The Everyday Jug
by Louise Hegarty
I
tilt my head backwards, cigarette clenched in my mouth, inhaling deeply. From my vantage point on the window-sill I can very comfortably see what is going on down below. There are boys and girls hurrying to school, their bags slung on their backs; delivery men bringing parcels and boxes into the newsagents and a group of women nattering outside the chemists. This is the scene I am greeted with on a daily basis. There is one thing I wasn’t expecting though - a woman. She is leaning up against the wall of the doctor’s surgery reading from a book in her hand. She is moderately attractive I suppose dark hair pulled back off her face and dark brown eyes. I push my nose up against the window and squint trying to see the name of the book. I am just about able to make out the words ‘Ranier Maria Rilke’ . Hmm, I think to myself, that’s something you rarely see nowadays, people reading poetry in public. The woman checks her watch and then deposits the book in her satchel. She then walks towards the door of the surgery and gives it a push. It doesn’t budge. She appears to recheck her watch and then examines the opening times on the door. She pushes again but nothing happens. She looks searchingly around her but there’s no-one in her vicinity. I know there’s another entrance. I glance towards the door of my apartment and very nearly go to run out, down the stairs and onto the street so that I can find her and tell her where to go. I could impress her with my illuminating knowledge of Rilke. I could quote some poetry. She would smile; I would smile... But I don’t do any of this. Instead I watch as she approaches the group of women outside the newsagents and asks them for instructions. I light a cigarette and turn away from the window. There is a shuffling outside my front door and a satisfying ‘plop’ as my papers are delivered. I wait a
moment to allow for the delivery guy to have moved on to the next floor so as not to have to make small-talk. I never know what to say in these situations and so I avoid them as best I can.
sister. My only sibling in fact. She is only two years older than me but acts like she’s my mother, constantly chastising me for my lifestyle and what she deems to be my apparent lack of ambition.
Eventually, I open the door and take the papers in.
“I need a favour,” she continues. “I need you to take him this evening.”
I make myself coffee in typical junkie-like fashion. I measure out the exact amount of water required and pour it into the kettle. I leave it to boil and watch as the steam gushes out of the spout. Leaving the water to cool just a little, I expertly measure out the coffee, scooping the granules out of the packet with a spoon and then leveling it off with my index finger. I then pour the water into the cup and watch as the liquid rises and swirls towards the rim. No milk. Milk is for cowards.
The ‘him’ she is referring to is my nephew who I don’t see that often. He seems an alright kind of kid – a bit quiet, though he’s probably not to blame for that.
After I finish drinking my coffee and reading the papers I generally plan my day. In my humble opinion the pursuit of knowledge is the only worthy objective in life. The need for money however tends to get in the way of this goal on but I have worked out a system for myself. I work for a large international company making phonecalls that generally tend to annoy people from the comfort of my own home. This allows me the flexibility to choose my own hours and to spend the best part of my day wallowing in autodidactic bliss. I work until midday and then I have plenty of time to read my books, most of which I borrow from the library or buy in second-hand shops on the rare occasion I leave my apartment. I spend an hour on this subject and another hour on that and then in the afternoon I’ll listen to a classical CD or watch an arthouse film. Around about 2 o’clock I start to think about lunch but my thoughts are interrupted when the phone goes off. I let it ring three times – no point in seeming too eager. “Hello.” “It’s me.” That’s my sister. My only
“How soon? Now? I’m not sure if I…” I mumble. There is a derisive snort. “Give me a break. Please don’t act like you’re busy. Please don’t act like you have something to do.” Now it is technically true I have nothing to do. Well ‘nothing’ in the sense that other people have nothing on. But for me this ‘nothing’ is something. “He is your nephew, for Christ sake. It is the least you could do,” she says into the silence. The guilt trip now, is it? Oh Jesus…. “I suppose it’s fine,” I say attempting to sound nonchalant. “For how long?” “Two hours tops. I’ll meet you at the top of Colbert Street in half an hour. Ok?” “Yeah ok…” And she puts down the phone without saying goodbye. This arrangement is definitely going to interfere with things. I will now be required to shower and shave and put on semi-respectable clothing. Even now I can feel the knot in my stomach. I breathe out hoping to release the tension but it doesn’t help. I get out of the shower and dry myself off. I choose my only uncrumpled shirt from the wardrobe and throw it on over a pair of jeans. It’s beginning to cloud over so I grab a jacket from the back of the door on my way out. I walk quickly down the stairs meeting no-one on my way and turn around the corner. The park isn’t