Blue Movie

A short story by David Walton Smith, pinched and re-written from an old journal entry.

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In the summer of 2002 I moved back to Scotland. It was going to take a year to reclaim my permanent resident status so I could go to University for free so, at the behest of my dad, I got a job in a factory.

“Learn a trade,” the cry of every Scottish father.

Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for the hard graft, but I didn’t quite make it a year back in Scotland. Six months after leaving I was back in sunny South Carolina. Unbeknownst to me, I’d become an American in my teenage years. When you’re away from anything long enough — even Scotland’s infamous wind and rain — you can recall it with romantic reverence.

The best thing about those months was reacquainting myself with my extended family. My uncle Ian became a bit of a surrogate father while I was in Scotland, imparting a bit of Glaswegian philosophy and tough love when I needed it — in exchange for whiskey, of course.

One time after polishing off a bottle, I staggered home while he proceeded to drink until he blacked out, fell forward onto his knees and, steadying himself with his face, created a tripod on the carpet. As the drink loosened his will and muscles, he started to slide apart, and his face raked across the carpet like a hoover. He had friction burns down his face for weeks and I think my aunt Betty was more pissed with me for enabling him.

On another occasion, I showed up at his front door with a bottle just as he was leaving to see a former patient who needed some company. See, my uncle was a social worker, just retired. He could see that I had nothing better to do, so he invited me to tag along.

I don’t recall the fella’s name, and it’s probably best I don’t for his privacy and all, so let’s just call him Rich. We met at his home which was just around the bend from a pub. I extended my hand, “hello, I’m David. How’s it goin’?” to which he replied, “not great David, my wife just died.”

I felt a sudden flushness on my face — part embarrassed, part sad for the man. Rich fetched his coat and we made our way to the pub.

I was a silent observer, letting my uncle do all the talking and counseling. But here’s the thing, the more I listened, the more I gleaned that yes, Rich’s wife had died, but it happened years ago. Who the hell tells somebody about that just when they meet? Talk about a charmer.

Rich excelled at bitching and complaining.

“Want a game of pool, rich?”

“Nah mate, I’m shite at pool.”

“Or darts then, pal?”

“Nah. Shite at that, too.”

The drinks kept coming and, as I loosened up, the more I started to really dislike this guy Rich. Now, I know what you must be thinking; that I’m a heartless bastard. After all, this poor fella is lonely because he lost his wife. But no. Had I met him while his wife was alive, it would’ve been “my cat’s got leukemia,” or “I can’t get it up for my wife,” or “I’m a Hamilton Accies fan.” Only Scottish folk will get that last one. If you’re American, substitute Hamilton Accies for Cleveland Browns and you’ll catch my drift.

“You aw’rite son?” my Uncle asked me. He could see I was drifting off and, with that, we were standing in the pishing rain waiting for a kebab — Ian and I making an effort to stand under an awning, Rich miserably basking in the weather.

“I’ve still got those Blue Movies,” he tells my uncle.

Blue movies? WTF are blue movies? The wee voice in my head inquired.

My uncle’s eyes lit up and a cheeky grin grew across his face. Back to Rich’s we went.

“Right, get the video on, Rich!” cried my uncle as he positioned a pillow on his lap to rest his kebab n’ chips. I looked down at mine, put off by the room’s general smell of mothballs and cigarettes mixing with kebab sauce. Rich turned on the T.V. — an old tube one that sounded like a mini-explosion when turned on.

“We are the sultans, we are the sultans of swing…”

The T.V. was set to an episode of classic top of the pops and Dire Straits was the featured act. I sang along for a few bars and Rich froze in his tracks. Then he slowly rose to his feet and started to quietly sing along. He was grinning ear to ear, and he now had the posture of a confident man.

“You like Dire Straits, Davy?”

“Aye, they’re no bad, I suppose”

He darted off into the next room and started rummaging around.

Ian was frustrated by the pivot in entertainment. “Rich! Get the fuckin’ video on!” he tried to blurt out whilst simultaneously swallowing a mouthful of chips.

Rich came flying back into the room with a box in his arms. He dropped the box at my feet and got down on his knees like a giddy child opening his Christmas gifts. He pulled out a vinyl and handed it to me. “This is their first studio album.” And then another. “And this is an original pressing of their single, ‘Money for Nothing.’”

It was as if I had just awoken the man from a coma. He simply wasn’t the same guy.

“How’d you work this effin’ machine, Rich!?”

By this point, I was holding a stack of LPs, Rich was digging out more from the next room, and my uncle was fighting with the VCR, two hands on the deck and a roll hanging out of his mouth.

The applause and whistles of a live concert recording bellowed out from the adjacent room. Rich stood in the doorway, his eyes closed, his head raised, and his hips swaying. “Now this! This is what you call a show!” he assured me with two thumbs up.

Beneath the sound of Dire Straits lay a funky bassline. “I’ve never heard this one before,” I thought to myself. “They must’ve had a disco period, just like Kiss.” But no. Uncle Ian had figured out the VCR and now the T.V. was displaying more bush than the Australian Outback.

Oh! That’s what blue movies are!

The moral of this story? Maybe it’s that we can all find happiness in this world. Or maybe it’s that only miserable sods love Dire Straits.