Friendly Advice

Jason Monios

The queue at the newly opened chippie on Leith Walk stretched out the door, as it had since the day it opened. In only a few short weeks this new upmarket establishment had effortlessly scooped up the business of all the others in the area. But Jamie was a reminder that although some things had changed on Leith Walk, some things were very much the same. It was just our luck to be at the end of the queue, one foot in the shop and one on the pavement, when he cannoned into us. We thought he was just another Saturday evening football casualty and that he'd continue on his way down the Walk, but when he didn't move on it was clear that he was here for the fish. Which wouldn't have been so bad, if the queue wasn't so long and Jamie wasn't so pissed.

He looked to be in his early sixties and was dressed like a genial granddad in trousers and tweed blazer. He had a slack grin and watery eyes that retained their sparkle despite the fact that both eyeballs were no doubt floating on a sea of lager by this point.

By the time we had made it inside the shop, Jamie was our firm friend. Between his garbled delivery and the fizz of the oil in the fryer, we struggled to understand him, but he wouldn't be deterred.

'And his wife's on the phone, right?' Jamie said, on his second attempt to force himself to the end of a laborious and unfunny joke. Our fellow customers dared conspiratorial grimaces in our direction. Everyone in the queue was thinking the same thing: I'm glad we didn't get stuck with him.

Jamie slumped briefly against the wall but righted himself immediately with the practised air of a sailor searching for his land legs.

'So where were you drinking?' I asked, attempting to divert him from his tedious joke telling.

'Do you ken The Tor?'

'On Restalrig Road?'

'Aye.'

He seemed pleased that I knew it. I didn't tell him that I cycled past it on my bike and thought it looked dodgy. Perhaps if it was full of cheery old guys like Jamie then I had misjudged it. We shuffled another step forward in the queue. Now we were close enough to feel the humidity and watch the harried staff at work. We could see one man lining up a whole row of freshly fried fish while the chip expert tested the consistency of the still-sizzling chips with his bare fingers. He didn't even flinch. You have to suffer for your art, I suppose.

Jamie grabbed my arm and resumed his joke, determined to get to the end of it. I had teased him earlier that the joke had better be worth the wait, but he assured me it was. We were almost to the counter now.

'What do you want on your chips?' the Polish server asked the man in front, in the stilted manner of someone who has memorised a specific phrase. Over the last couple of years Leith has become the Polish centre of Edinburgh. There is a whole string of Polish shops and delis up and down Leith Walk. As far as I can tell the locals have accepted the change in demographic, but then I don't know how often Jamie stops by a Polish deli for a few pierogi on his way home from The Tor.

'Salt and sauce,' the man answered.

'Brown sauce?'

'Aye!' the man retorted, clearly in a huff that this foreigner had to ask such a redundant question. We rolled our eyes and turned back to Jamie, who was still trying to remember the punch line to his joke. Each mental stumble was echoed by a physical one, as he weaved on the spot like a boxer learning to duck and dive without moving his feet. The last couple to be served dodged around him to make their way out the door. Jamie grinned at me, forgetting his joke for the moment.

'So did you have a good day, then?' I asked him.

'Aye. But I'm starving. And I need to get two suppers, one for my pal at home.'

'He's home already?'

Jamie enthusiastically croaked out a laugh. 'Aye! I was there first but I . . .'

He held himself still with an effort, planted his feet and continued.

'I . . .'

Speech deserted him again and again he made a visible attempt to steady himself, apparently unfazed. Finally the words came out: 'I . . . outlasted him!'

The effort had tired Jamie out so our conversation stalled for the time being and we waited in silence for a couple of minutes. The smells sharpened our hunger so we diverted our attention from our groaning stomachs by watching the servers following their precision routine. Our eyes roamed the menu board, considering which of the various fancy options we might order next time, though like everyone else we knew we'd just get the usual fish supper.

'Aye, you're all right,' Jamie informed me later, after I had chuckled convincingly at the end of his joke. He asked my name again and shook my hand for the fourth time. 'You've got to have fun, haven't you?' he added. Then a degree of clarity appeared in his eyes that had eluded him thus far, and he delivered his pronouncement, still gripping my hand. He pulled me closer and looked me in the eye. 'Life's short,' he said earnestly. 'You've got to get tore in!' He released my hand and returned his attention to the menu on the board above, leaving me to ponder his advice.

We left him there, at the front of the queue, transparent hands gripping the counter. He stared intently at the menu like it was a difficult question in a pub quiz, daring an answer to float out of the fog.