by Liam Livings
“Mother couldn’t bear living in Essex although it was easier for Dad’s work. She said she’d always been a Londoner and couldn’t believe how she’d allowed Father to persuade her to leave Chiswick after they’d married.”
—and I explained how rarely I saw Dad—
“He’s not much of a people person, really. Prefers things. Prefers working than leisure. Means he’s given me a good work ethic. At least your parents are both there for you.”
Paul debated this for a while, and we agreed his parents were physically there, but that brought its own challenges. We even talked about future, getting a bigger place, maybe a dog or cat, and whether we were interested in children. I said I’d got used to the fact that since I was gay, which I’d known from about thirteen, I wouldn’t have kids.
“I like ’em,” Paul said. “I think you’d make a good dad. I think together, we’d make good dads. Somehow.”
I shrugged at that because I couldn’t understand how on Earth that could be possible.
Paul replied, “You never know. If you want to, we’ll do it.” And it felt like anything was possible.
***
A while later, I had been telling Mum about Slinky Simon setting us up for a tryout slot at Manumission, the big club in Ibiza.
“What you still here for, then?” she asked.
“It’s flights, hotels, hire car when we get there. It’s all stuff we can’t afford. Not to mention getting a month off work.” We’d been saving but still didn’t have enough money because every month there was always something else needed paying for with the savings: electricity, council tax, water, gas. Living alone was proving dearer than we’d expected.
“A month? Bloody long set.”
“It’s a series of clubs he’s got tryout slots for. Different vibes. Different music. See which suits us best. Slinky Simon says it’s very important to find the best fit of club for our sound.”
“Does he now? Vibes, eh.” She paused. “Love, I’d help you if I could, but as you know, I’ve only just enough to keep this house running, never mind money for flights and hotels and God knows what else for you and Paul. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Besides, at the moment we’re saving up for a little car so we can get to play places outside London. Don’t need to always rely on lifts from Slinky Simon, Rob, and whoever else there is.”
“How exciting. I’m so proud of you, love.”
“It’s nothing, we’re just gonna get a beat-up Fiesta or something. Five hundred quid. Paul reckons we should get something bigger. That way, we can sleep in it if we need to, save on hotels.”
“Very sensible, is your Paul. Speaking of which, where is he tonight? How comes he’s not gracing us with his presence?”
“He’s had to stay behind at the shop. The manager wanted to talk to him about something. He didn’t say much when he called during the day. Sure it’s nothing.”
“Yeah, sure it will be.”
“Mum, it was like fucking Woodstock or something. There was ten thousand people dancing like their life depended on it, balancing on stilts, unicycles, inflatable whatevers, laser shows, an ice cream van. It’s totally mental. You’d fucking love it.”
“Woodstock… That’s quite something to live up to. Sounds lovely, but I’m not sure my knees would hold up to dancing all night, you know what I mean? Not at my age, love.”
“You could chill out. Sit and talk to strangers. Share in the collective emotion of the music.”
“Maybe, love, maybe. But for the moment, lay the table, will you? Your dad’s due back soon and I don’t want to miss Coronation Street.”
“I wrote the letter,” I offered optimistically. Finished it, actually.
“What letter?”
“Auntie Luella.” I was proud that I’d finally sat down to write the reply—three months after she’d written to me. l I told her what I was doing, my job, the DJing, the house in Catford with my friend, Paul… Auntie Luella wasn’t stupid and she knew, but she was twenty years older than Dad and from another generation, so she didn’t need me to spell it out to her. When I came out to everyone else, I’d kept it to a minimum with her. She had just nodded slowly the last summer I had visited her in Manhattan, mentioning the clubs and having fun with the boys but making sure I looked after myself.
***
When I’d re-read her letter, I was immediately transported back to her apartment in the Dakota building on the edge of Central Park, with its portered entrance, high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, endless lunches and shopping trips across Manhattan, the bar at the top of the Empire State Building where she’d bought me a cocktail even though I had been underage.
A wave of her hand, and a “He’s with me, darling,” to the barman, it was all so simple and such enormous fun, as always.
The last time I’d visited her, the summer I turned twenty, which was three years ago, we had walked across Brooklyn Bridge as the sun set, and we stood on the river front, looking back to the crowded, high Manhattan skyline. She’d pointed out the names of all the big buildings: the World Trade Centre towers, the Empire State Building, some of the towers in Wall Street.
“Why have you left Manhattan? Remind me,” I said.
“You’ve seen it, done it, know it. I wanted to show you some of the unseen New York—the bits the tourists don’t usually go to.” She paused, taking a map from her pocket. “I read an article in Vogue saying the only way to really live in a city like this, is to discover new things, every week, every day, every month. Or a part of you starts to die.”
“Well, if Vogue says it, then we must obey.”
“Quite.” She strode off purposefully, back towards the bridge, and led me into an Italian pizza restaurant under the arches.
The inside was a haphazard mess of tables squashed over two floors. The wood-fired oven behind the counter filled the entire place with a strong smell of fresh pizza dough being cooked, mixed with cheese, tomatoes and garlic. The waiters and waitresses rushed from the on-display open kitchen to tables and then back again, scribbling orders on their pads.
As we sat, the waiter handed us menus, and explained alcohol was off as they’d lost their liquor licence.
“Iced tea, please,” Luella said.
“Same.” I shrugged, and once the waiter had left, said, “When in Rome.”
“Eat lions? It’s quirky. The article said you can eat in high-class restaurants downtown and you might as well go to a high-class McDonalds. This—” she gestured round the restaurant “—this is the real New York.”
“Do you think you’ll ever come home?”
“Back to London? Oh no. This is home now. Although, even after twenty years, I’m still a strange old British lady. The porters all know me.”
“I think that’s kind of cool. I’d like to be known by the porters of my building, especially if it has…how many flats does it have?”
“Couple of hundred. Must do.”
The pizzas were enormous; loads of red tomato sauce and dripping with cheese, and they had a smoky, woody taste. We couldn’t finish them, so we took the leftovers back to Luella’s apartment.
We rowed on the lake in Central Park. Well, I rowed, and she pointed out the buildings along the edge, next to her Dakota Building.
As we ate cupcakes on a bench from a small independent bakery in the East Village, she said, “How are your parents? I must phone that brother of mine. He’s terrible on the phone, it’s like having a conversation with a stunned mullet. He’s all ‘yes, no, OK’, and that’s it. There’s no flow to the conversation, you see, not like with us. Or even with your mum. How is your mum?”
Although almost completely opposite in so many ways, Auntie Luella and Mum got on well. I suppose it was the fact that class, background, income and education all pale into nothing in comparison to enjoying a good drink and a chat; plus they had me in common.
I told her they were both well, and Luella suggested they come over next yea
r—all three of us, she was happy to pay. Her royalties from a Christmas song she’d written and sung, which had been number one in 1962—a one-hit wonder endlessly repeated every Christmas since—had effortlessly taken her from then till now, no further need to work.
I had talked to Mum and Dad about her offer to pay for their flights and understood the undeniable awkwardness such a generous gesture made them feel, but Luella would hear nothing of it. She didn’t see any difference between paying for my flight—her nephew and surrogate son, in lieu of her having any children—and extending the generosity to her brother and sister-in-law.
After a few more attempts at asking me to convince Mum and Dad to come with me next time, I changed the subject and said, “What’s this new club in SoHo you read about?”
“It’s all the rage. It’s wonderful. It sounds similar to Studio 54, but now.” She leant forward. “And it’s for your sort of people, of course.”
“Do you want to go?”
“Oh no, don’t be absurd. A woman in her sixties? I do have some dignity left. A little bit. Mind you, that would really get me known with the porters. No. You must go with my accountant. He is divine. Please promise me you’ll meet him and you’ll go to the club?”
I knew the chances of her letting this one go were slim to nothing, since she’d been mentioning it in letters earlier that year, and then almost nonstop since I’d arrived. She seemed hell-bent on setting me up with her accountant, Sam, who had just come out of a long-term relationship, and although he’d sworn off men and was throwing himself headlong into his accountancy work, Luella was convinced I was the man to end his swearing-off of men.
We had sat at opposite ends of Luella’s dining room table, sipping our Manhattan cocktails she’d made, while she tried to get the party going, talking about things we had in common—“Sam is an accountant. You are good with money, aren’t you, Tom?” and “Have you been to this club before? They have this sort of club in London don’t they, Tom?”
Once we were on the street, next to the crowds taking pictures of where Lennon had been shot, Sam said, “You don’t have to do this. I’m not gonna tell if you don’t.” He shrugged with an awkward smile.
“I’m flying home in a few days. I’ve not been to clubs here before.”
“Do we have to go to the one she suggested? I talked to some friends and they said it was, like, totally full of tourists, and bridge and tunnels.”
“Thanks. What’s a bridge and tunnel? I mean, I know what they are, but what do you mean?”
As we walked to the subway station, he explained it meant the people who came to Manhattan at the weekend, all through bridges and tunnels, so they were out-of-towners, almost as bad as a place full of tourists.
As we sat on the subway train, a large American flag lit on its side, I said, “So where do you suggest? Oh, and you know I’m underage, don’t you?”
“Where I’m thinking, you won’t need ID. You won’t need alcohol.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
Tonight’s suddenly looking up.
We swept into the club through a metal door in the side of a white brick building somewhere off Broadway below Houston, whatever that meant.
Sam said, “You check our coats in the coat check, I’ll meet you by the bar. Water?”
A short while later, I met him at the bar, where he handed me a bottle of water and two white pills.
“Did you get them with the water?”
“I know the guy who serves up in this place. That’s why we’re here. And the music’s fucking ace.” He winked, and in one smooth movement necked two pills and took a swig of his water, winking again as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Double-dropping?” I shouted into his ear above the music.
“Always do.” He pointed to the dance floor. “Coming?”
I followed him, taking his hand once I’d double-dropped too.
As expected, it hit me like a train. My lips tingled, my stomach curled itself into a ball, and I was hit by a sickness which made me rush to the toilet a few times, convinced I was going to throw up, but I didn’t. I held on to the metal sink, staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes were enormous, my breathing fast, and my heart beat as if I had been running. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.
A hand grabbed my arm.
It was Sam. “How you doing there?”
“I’m a bit fucked, to be honest. Actually, I’m very fucked. Just about keeping it together.”
“All right, you can’t look too fucked up or they’ll throw you out. Sit in the john, close the door, and do some breathing to concentrate. Don’t resist it, just let it…” He paused as he took a breath, then started chewing quickly. “Want some gum?”
I nodded.
“What was I saying?”
“Don’t fight it…”
“Don’t fight it, just go with it, feel the waves as you’re coming up, then you’ll be sweet.”
I took the gum, then went to the nearest open cubicle and followed his instructions. This double-dropping was not for the faint-hearted.
Fuck me if we didn’t end up lying on the coffee tables in the chill-out lounge, kissing each other as everyone else around us nonchalantly sipped their drinks, took more drugs and smoked cigarettes. I don’t know why I started kissing him, and later Sam told me he didn’t have a clue why he’d started kissing me either. But at the time, I needed something to hold on to, to ground me, to stop me floating away with the clouds, so once we’d taken our position on the tables, I leant forward and kissed him.
Afterwards, we laughed, danced and moved between the three different dance areas playing different music. I wanted to stay in the trance room, but Sam preferred the house room. We developed quite a routine where we’d follow each other onto the desired dance floor, then, after a while, one of us would shake our head, point, and we’d swap to the other room. It was brilliant. I know it doesn’t sound so marvellous now I’m telling you, but at the time, it was perfectly brilliant, for no apparent reason.
We left the club as it closed, greeted by the morning sun and the sound of New York starting for another day. Sam high-fived me as we leant against a phone box. “Not bad for a crappy night, huh?”
“Not bad at all. We should do this again, next time I’m over. If you ever come to London, you should see me.”
“Definitely. You all right getting back to Luella’s?”
I pointed in the direction I thought was the nearest subway station. “Downtown!”
He hailed a cab, opened the door and said, “Get a cab. I’m not having you ending up lost in Queens ’cause you caught the wrong train.”
“Queens.” I laughed to myself.
“Just get in.” He hugged me, kissing my cheek.
I got in the cab, told him the address, and we were gone.
***
“Sent the letter, did you?” Mum asked, obviously familiar with my trick of starting something and not finishing it.
“Stamped, posted, gone,” I replied.
Nodding, Mum said—again, “Lay the table, will you, love?”
I did as asked, or started to. There was a knock at the front door. “Shall I get that?”
“Bloody cheek, who’s that at this time? Bet it’s those door-to-door pains in the wotsits.” With a clatter, she threw down the serving spoon and ran to answer the door. A short while later, she shouted me to come through.
As I entered the hallway, I saw Paul standing, panting, red-faced and looking pretty sweaty. “What you doing here?”
“Finished early. Wanted to see you.” He stared at me as Mum left to continue dishing up. “I missed you. Stupid, eh?”
It wasn’t stupid. It was adorable. “Since this morning?”
He nodded, hugged me, pulled me tightly to him, and rested his chin on top of my head. One of the best things about him being taller than me was being able to rest my head on his chest and listen to his heart beating.
“’S all right, me cras
hing in, isn’t it?” He kissed my forehead.
I took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen where Mum had finished laying the table. “He’s asking if it’s all right if he crashes in.” I rolled my eyes.
Mum sighed. “I didn’t receive your reservation. I mean, we’re very particular about who we accept in this establishment. Let me see, are your intentions honourable with my son?”
Paul held up his hands in surrender. “I can’t promise that, I’m afraid.”
Gesturing to the chairs, Mum said, “Sit. Eat. I’ve not seen you in a while. Tom was telling me about this Ibiza club tryout stuff. How’s it going?”
We talked about how we’d been saving and how the savings were less than what we thought we needed. All the while, he held my hand under the table. I rested the other one next to our glasses, we sat in silence and he rubbed his thigh against mine.
CHAPTER 10
WITH OUR BEATEN-UP Ford Escort estate, we travelled round the clubs outside London, mainly the Southeast, not too far, not too much petrol money taken away from our fee for the night. We slept in the back of the Escort, seats folded down, sleeping bags, pillows and the box of records on the front passenger seat. Word got round about the orbital party we’d done; flyers changed hands between Slinky Simon and other similar Slinky Simons from Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire, Essex and Surrey, and soon we were turning places down. Paul would ask what they were paying, if we could have a higher billing on the next load of flyers if we came back, and whether they had any other venues we could play in.
We were flying, really flying, our clubbing wings spreading a little bit more as each week passed.
Of course, it wasn’t all WICKED. We were both suffering from what we and our weekender friends called ‘in the week-ness’. This was a deliberate play on words, as we often found in the week we felt so weak and just about able to cope with the ‘activities of daily living’, as a clubbing friend who was also a carer described them.
“They’re the things you do every day—dressing, feeding, grooming. Basics like that. When you get old, it’s harder to do those, that’s why people have carers,” he’d explained, between chew-chew-chews of his Juicy Fruit in the early hours of the morning in a field somewhere.
