Page 26 of Play Hard

“Well…aren’t most of your customers regulars? They order the same thing every night?”

“Yeah, but they’ve got different problems all the time.”

“I’ve been to Hannigan’s,” Evan said. “The guys there just pleep about their wives and jobs—and sometimes football when Celtic are losing.”

Liam bristled. “Celtic are never losing. They may occasionally lose, but they’re never in a state of losing.”

“My point is, your job can’t be as stimulating as you need.” Evan stopped, as though realizing he was sounding a bit of a wank. “I mean, sure, when the pub’s very busy. Must be challenging to remember all the orders and keep everyone happy.”

“It’s not,” Liam blurted. Then he rubbed his eye. “It used to be, but now it’s easy. Which means you’re right, I’m bored. Happy?”

“I wasn’t trying to make you admit anything.”

“Seemed like it,” Liam said, “as you cannae have a normal conversation without rummaging through someone’s psyche.”

“But if you’re holding yourself back in life out of fear—”

“Seriously fuck off.”

“Robert’s not going to change.”

Liam stared at him. “What?”

Evan winced before continuing, as though his words would hurt himself as well as Liam. “He may learn to delegate and find a slightly better balance between work and life, but he’ll always care deeply about what he does. He’ll never be satisfied with a Monday-to-Friday job he can walk away from at the end of a shift and just forget about.”

“I know.” Liam scuffed his shoe against one of the flower pots. “If he was that sort of person, he’d never have started his own business. He’d have signed on with the IT department of some ginormous bank and probably made loads more money.”

“And got paid time off,” Evan said, “plus a hundred other perks. All the things that make romantic life easier.”

“But I cannae see him working at an office, wearing a tie and all.” With a heavy sigh, Liam tilted back his head to look up at St. Andrew’s tall, thin clock tower. An hour and a half had passed since the end of the match, and he was now famished. “So what’s that mean for me? I’m to sit about waiting to enjoy his wee spots of time, like a dog begging for scraps?”

“It’ll be easier to tolerate Robert’s devotion to work—not just tolerate but understand it—if you also find work you love.”

“Och, what a load of middle-class pish. ‘Find your passion, follow your bliss.’ That’s a fucking luxury. Some of us, it’s all we can do to get by.”

“I know, but—”

“And before you say Robert grew up just as poor as me, it’s not the same. My mum’s got four young weans. Who’s gonnae support her whilst I’m faffing about listening to my heart of hearts? Not my sister Marianne, earning £5.30 an hour—did you know that’s minimum wage for an eighteen-year-old?”

“I do, but—”

“I have to hold onto what I’ve got,” Liam said, “cos if I let it go and try something new—and I fail at it—then it all comes crashing down.”

Fuck’s sake, how did Evan pull that truth out of him when Robert couldn’t do it? Secret spy tricks, no doubt. But Liam couldn’t remember what Evan had said or done to cause this cascade of candor.

Evan just gazed over at St. Andrew’s, watching through the tall windows of the former church as guests filled the upper floor for a late afternoon event. “I won’t say I understand, because I’ve never been in your shoes. On my family’s farm, money’s always been uncertain, but not in the same way it is in Shettleston.”

Liam nodded to acknowledge Evan’s acknowledgment.

“But if your massage school’s only part-time,” Evan continued, “you don’t need to quit the pub. So there’s no risk. If it turns out you’re crap at massage, you’ve still got your job to fall back on.”

“I’m not crap at it. But I think…” Liam realized he was about to sound like the sort of bourgeois prima donna he’d just been banging on about. “I think I might hate it.”

“Why?”

“The slowness of it all. Dealing with just one person for an entire hour.”

“Okay. But what would you like about it?”

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