Chapter One: The Real Slim Shady
Jimmy Rabbitte knew his music. He knew his stuff alright. Jimmy was slagging Moby before most people had started liking him. He once heard two kids on the DART talking about Leftfield, and he was able to lean over and tell them they were talking through their holes and know that he was absolutely right. Jimmy knew that Radiohead's last album was so bad that it was cool to defend it, but he didn't. Not Jimmy. It was too important for fashion. Hip-hop, jungle country, big beat, swing - Jimmy loved and hated it all. But he was 36, with three young kids and a wife who was six months pregnant and tone-deaf.
He stood at the bathroom door and listened to her in the shower.
- FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOTTEN. FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOTTEN. FORGIVEN, NOT . . .
Jimmy spoke.
- Are you singin that because it came into your head or because you like it?
- Shut the door after you, Slim, said Aoife. FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOTTEN. FORGIVEN . . .
There were 730 albums in the house, and Jimmy knew where to find every one of them. He'd bought most of them himself. Twelve had been presents, and one of them had been in the house when they'd moved in. Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits, on the floor when they walked in, and Jimmy would have fuckin left it there. But Aoife had picked it up.
- Oh, I like this one.
And they still had it. He knew where, kind of hidden between the blues and acid jazz. He'd been tempted to smuggle it out and lose it, but he loved her and he'd never caught her looking for it. They were married nine years and in that time she'd brought exactly six albums into the house, and that didn't include Nick Cave's Murder Ballads, which he'd given her for their anniversary.
But it did include the Titanic soundtrack.
Jimmy had refused to file it in the Soundtrack section.
- Why not?
- I'm giving it a section of its own, he'd said. Utter shite.
She'd laughed.
- You're such an eejit.
And they'd made love on the kitchen table, while Celine Dion rode the vast Atlantic.
Now, Jimmy shut the bathroom door . . .
- NOT FORGOH-TEN.
. . . and he went downstairs to the sitting room. He stood in front of the telly.
- Do any of youse like the Corrs?
- Yeah!
- No way.
- Cwap.
He went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. Lite FM.
- For fuck sake.
He attacked the dial, until he found Pet Sounds. That was better. Lambchop. Up With People. Great music no one had heard of. Jimmy shut the kitchen door and turned up the volume. St Germain followed Lambchop - I WANT YOU TO GET TOGETHER. And Jimmy lay back on the kitchen table.
It was months since he'd been to a gig. Months. He used to go to gigs all the time. He used to make gigs. He'd managed bands, some great ones. There was The Commitments ("The best Irish band never recorded dside" - Shite Northside News). There was The Brassers ("Sex and guitars in Dublin" - Shite Northside News). Great days, when 24 hours weren't enough, when sleeping was a waste of time.
Now, he had the kids and sleeping was an impossibility. He never woke up in the same bed; he'd even spent a night in the cot, because Mahalia, the youngest, had refused to stay in it.
- Not my comfy bed. That my comfy bed, she'd yelled, pointing at his comfy fuckin bed.
IT WAS past midnight now. He'd been listening to The Marshall Mathers LP. That was another problem. A lot of the stuff he liked had the Parental Advisory sticker on the cover, so he had to wait to till the kids were asleep.
He crept into the bedroom.
- FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOHTEN.
She'd been waiting for him. Married nine years, and they still slagged each other. He got into the bed and slid up to her back, and wondered which she'd noticed first, the gut or the erection. He'd been putting on the pounds; he didn't know how. He never ate and it was ages since he'd had a pint, weeks, months - fuck.
- How's the real Slim Shady? said Aoife.
- Not too bad, bitch, said Jimmy. Grand.
- Why the sigh? she said. Are you okay?
- I'm grand. Its just . . .
- Oh wow, she said. There's a kick.
She took Jimmy's hand and put it on her stomach. He waited for the baby's next kick. He was suddenly exhausted. The kids would be coming in soon, climbing in on top of them. He tried to stay awake. Kick, for fuck sake, kick. He was gone, and awake again. Did it kick? Did it? Stay awake, stay awake.
- I'm thinking of forming a group, said Jimmy.
- Oh Jesus, said Aoife.
Roddy Doyle 2001
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