Dave Davidson

A short story about a young lad trying to get his hole, and a lie too big to hide in Wexford Town.

 Fuck. Fuck, fucking fuck it. A deluge of fucks filled Dave’s head as he watched Rebecca in the distance, sauntering down the footpath in his direction. This is a disaster, it’s bad enough she’ll see me out and about with my ma, I mean what sort of a loser spends his Saturday in town with his ma at nearly 17 years of age. I could handle that though, just own it like, she might even find it endearing….but what if she stops to say hello? And I with my ma, I won’t be able to do the stutter, and I won’t be able to talk without a stutter either. Oh fuck. Maybe if I just keep walking and just smile, a “hi” and a wave, but don’t stop, just keep walking. Oh, this could get very fuckin’ awkward.
Rebecca hadn’t spotted Dave ahead of her yet. He resolved to bolt through the next door that his panicked steps brought him to.

He bowled in off the street, over-estimating the weight of the aged wooden door in his haste and nearly knocking the dainty dangling bell that announced his entrance off its arm. The clatter and ding resonated through the sudden hush as those within turned to gape at the bluster. To be Dave right now is to know how a stranger must feel walking into a quiet village pub under the scrutiny of a couple of perplexed, porter-supping bar-stool jockeys who’ve not seen a foreign face for eons. “Sorry”, Dave said sheepishly, “I thought the door was heavier”. His sentence was punctuated by another, albeit far gentler ding of the dangling bell as his mother arrived in behind him. “David, why are you in an optician’s?” she asked, confused. “Eh, I want to have a look for new sunglasses”, improvised Dave as he turned his attention to the shop assistant. “Do you have sunglasses?”, he queried, as the surrounding shoppers resumed surveying spectacles.
 

Drastic as it may seem, Dave’s avoiding of Rebecca was entirely necessary. Dave, as he prefers to be called, is the fifth David Davidson in his family’s lineage; four generations of Davidson men before him having had to suffer what he considered the most unimaginative naming of a new-born son. Six days ago, Dave vowed to be the last, that if ever he should spawn a male heir, he will name them anything other than David Davidson.
It was a week and a day ago that Dave woke up for the first time in his new family-house. He refers to it as a house, not home. For Dave, home is the house in Nenagh he grew up in for 16 years more than a hundred miles from Foley’s Optician in Wexford town where he was now hiding from a pretty girl named Rebecca. He wished he resented his father for taking a new position as Executive VP in a leading med-tech company in Wexford, uprooting him from his friends, school, and club hurling; but the truth is he hadn’t got any friends, was a mere average scholar and an even less-impressive hurler. He’s a quiet chap, not shy necessarily but certainly an introvert; socially awkward and tending not to vocalise his thoughts often, despite an internal monologue that rarely ceases verbalising his self-doubt. He saw this, though, as an opportunity to be a new Dave, a new face in a new town. He’d imagined starting in a new school, making real friends for life and not having to pretend to like hurling. Maybe he’d even get his first shift, get a girlfriend and nevermore have to listen enviously to lads on Mondays talking about getting their hole all weekend. These weren’t lofty ambitions either, Wexford town is nearly three times the population of Nenagh, that ought to mean thrice as many girls, and sure there’d be as many lads but he fancied his odds as a new fella on the scene. Plus, he wasn’t bad looking, especially from a distance and at a certain angle in a certain light. Also, he’d feigned enough anxiety about the move over recent weeks to guilt his parents into committing to buying him a car when he turns 17 in two months – seriously increasing the rideability-factor of Dave 2.0; but his name had already fucked those aspirations up for him.
 
It was just his second day as a Wexford resident when Dave’s designs on his future-self began to unravel. “David, run in there and collect your dad’s Metformin prescription like a good lad please” instructed Dave’s mother as she pulled the car up outside of Grant’s Pharmacy. “His what?” asked Dave, angsty. “His diabetes medication”, she replied, “it’s grand, he rang ahead, they know it’s being collected”. With an exhale that made his lips flap like a horse distressed, Dave got out. Entering the pharmacy, his attention was immediately drawn to a girl sitting on the brown leather-clad bench near the counter, with a young boy about a little more than half her age kicking his legs in boredom as if  wanting to get higher on a playground swing.
She had jet black hair which stopped short of her pale collarbones peeking out from a wide-necked black t-shirt, a perfect Mia Wallace fringe and Kate Bush’s nose. A horse-shoe-shaped silver barbell hanging from her septum bounced delicately on her philtrum, the delightful indentation tracing its way to her ruby red top lip as she chewed gum with attitude, like Alex Ferguson but way sexier and less frantic. She chewed in perfect sync with the gentle swing of her right leg draped across her left knee, like a phantom physician with a little phantom hammer was testing her reflexes to the beat of Daft Punk’s Technologic as she scrolled on her phone.
When she glanced up at Dave, looking out with hazel green eyes from beneath smoky, sultry lashings of mascara, he was hooked, snared, captivated, and enamoured by her beauty. Her shiny burgundy leather Doc Marten 8-eye boot didn’t miss a beat as they locked eyes for the briefest of seconds while Dave passed her. She was so cool. Dave’s palms were clammy, and he felt his cheeks and forehead flushing red as a warmth in his chest and a knot in his stomach wrestled each other. He waited at the counter, doing his best to make his arse look firm.  

“Ya okay, love?” asked the lady behind the counter. “I’m Dave, David Davidson’s son…”, responded Dave. His sentence was interrupted by an audible snigger from the boy on the imaginary swing. This stopped the burgundy boot tapping the air, the phantom physician dropping his little phantom hammer as the girl whipped a swift left back-hand slap across the lad’s right arm, halting his tittering.
“Ah yes, your prescription” interjected the pharmacist. “Prescription for David Davidson” she called to a colleague who scanned a label on a white paper bag and handed it to Dave. He turned to leave, both wanting and dreading to lock eyes with the girl again, but there was no heart-flutter-inducing glimpse of her hazel green eyes this time. Instead, she kept her gaze set on her phone, though the scurrying pace of her scrolling thumb told Dave she wasn’t looking at anything in particular, she was just avoiding looking up at him. The young lad was looking at him alright, with the kind of curiosity he’d seen on his terrier’s face when encountering her first hedgehog in the garden in Nenagh.

Dave lay in bed replaying the pharmacy chapter of his day over and over in his mind. He couldn’t make sense of it, the snigger and the slap. Nor could he stop thinking about the girl in the burgundy boots. He was fascinated, though his internal monologue reminded him not to be so foolish - Shur, she probably has a boyfriend, or girlfriend, or both, probably with tattoos and perfectly sculpted bodies. What the fuck would she be wanting with me?…some eejit thinking I’d have a chance of even licking the dirt off her burgundy boots, let alone getting off with her. The faint neon blue from his digital alarm clock colouring his bedroom ceiling gave way to the peachy pink of the rising 5 A.M. sun. His first day in a new school was still four hours away, and Dave already felt deflated and defeated.
 
Dave stood awkwardly in the corridor, annoyed that his school uniform pants were a fraction too short for his 34-inch legs, revealing too much of his socks. He countered it with a slight droop and lean, trying to add length to the navy polyester as fellow students meandered their way around him backed by a cacophony of metal locker-doors clanging among choruses of gossip. Starting in a new school mid-term meant the novelty was Dave’s only – there was no ‘back to school’ buzz about the place. For his fellow students it was just another dreary March Monday morning and, as he waited in the corridor for the school principal, Dave went largely unnoticed as he pretended to write messages on his phone.

“David?”, he heard in an approaching voice.  He looked up to see burgundy boots girl before him. She was radiant and ravishing, her irises captivating hazel-green halos in bright white. One purple strap of her school bag hanging on her right shoulder, her crisp white shirt defiantly unbuttoned the whole way down the V-neck window of her navy jumper - which was against school uniform policy as set-out by the school handbook Dave had dutifully studied. Her trousers, as opposed to the skirt the majority of her female peers wore - albeit, in most cases, several inches too high above the knee, as per the handbook - were fashionably rolled to just above the cuff of her turquoise socks, showing a little skin and preventing her legs looking stumpy in her burgundy Doc Martens. He suddenly experienced that pang of warmth in his chest and a knot in his stomach getting rowdy. It felt like his brain was beginning to sweat as he stared in disbelief for what, up until then, might have been the most awkward five seconds of his life.  

“Hey, I saw ya in the chemist’s yesterday” she said, her voice sweet and warm and lyrical, even lovelier than Dave had imagined – she makes regular words sound like they’re glazed in honey, he thought to himself, she could say ‘testicular cancer’ and it would sound appealing. “I just wanted to say sorry about my little brother” she continued, “he’s only 10 but he shouldn’t have laughed at your stammer...stutter…like that”. With that the school bell bonged and students began pouring into classrooms under the beckoning of teachers’ calls. Burgundy-boots-girl took Dave’s phone and quickly tapped with her thumbs before putting it back in his hands, he still not having said a single word. “I’ve to go”, she said, folding her left arm through the vacant strap of her schoolbag before giving him an unexpected hug. Her hair smelled like vanilla pods and warm cookies. “That’s my number. See you later”.   

Dave stood bemused. She goes to the same school, fucking nice one, he thought, but what was she on about, my stutter? What does that mean? Dave replayed the two minutes spent in Grant’s Pharmacy in his addled mind, searching for an explanation - I don’t have a stutter, why does she think I have a stutter? What did I even say? Shur, the only words I uttered were to yer wan behind the counter…. I’m Dave, David Davidson’s son. The penny dropped. Aw for fuck’s sake, he cried internally, giving himself a forehead slap, the force of which he surprised himself with. He looked at his phone. The name Rebecca headed her number. “Rebecca” he said, forgetting his woes for a moment as he hit save. “David Davidson” called the principal appearing from her office with a face full of smile. “It’s Dave” he replied, dejected.
 
The day was a lonely one for Dave, he remained quiet and unapproached. His first few classes were occupied by an incessant internal stammer “Dav…David…Davidsss..sson… son….D..Da…Da…Da…D..ya fuckin’ thick. He spent the first fifteen minutes of Geography class carefully crafting a message to Rebecca, explaining the misunderstanding - that he, in fact, is his father’s son and doesn’t have a speech impediment - but this was thwarted when Mister Hegarty, spouting on about bog bursts, nimbly picked the phone out of Dave’s desperate fingertips. “Welcome, mister Davidson, you’ll soon learn the policies of our fine school include no phones outside of lunch hour. You can collect this from the principal’s office at the end of the day”. Dave knew the policy - he’d studied the handbook.
 
Plodding unenthusiastically through the corridor towards the principal’s office to retrieve his phone, his ears detected the singing-bird voice of Rebecca chatting with another girl by the main entrance. “Hey David” she called, “c’mere”. The familiar warm flush and the nauseating knot came upon him as he was lured to her, like a sailor to a singing siren. “This is David” she said, introducing him to her friend, “the finer I was telling you about”. Dave’s heart fluttered – she just call me a finer?!            “Hi, I’m Fiona, nice to meet ya David”. “Eh, it’s Dave…” he blurted. “Dave. No worries” responded Fiona, “and here, look, most of the heads in this school can be fuckin’ arseholes, so don’t be minding them if they’re making fun of ya or slagging yer speech, okay?”. “Yeah” added Rebecca, as she took Dave’s hand in hers, “don’t be minding any of them, we’re your mates now, right”. Dave was dumbfounded, Rebecca was holding his clammy hand in her soft, cool palm. The knot in his stomach made its way to his throat, almost choking him. A beep beep from outside the entrance interrupted the moment. “Yer mam, c’mon” said Fiona, “see ya tomorrow, Dave” she added as she held the door for Rebecca who leaned forward and gave Dave a delicate peck on his left cheek. “see you tomorrow, Dave” she said in her smooth honey brogue. He could hear her smiling as she bounced out the door.
 
Dave lay in his bed. His thoughts were completely occupied by Rebecca. Her holding his hand, the kiss on his cheek, the hug, her boots, her eyes, and her soothing voice calling him a finer. He wanted to finish the text and send it to her, but his internal voice was venomous – the only reason she’s talking to ya at all, lad, is cos she’s sooo alt, and sooo woke and progressive, having a mate with a stutter who everyone else laughs at, aw she must be so sound like, yer a novelty for her persona! Or worse, it’s pity-soundness. Dave tried to banish these thoughts, his thumb hovering over the send button - perhaps we’ll laugh about it and she might even still think I’m a finer. Unlikely, but at least we might still be friends and I can win her over to being my girlfriend – who ya kidding? friend-zoned is probably even too high to be aiming, man. Wrestling with his conscience, he weighed up the pros and cons of the situation; he’d never held a girl’s hand that wasn’t related to his hands before, nor even been hugged by a girl that wasn’t his ma or aunty until this morning, let alone gotten a kiss on the cheek, and he’d ticked those three boxes in just his first day in a new school, all because of a mistaken stutter - at this rate I could be shifting and squeezing tit in a fortnight, he thought. He felt a great shame wash over him as he stared longingly at her enchanting hazel green eyes in her Whatsapp profile picture and decided to continue the charade.
 

Now he stood hiding from Rebecca, holding a pair of shades he had no interest in buying, watching the street through the window in the mirror in front of him, waiting for Rebecca’s black hair to bounce by. He quickly realised that, despite being three times the size of Nenagh, Wexford town wasn’t large enough to hide a lie as big as his. He’d have to end it, one way or another. The last six days faking a stammer in school had been the lowest he’d ever sank, but it was too late now. There’d been flirting, passing hands on shoulders, arms grazing knowingly, glances and smiles in crowded corridors and through classroom doors. There’s no way I could come clean now after so many days. Revealing the misunderstanding on the first day, maybe even the second, would have resigned it to a funny story, but now the truth would just be absurd, I’d be branded a proper freak. Rebecca will fucking hate my guts, not a chance she’ll get with me then. He tried on a pair of shades to humour the assistant and, as the world took on a darkened, near colourless hue, he saw Rebecca pass by. The coast was clear. “Yeah, I’ll take these ones, so” he said, his tone as dull as his view.
 
Dave spent the rest of the day planning an exit strategy from his lie. He began by re-watching The King’s Speech. He’d seen it years ago, and he’d even imagined himself as Colin Firth at times during the previous six days acting like he had a mild stammer. When Geoffrey Rush has Firth listen to music as a potential means of managing his stutter, Dave had his Eureka moment. Music could be the perfect ruse - no need for speech therapists. He googled excitedly, looking for evidence that would add credibility to his plan. He found plenty; several instances of Idol and X-factor contestants who struggled to introduce themselves and then blew the audience away with perfect fluidity in song, an Australian study that saw a 90% reduction in stuttering following just ten minutes of singing, and the remarkable case of Musharraf, a student featured on an episode of Channel Four’s Educating Yorkshire who overcame his stammer, a much more severe case than that which Dave was faking, by listening to music. His research concluded that an increase in phonation duration, rhythm, and the guidance of music improved fluency and flow remarkably in many cases; his would be another such case.
He mapped out a timeline for his near-miraculous cure for stammering. It would need to be gradual enough to be believable, but quick enough to get it over and done with and quickly forgotten. He reasoned that three and a half to four weeks was sufficient.

Phase 1 – Text Rebecca. Tell her you’ve tried ‘Melodic Intonation Therapy’ and are impressed with     early indications. Ask her to help you over the coming weeks.
Phase 2 – Spend 3 weeks listening to music, singing, and notably improving speech day-to-day to the point where stammer is practically eliminated, requiring only a few minutes of listening to music per day.
Phase 3 – Finality. Get the word out to the school population that you no longer stammer. Perhaps by contributing more in classroom setting, demonstrating fluency. Or utilising student gossip channels. TBD.
 
The next three weeks of Dave’s deceitful roadmap were executed beautifully. He’d had Rebecca in his bedroom every day after school, listening to music from her collection and singing along together. Nine Inch Nails, Nick Cave, Patti Smith, Talking Heads, Presidents of the United States of America, and even the Spice Girls and Aqua featured on the soundtrack to their burgeoning romance. After each session, Dave’s stammer would miraculously cease, at first for a few minutes and, day by day, a few minutes more. His remarkable progress in his speech was paralleled with similar progress in his intentions with Rebecca too. From hugs and pecks on the cheeks, to full- on make-out sessions. By the third week Dave was speaking fluently, mostly, for the entire school day and enjoying after-school dry-ridin’ with Rebecca.

The weeks had their down-sides too, though. The intense guilt and shame he was feeling manifested itself in bouts of tears and panic some nights, and the hours spent in school were heavily peppered with jibes and cruel words from a small cohort of bullies. It didn’t help that he had no interest in hurling, or that he’d aligned himself with the misfits of the school in Rebecca and her small circle of friends, but they were the cushion softening his otherwise hard days now. He comforted himself with the knowledge that soon his self-inflicted hardship would be over and done with - soon he would be stutter free, have a girlfriend and a car, the Leaving Cert would come and go and he’ll be off to college after the Summer, ready to start a new life as new Dave again - Dave 3.0.

Though not usually one for raising his hand, his progress in achieving near-perfect fluency in his speech didn’t go unnoticed by teachers and classmates as he contributed more in the classroom – all part of his masterplan, but he needed something a little grander than a few sentences in classrooms to finalise the last phase, to keep his stammer in the past and leave no doubt that he’s no longer Dave, the stuttering fella, but just Dave; and the optimal opportunity presented itself on the Tuesday morning of week 4, the final week of his plan.

“Dave, I must say I am so impressed with you”, gushed the school principal as she welcomed him into her office. “Your progress has been absolutely remarkable, and all of your own doing too. To take such initiative is truly inspirational. Your focus and determination are something to be applauded”. Dave squirmed a little in the chair as the principal beamed her face full of smile across her desk at him. “Now, I know you’ve had it tough in your short time here with bullies too”, she continued, “it was Rebecca who informed me. She’s a good friend, Dave, so don’t be annoyed with her for telling me. We were just chatting, and she told me all about your melody therapy…”, “Melodic Intonation Therapy”, interjected Dave, fidgeting with the end of his sleeve nervously. “Yes, Intonation Therapy”, continued the smiling principal, “and she mentioned that you’d been subjected to quiet a lot of bullying from a few people. She didn’t give me any names, and I’m not asking you to tell me if you don’t want to, Dave, but I want you to know that you can and that I’m here to help.”
Dave shuffled nervously in the chair, pulling on his sleeves more. “That’s okay. Thank you”, he replied, “besides, I’ve pretty much overcome the stammer now, so I reckon they’ll stop giving me a hard time soon, when they get bored. I mean, be a nonsense taunt anyway, mimicking a stutter at someone who doesn’t stutter”. The irony of his sentence was not lost on him. “Very well”, replied the principal, “but there is one thing I’d like you to consider, Dave. It just so happens to be anti-bullying week, you might have seen the posters in the hall - well, on Friday we’re having a couple of guest speakers to address the school about the impact of bullying and I think you should speak, Dave. I think you should stand up tall before your bullies and talk them down, in your new voice. I think you’re a remarkable example of overcoming adversity compounded by bullying, and you could be a real inspiration for other students having a hard time. What do you think?”

Dave thought for a moment. This wasn’t something he’d normally ever consider, speaking in front of a crowd like that, but it was the ideal grand finale - this is the perfect opportunity to tell everyone I’m normal now. Then that’ll be it. It’ll be done. Finished. He didn’t need to think much more about it. “Yes, I’ll do it, Miss, I’ll do it!”.
 
Dave spent the next two days crafting his speech, a powerful message deriding bullies and giving hope to those suffering, but most importantly it would be a demonstration of his now flawless-speaking abilities. Friday morning, before school, Dave practiced his speech before an imaginary congregation of students in his mirror. He could see his bullies, embarrassed and ashamed, Rebecca staring lovingly up at him, and his new small circle of friends with proud tears welling in their eyes.

“The expression ‘fight fire with fire’ has a long and enduring legacy. I looked it up. It means to use the weapons or tactics of one's enemy or opponent, even if one finds them distasteful. While I respect the sentiment of the idiom, that last part I have trouble with - even if you find them distasteful. I don’t want to lower myself to the level of my oppressors, adopt their tactics – and why should I? Why should you? I had to learn how to use my fire with dignity, staying true to my values while still fighting the fire of my bullies – and you will too.
The way I see it, fire is flame and fuel. The flame, well, it burns. What is important here is the fuel of that flame. The fuel that gives the fire of the bully its ferocity is distasteful. And It isn’t even their own. It’s the fuel harvested and mined and tapped from your innermost insecurities, your vulnerabilities, your fears, your troubles and the things you like least about yourself. Sometimes it’s an obvious source, easy to pinpoint, like my stuttering, and sometimes it’s less apparent – nevertheless, they test and prod, and poke and drill until they find the well - and they drain it. Using it to burn you down.
But I tell you this, fellow students, fire must indeed be fought with fire, though not with distasteful fuel. No, rather you must realise that their fire is only as strong as yours is weak. Find the fuel that burns fiercest within you, but your fire must use the right fuel, it must burn from those ever-renewable resources of hope, determination, ambition, love, and understanding. The hope that you will overcome, and the ambition and determination to do so, as I have done. The love and understanding to embrace and forgive your bullies, as I do, for they are to be pitied; the spark that lit their fire in the first place must surely have been a most unpleasant one. And, with time, they’ll grow weary trying to sustain a flame on such distasteful fuel that will eventually run low and run out.
And for those of you whose fire is losing the fight against that of a bully today, don’t give up. Remember my story – I found my fuel, the right fuel within me, I have found my voice and it allows me to share my message of hope with you today. The dying embers of your ambitions, with the right fuel, will burn full flamed once more. And where the fires of others have wreaked ugly havoc against you, worry not, for scorched ground will grow green grass again.
Thank you for listening to my words”.

Dave felt like Barack O’ Bama’s and Michel Collins’ love child as the audience in the mirror stood in rapturous applause. They’d march behind him wherever he wanted to lead them. The whoops and whistles, cries and claps quickly subsided and the crowd disappeared as Dave remembered he was indeed the biggest fraud in the history of the school, an imposter about to deliver a speech which amounted to nothing less than four hundred and fifty-six words of bullshit. He hung his head, unwilling to look his reflection in the eye. At least this would be the end of it, the last day of living the lie.
 
The school hall was packed with rows of students, delighted to be doing anything other than being in class, and over-seeing teachers equally happy to be on the doss. Dave stood with the principal at the side of the stage while guest speakers delivered their respective pieces - a lecturer at NUIG who arrived to Ireland from Sudan as a young girl in the 1990s fleeing civil war, a human rights activist who works with Amnesty International, and a born-again-Christian former bully who’d learned the error of his ways. It was Dave’s turn to speak. The principal approached the mic to thank the guest speakers for their time before introducing Dave. As she did, he felt a tap on his shoulder. “David. Hello. I’m Emma O’ Kelly, RTE news. My colleague, Eamon setting up the camera there, and I would love to interview you after your speech. We heard all about you. Will you come over to us when you’re done please, yeah?”. Dave’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach before rapidly thumping its way back into position.  “Please welcome Dave Davidson” the principal announced brightly in the PA system, her arms extended outward welcoming him to the stage as the audience applauded. Time slowed to a near standstill as Dave tentatively and reluctantly took seven dread-filled steps to the podium, his internal voice screaming an individual “FUCK” with each of them. What the fuck am I to do, now? the fucking news! Oh, fuck no! The hall fell almost silent as Dave sweltered, enduring flushes of agonising heat swiftly followed by stone cold sweat as he scanned the room – Rebecca smiling sweetly, bullies laughing silently, Emma O’ Kelly scribbling notes, and the imposing presence of the national broadcaster’s camera. A croak followed by a short, distorted squeal briefly filled the room as the principal adjusted the microphone down to his mouth.

A deluge of fucks filled Dave’s head before his internal voice quickly outlined the options - follow through with this and be exposed on national TV as a fraud when your family and everyone who knew ya in Nenagh sees it, come clean right now and reveal the whole thing was a massive lie, make it a non-story and deliver the speech with a stutter so it won’t be news-worthy, feign stage-fright and leg it off the stage right now, or faint. You’re on your own from here, kid. 

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