Her Name Was Lola

58 Boilermakers No

December 1998. Max and Harold Klein at The Pickled Pelican, drinking Pedigree without Glenfiddich. They want to reach unconsciousness (whether ambulatory or horizontal) more slowly than the last time. ‘I hate these cutesy pub names,’ says Klein. ‘Why couldn’t they call it something straight, like The 14 Bus?’

‘You ever heard of a pub named after a bus?’ says Max.

‘No, but I’m sure it deserves to be celebrated as much as the dukes and duchesses you usually see on pub signs.’

‘This one used to be The Princess Royal,’ says Max.

‘There you go. But don’t distract me.’

‘Sorry. You were saying.’

‘I was saying the 14 bus. Let’s drink to it.’

‘OK. The 14 bus!’ says Max.

‘The 14 bus!’ says Klein. Clink. ‘Not that drinking to it helps.’

‘I’m not with you,’ says Max.

‘Of course not. We’re all alone. The red keeps changing.’

‘The red?’ says Max.

‘The red of the bus. Something is building up in that old Routemaster. Some intention rising from the deep like the Kraken. Hop on, hop off indeed. As if!’

‘As if what?’

‘As if your destiny were something you could hop on to or off.’

‘Do you have to take the 14 often?’ says Max.

‘Not very. Actually the danger is minimal when I’m a passenger. The thing takes on a new complexion when I’m on foot.’

‘Redder?’ says Max.

‘Different,’ says Klein. ‘You can’t tell what they’re thinking.’

‘Treat the 14 as you would a hostile dog,’ says Max. ‘Don’t show fear. While staying out of its way, of course.’

‘Easy for you to talk,’ says Klein. ‘Why aren’t you at home grinding out your next novel?’

‘Some grinds are slower than others,’ says Max. ‘There are times when I find it difficult to concentrate on the writing.’ He takes a photograph out of his wallet and shows it to Klein. ‘Here’s the latest of my son Victor. He was a year old last November 28th.’

‘William Blake’s birthday,’ says Klein.

‘Jean-Baptiste Lully’s also,’ says Max. He and Klein think about this while working on their third pints.

‘He certainly doesn’t look Jewish,’ says Klein.

‘His mother’s genes seem to have been dominant,’ says Max. ‘People that see him say “Ah!”’

‘Does he talk?’ says Klein.

‘Not yet. Lula Mae says he appears to be thinking about what to say first,’ says Max.

‘Cautious,’ says Klein. ‘Probably just as well. Have you been to Texas for a visit?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Planning one?’

‘I don’t know. My fatherhood is a total confusion to me. Sometimes I dream that I have another son.’ Max doesn’t speak the name of his dream son. Both he and Klein fall silent, lost in thought and Pedigree. Max gets a fourth pint for each of them.

After a while Klein lifts his right hand with the index finger in the admonitory position. ‘Remember,’ he says, ‘Mack in Barch ’97, the first time we had drunks here at The 14 Bus, I told you that the best thing … What was I saying?’

‘The best thing mack in Barch ’97.’

‘Right. You could do for both of your women was to get out of their lives.’

‘I remember.’

‘I think the same about your child or childs. Children. As the case may be. If you can’t be in the same place with them. Can’t be a full-time father. Better off without you. Vanity of vanities. One generation pisseth itself away and another generation likewise. That’s all she wrote.’ Klein falls asleep. Max wakes him up. They visit the Gents and leave The 14 Bus. Or The Pickled Pelican. Whichever.