,know, give Tom time to find a replacement or something. Nope! Tom's heart would work to the end of the day, under protest, period. Then, it was outta here.
The Doctor was smiling, which is usually a good sign. It so happens there's an operation which if carried out today could appease the grievances of his weary heart, and convince it to carry on working, under a new healthier regime, of course. In short, Tom needs a bypass before the day is out, otherwise some fat lady's gonna holler. The good news is, there's one OR slot available. And they've found the one surgeon in country who is not; with his family; skiing; or playing golf on Christmas day. Tom's got a life-line and he's praying to God, Jesus, and anybody from the spiritual world that if he's allowed to live, he'll be good. Just to hedge his bets he also decides he will sign any 'deed of soul' deferred contract should the man downstairs ask him to. I didn't think Tom was in any position to negotiate.
Tom spends the day drifting in and out of consciousness, he's was supposed to go under the knife hours ago. His last memory before he died, was the doctor shouting at the nurse. Apparently, some other guy needed a the same operation. This other guy was a private patient, his insurance company has flown in some German doctor, they'd hijacked the OR, and the anaesthetist. Nobody told the regular doctor, Tom's operation had been cancelled.
"What's holding up the bloody bypass?" he cursed, looking at his watch. "I need to get home to my family before the festive season is over." The last thing Tom actually saw was Gerry being wheeled into theatre.
Yeah, you guessed it. Gerry died on the operating table. That's why I've been told to take both these bodies down to the morgue. I know what you're thinking? How does a lowly hospital porter like me know all this stuff about these two? Well here's the thing. I failed my exams and my girl left me back in ninety-seven. So I hung myself. And trust me this elevator has stops way below the morgue level.