Young, wiry, boy comes through the doors of pub. They are frontandback, inandout, of living body, a place of home. In the corner comes coffee, hot, and thick, from a pulsing squat tomb of water and pipes, and jumps down the throat with scolding hotness. In the back room the boys have been staying up and playing pool, doing line after never ending line of coke. In toilets, off lapshades, snorted like some braying laughter between the leaves of books, and they are still awake even now, chemically numbed from sleep, and in some different world of sense, and yet attempt to cross into young, lean, Jim’s.
“An 'ave you to go now? That’s focking tight bruv” say they. Oh so sincere but really not feeling it at all. Not that at all, for they are jittery, their jaws aquiver while they say it. Only coffee for Jim, and a brief curt nod, and “hard night boys?” and then back out into the snow. And it is hard, oh so hard, sitting at that bench and his steed (hah! Steed!) next to him in the snow. Gloves with no finger-covers, with ends of digits emerging, like small alien nipples and that film with the three tits. Thoughts about whether that would really be erotic, and then ‘we have two hands though, so that’s enough,' and on to ponderous coldcold, seeping into fabrics overbottom, and in through shoes, and mittens. And the bike still rested there. Then the crackle of the radio, and up, swing leg over, click in place, grab the frozen bars and out into the traffic. Thru the haze of chill on eyes and tips of lips and fingers, emerge blinking, in the light, a cold coming. The faceless front of buildings, on into the bowels, to that desk where the young pretty faces of the company sit and guard the inner sanctum from the likes of us. And ‘no you want round the back’, said without a smile, or sincerity, or even sympathy. Out after this exchange, again into cold dank air, bike unlocked and pushed round back in haste to 'Goods Entrance,' more his type of people there, they were. And again the guard with the list to sign, the heavy package slung into a cavernous bag hoisted onto back and clip and peddle off.
Updownupdown went the legs of furious spindling, a joy to pump warm blood to surface, capture heat and make sweat to warm up gelid beings with bag on back. Through narrow streets, the men in suits muttering, as they nearly are collided with and all the while him thinking thoughts that are not thoughts really, more feelings. That the hands should go this way and the legs should pumppump and updownupdown, causing self to move through traffic at the pace that only he was capable. All this took place in time, and so the day was growing onward, and the destination hazy, unfixed in mind, yet the general scheme of things was represented to his being. Then, when approaching near the drop, out comes the trusty AZ and, thumbed in his hands, reveals its hard material secrets. Hop on again, and zingzing through the cavalcade that aims to kill and maim, and out the other side to streets which aren’t meant to be gone down that way. Then the policeman’s ‘oioioioioi’ which goes ignored, with no fear of reprisal because he is just too slow, and just too slow, even in a car he has no chance, and the odd policebikeman you get is just as bad, and easily avoided.
And then there. Scratched signatures, signaling both delivery and ownership, he pants and curses and stamps his feet to keep the blood flowing round as it should. He dwells, waiting for the next call. Oh-oh-oh and the cold seeps in from all sides as he tramps about and wonders whether to buy that food and drink, overpriced victuals from the heart of cursed London. Then, to occupy his thinking along comes thoughts of ‘vitals’ and whether they’re etymologically related to ‘victuals’ and so is spent for sometime minutes of passing timestuff on these thoughts. If now we look at where he’s gotten to it is slightly down the road, were people pass and fade into the darkened lights around. It is nearly 10 and only one drop (that’s £3.30 to him, and us) as the horror of realities grip him.
In search of a solid bench to relax, powderous snow living on them at this time of year but it is becoming melt. Halfway between the slush that it will be and the flaky goodness it so nearly is. Brushed away with palm of hand and collapse heavily with a heap of sadness and frustration, cool and firm dripping down the neck. Next to him sits another vessel of melancholy, moaning, smelling gently in the stiff swamping air. They politely moan and stamp their tired feet after nights of tramping, and are ignored. Out comes a book, and the paper, and it is read to take the mind from where it is again The inside of the lip is chewed, a small flake of scum bitten off and spat out. In the square, which is at the centre of the known universe for these two, there comes small groups of altered peoples, old peoples, homes away peoples, and two policemen (fear not, they are not those of before, and do not recognise our hero) who walk abroad, oblivious. The methman comes and natters to jim’s neighbour, his teeth have fallen out like targets at the fair under fire from some accomplished shot. He takes a swig and begins to talk about his ohsoholy shoe and book, his two vaguely Beckettian possessions. The noose hangs hard and cold around his neck, and within minutes will pull upward, yanking hard, cutting him in two, severing life from being. But all this while jim is in his book, or paper, and is smoking on a cigarette clamped firmly in his gob. And in his paper what things are going on? Oh who can tell, for why do they go on but to end up in his little head, to flit around till finding some resting place they curl up and fall asleep.
No comments:
Post a Comment