The Problem's That
by Connor McCallum
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A foray into fantasy and apathy.
_____________________________________________________________________
Danny McIntyre sparked up his joint and lay on his bed. He noticed the sheets needed a wash as he rummaged through the folds of his crumpled up quilt. Eventually, having located his phone, he selected ‘Music Player’. Stretching out he plucked his earphones off of his dusty keyboard, put them in his ears and pressed ‘Shuffle All’. He shut his eyes.
He’s on stage in place of Jim Morrison. The intro to ‘Roadhouse Blues’ engulfs him. A baying crowd chants his name. His queue nears…
“AH KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD YOUR HANDS UPON THE WHEEL!!” Hysteria breaks out as Danny, with eyes shut tighter than a prisoner dreaming of another world, mouths the song. With perfect pitch and without effort, adding the occasional lyrical tweak when it comes to “his bits” of the song, he flows through verse and chorus triumphantly. He struts about the stage like a tiger, covering every inch of floorboard in primal energy. The crowd is chanting along. The last line approaches.
“ALL NIGHT LONG” and then the guitar sign off, and then silence.
Danny snapped back to reality. He opened his eyes to establish the exact whereabouts of his ashtray; his sheets testified his aim had been hit and miss during the first song. He sighed deeply, and blew the ash across the bed sheets onto the floor. He promised himself he’d deal with it later, and put his earphones in once more.
Youthful scholars of the beautiful game sit opposite a computer screen in his mind’s eye. Eagerly they type his name into the You Tube search bar and click the most viewed video, ‘Danny McIntyre – Celtic 2012/2013’ a compilation of his best moments, not a lot of goals, mainly gallus bits of play. Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ begins with its brass blast into Danny’s ear, the samba pop smash in perfect sync with the intricate patterns he weaves on screen. Any goals shown in the video are done so at quieter moments of the song, the in-match commentary is dubbed in…
“McIntyre…STRIKES FROM DISTANCE! MY WORD!! WHAT! A! STRIKE! DANIEL MCINTYRE!!” dreamy headlines run through him, one reads ‘Greatest Celt Ever??’ He sits in the pressroom. There’s a sea of journalists looking livelier than a well-poured Guinness. Danny of course tries to focus the talk on football: ‘It’s a great group of lads’, ‘One Game at a time’ and so forth. The press keep pulling it back to the heinous figures in Barcelona’s latest contract offer.
“Ah’ve said before, they cin offer as much cash as they want, Ah’ll be in Glasgow next year. Ah earn a fine wage, considering that Ah (unlike Mr. Duncan-Smith) have lived off a hundred pounds a fortnight. Ye can’t knock what Ah get paid here. And Ah play fir the team Ah love. If Ah did go then what Ah’d be losing would make the extra ninety-grand a week worthless.” There are lots of murmurs as Danny sits back in his chair, looking like a man at home. A representative of the empire of Murdoch steps up to speak:
“How, Mr McIntyre, would you respond to-
BRING!! BRRIING!!! ‘Shit!’ thought Danny and shot out of his bed. BRING!! BRRIING!!! He flew down the stairs, and ran into his living room. He grabbed the phone just as the last ring died. He sat. BRING!! BRRIING!!
“Hello? Aye Mum, Ah cin get it to ye on Friday, Ta. Aye yer right I’ll get doon ‘n’ see him the morra. Nae bother, aye nae bother. Naw Ah’ve no filled it oot yet. Well Ah hardly need tae fill oot the RSVP, she’s ma sister Christ sake, she knows Ah’ll be there. Right, right okay Ah WILL. Okay Bye, right love you too, bye.” He hung up the phone. “Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, man” He trudged through to the kitchen for a glass of council juice, and back up the stairs. In his bedroom he navigated past a mound of clothes to his side of the bed. Danny McIntyre lay on his bed and sparked up his joint. He pressed play on his phone.
The sun warms him to his very cockles; the large but solitary cloud passes by for good. Bob Dylan’s ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’ plays as he sits, in Balloch Country Park, on the grass, opposite Ashley. She has on her yellow dress. She smiles sunshine. They roll around laughing together, playing like lion cubs. They settle and lie down together, she rests her head just under his collarbone. He puts his arm around her waist, and she stretches over with her right hand, to meet Danny’s left. With her thumb she traces patterns on his palm, it’s just the right kind of ticklish. The world passes them by, they want for nothing. They have the scent of the not quite freshly cut grass, the soft breeze, just enough to lift the hairs on your arms. The welcoming, ripe sunshine says that he and Ashley can stay forever. He looks into her eyes and she mouths ‘I love you’. She kisses him on the cheek.
‘But it ain’t me babe! Noo! Noo! Noo! It ain’t me babe!’ the words scratch and peck at his soul. He opens his eyes. He hits pause.
Danny looked over to what was Ashley’s side of the bed. Looked over to the empty drawer once full of her things. On Ashley’s side; rolling papers, a torn up cigarette packet, two lighters, the remote, his grass and an empty packet of Doritos. He looked around his bomb scare bedroom, at his dusty keyboard, the necks of his guitars exposed blank where strings should be. For a second he felt like crying. Danny McIntyre sparked up his joint and lay on his bed. He shut his eyes.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: A foray into fantasy and apathy.
_____________________________________________________________________
Danny McIntyre sparked up his joint and lay on his bed. He noticed the sheets needed a wash as he rummaged through the folds of his crumpled up quilt. Eventually, having located his phone, he selected ‘Music Player’. Stretching out he plucked his earphones off of his dusty keyboard, put them in his ears and pressed ‘Shuffle All’. He shut his eyes.
He’s on stage in place of Jim Morrison. The intro to ‘Roadhouse Blues’ engulfs him. A baying crowd chants his name. His queue nears…
“AH KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD YOUR HANDS UPON THE WHEEL!!” Hysteria breaks out as Danny, with eyes shut tighter than a prisoner dreaming of another world, mouths the song. With perfect pitch and without effort, adding the occasional lyrical tweak when it comes to “his bits” of the song, he flows through verse and chorus triumphantly. He struts about the stage like a tiger, covering every inch of floorboard in primal energy. The crowd is chanting along. The last line approaches.
“ALL NIGHT LONG” and then the guitar sign off, and then silence.
Danny snapped back to reality. He opened his eyes to establish the exact whereabouts of his ashtray; his sheets testified his aim had been hit and miss during the first song. He sighed deeply, and blew the ash across the bed sheets onto the floor. He promised himself he’d deal with it later, and put his earphones in once more.
Youthful scholars of the beautiful game sit opposite a computer screen in his mind’s eye. Eagerly they type his name into the You Tube search bar and click the most viewed video, ‘Danny McIntyre – Celtic 2012/2013’ a compilation of his best moments, not a lot of goals, mainly gallus bits of play. Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’ begins with its brass blast into Danny’s ear, the samba pop smash in perfect sync with the intricate patterns he weaves on screen. Any goals shown in the video are done so at quieter moments of the song, the in-match commentary is dubbed in…
“McIntyre…STRIKES FROM DISTANCE! MY WORD!! WHAT! A! STRIKE! DANIEL MCINTYRE!!” dreamy headlines run through him, one reads ‘Greatest Celt Ever??’ He sits in the pressroom. There’s a sea of journalists looking livelier than a well-poured Guinness. Danny of course tries to focus the talk on football: ‘It’s a great group of lads’, ‘One Game at a time’ and so forth. The press keep pulling it back to the heinous figures in Barcelona’s latest contract offer.
“Ah’ve said before, they cin offer as much cash as they want, Ah’ll be in Glasgow next year. Ah earn a fine wage, considering that Ah (unlike Mr. Duncan-Smith) have lived off a hundred pounds a fortnight. Ye can’t knock what Ah get paid here. And Ah play fir the team Ah love. If Ah did go then what Ah’d be losing would make the extra ninety-grand a week worthless.” There are lots of murmurs as Danny sits back in his chair, looking like a man at home. A representative of the empire of Murdoch steps up to speak:
“How, Mr McIntyre, would you respond to-
BRING!! BRRIING!!! ‘Shit!’ thought Danny and shot out of his bed. BRING!! BRRIING!!! He flew down the stairs, and ran into his living room. He grabbed the phone just as the last ring died. He sat. BRING!! BRRIING!!
“Hello? Aye Mum, Ah cin get it to ye on Friday, Ta. Aye yer right I’ll get doon ‘n’ see him the morra. Nae bother, aye nae bother. Naw Ah’ve no filled it oot yet. Well Ah hardly need tae fill oot the RSVP, she’s ma sister Christ sake, she knows Ah’ll be there. Right, right okay Ah WILL. Okay Bye, right love you too, bye.” He hung up the phone. “Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, man” He trudged through to the kitchen for a glass of council juice, and back up the stairs. In his bedroom he navigated past a mound of clothes to his side of the bed. Danny McIntyre lay on his bed and sparked up his joint. He pressed play on his phone.
The sun warms him to his very cockles; the large but solitary cloud passes by for good. Bob Dylan’s ‘It Ain’t Me Babe’ plays as he sits, in Balloch Country Park, on the grass, opposite Ashley. She has on her yellow dress. She smiles sunshine. They roll around laughing together, playing like lion cubs. They settle and lie down together, she rests her head just under his collarbone. He puts his arm around her waist, and she stretches over with her right hand, to meet Danny’s left. With her thumb she traces patterns on his palm, it’s just the right kind of ticklish. The world passes them by, they want for nothing. They have the scent of the not quite freshly cut grass, the soft breeze, just enough to lift the hairs on your arms. The welcoming, ripe sunshine says that he and Ashley can stay forever. He looks into her eyes and she mouths ‘I love you’. She kisses him on the cheek.
‘But it ain’t me babe! Noo! Noo! Noo! It ain’t me babe!’ the words scratch and peck at his soul. He opens his eyes. He hits pause.
Danny looked over to what was Ashley’s side of the bed. Looked over to the empty drawer once full of her things. On Ashley’s side; rolling papers, a torn up cigarette packet, two lighters, the remote, his grass and an empty packet of Doritos. He looked around his bomb scare bedroom, at his dusty keyboard, the necks of his guitars exposed blank where strings should be. For a second he felt like crying. Danny McIntyre sparked up his joint and lay on his bed. He shut his eyes.
About the Author
Connor McCallum was born and brought up by the bonnie
banks o’ Loch Lomond. He describes
himself as a young up-and-comer, whose main focus is on short stories, but who
also dabbles with the odd cheesy poem.