Peter Ross: The ballad of lonely Joe WHAT happened was he broke down outside our house. A wee car with a wee man in it. The ignition was skittering, stuttering, wouldn't start. I was going past with the suitcases at the time. We were supposed to be driving down south. I don't know why I did it, it wasn't quite like me, but I suppose I felt responsible as he was right outside, and I could see that he was old. So I went round to his side and asked was he OK? "Ah've jist been to the shops," he said. Tae get the messages. The bags were lying beside him on the passenger seat. Later, as I lifted them, I could hear the bottles clink together. Drink. He'd been in the hospital. His first time in the car since he got out, and this happens. "You'd better come in," I said. We'll phone the breakdown folk. It was an effort for him to get out the car. He was weak and seemed in pain. I helped him along the path. There was moss between the slabs and I hoped he wouldn't slip. Inside, the kids were wondering who he was. I sat him down in the living room. In the hall, I explained things to my wife. We were going to be late setting off, but what could you do? I got him a glass of water and he said his name was Joe. He gave me his breakdown card and I went and phoned. They said they'd be about an hour. So we had an hour of Joe. He smelled a bit. After he had gone, the kids complained about the settee. You'd know that smell anywhere. It's what you get when someone doesn't care enough about themselves, and when there isn't anyone to do the caring for them. The smell of loneliness. A sad, warm stink. Joe explained that he was on his own. His wife was away. He meant dead. Mary, her name had been. They'd met at the Barrowland. He'd smuggled in a quarter-bottle or he'd never have had the nerve to ask her to dance. She'd been a real dazzler. He remembered her smile, her hair, the look she gave him when he walked over, sizing him up. It was the time of Bible John, and Mary knew she had to watch out. If Joe had had red hair she would never have danced with him. But he was dark. "Small, dark and handsome," she used to joke at Hogmanay. Two out of three isnae bad. So they danced. The weeks went by, the months, the years. They were engaged, then married, then parents. That was how it felt. As fast as that. He wished he could go back, slow everything down, but when he remembers it's all a blur. The slowness came later. Her illness. His. He had worked on the bins, he explained. A dustman for the corporation. Some job in those days. You had to be strong. He used to rub Mary's nail polish on his back so the metal bins wouldn't break the skin as it stretched across his spine. He'd go home stinking. And not just of rubbish. There was usually bevvy on the go in the dustcart. A few of the younger men smoked the wacky-baccy, and you'd see them stoating into the road when they got down for the middens. It's a wonder none of them was lifted or killed. He stuck to whisky. Oh, but naebdy knew this city like the dustmen. Bugger yir taxi drivers. We knew every wee lane. After the breakdown man had come and towed his car, I gave Joe a lift home. The radio was playing something sad by Frank Sinatra and he sang along under his breath. We stopped outside his house and I helped him to the door. The shopping bags clinked. He put in his key, then turned and gripped my hand. "Remember," he said, suddenly fierce, "these're yir best years. Mind and enjoy them. I always meant to go back some time and see that Joe was alright. But I never did.