Blue Movie

David Walton Smith

I moved back to Scotland in the summer of 2002. 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 father figure 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 faculties 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 at me for enabling him than at my uncle for getting absolutely blootered.

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 when they first meet?

Rich was, as we say in Scotland, a whinger–a complainer, a wet blanket.

“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 my body language showed my disdain for this guy Rich. Now, I know you must be thinking that I’m a heartless bastard. After all, this poor fella is lonely because he lost his wife. But no, there’s no alternate timeline where Rich wouldn’t be miserable. 

Had I met him while his wife was alive, it would’ve been, “My cat’s got leukemia,” or “I just got the sack,” or “I’m a Hamilton Accies fan.” Only Scottish folk will get that last reference. 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 downpour.

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

Blue movies? What the fuck 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 my food, put off by the stench of cigarettes and mothballs that permeated the wallpaper in the room. Rich turned on the T.V.—an old tube one that sounded like a mini-explosion when it was 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. As if he’d just been awoken by smelling salts, Rich sprung to life, jumping to his feet and singing along with the TV. Caught up by the sudden burst of euphoria, I sang along for a few bars, which stopped Rich in his tracks. 

“You like Dire Straits, Davy!?”

“Aye, they’re no bad, I suppose.”

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

“Rich! Get the fuckin’ video on!” Ian tried to blurt out with his mouth full 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.

Ian was now on his knees trying to figure out the VCR on his own. “How’d you work this effin’ machine, Rich!?”

Rich had darted back into the other room, leaving me cradling a stack of records. “You have to hear this one, Davy!”

Then applause and whistles from a live concert slowly rose in volume, overpowering the music coming from the television. Rich stood in the doorway, his eyes closed, his head raised, and his hips swaying. “Now this! This was 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, I considered, until I realized that my Uncle Ian had figured out the VCR and now the T.V. was displaying more bush than the Australian Outback.

And that’s when it dawned on me. Oh! That’s what blue movies are!

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

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