by Ned Williams
“It’d be good meeting a friend of yours. It’ll be better than them fucks in Adam’s dump.”
The time of the meeting was such that Mickey was unable to change out of his work clothes. Apart from his graceful walk which belied his attire, he looked like a bit of rough trade.
As soon as she saw him, Sheba made it plain that she was totally unimpressed. She was used to people who were open and upfront. Mickey was a completely different kettle of fish. He was far too unforthcoming with information about himself, indeed with anything, for her taste. The subsequent evening was decidedly strained.
After Mickey had left, Sheba merely hinted at her feelings towards him.
“He looks a lot better out of his overalls.” I defended.
“I’ll bet he does.”
Later, when we met up with Paul in a club, Sheba mentioned to him that she had just met Mickey.
“Oh, him! He’s too creepy for words.”
“And dumb,” she added.
“For the amount of chat he gives, he might just as well be,” Paul scoffed.
“Now, hang on a minute,” I said, trying to put a halt to where the conversation was heading.
“And never call me Michael. It’s Mickey or nothing.” Sheba was mocking Mickey’s voice and accent. “Christ, how old is he?”
“Mickey fuckin’ Mouse, more like. It suits him.”
“Attractive, though,” Sheba conceded.
“He’s good looking, yes, but dead from the neck up. I keep wanting to poke him with a stick to see if he’ll move or speak or – well, anything, really.”
“I think you’d need a pneumatic drill.”
“And dim!”
This was too much for me and I struggled to defend him. As their accusations had some basis in fact, it was an uphill task – but I did my best.
“When you get to know him, he’s quite sweet and, yes, chatty.”
“Get to know him?” smirked Paul.
“Sweet? Chatty? Pff!” added Sheba.
“You should give him a chance.”
“Can’t be bothered.” With this swipe from Paul they dropped the subject – for a while. After a few drinks more they returned to their bitching. Soon, their acid tipped barbs grew ever more cruel as they fed off one another in an effort to outdo each other. On the fourth return to their malicious Mickey bashing, I made an obviously pathetic excuse and went over to join a couple of friends who were at the bar. As I looked back I saw that Sheba and Paul had moved closer together and were obviously tearing Mickey’s character into shreds.
Later in the evening, after Paul had left, Sheba pointed out that, in her opinion, there was something more in Mickey’s desire to be my friend. She, half jokingly, told me that she thought Mickey was besotted.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just friends. Close friends, yes – but just friends. Anyway, I’m sure he’s seeing others.”
“You might think so but at the coffee bar I watched him lusting after you. I tell you, he’s got it bad.”
I assumed that she was trying to get back into my good books after witnessing her and Paul’s vicious attack on the hapless Mickey. Although she persisted in her observation, I laughed it off as, to be frank, I simply didn’t believe her.
True, Mickey and I had been together – once. It was not long after we first met at Adam’s. I had gone to the toilet and he followed. Because Adam’s unwritten rules stated that there was to be no sex at his evenings, it was all very rushed and I thought no more about it.
The next time I saw Mickey at Adam’s; it turned out to be another life defining moment for me. He actually had the temerity to scold me by informing me that he didn’t like my friends and what I was doing and the way that I was obviously going with so many people. He softened this blow a little by making this criticism under the guise of being concerned for my welfare. Naturally, I resented this interference and I told him so bluntly. To my surprise, he looked as if I’d attacked him with a sledge hammer. I was reminded, vividly, of my deaf friend, Joey and the trauma I had caused him. Was their some truth in Sheba’s glib comment?
Unthinkingly, I told him mind his own business and to get out and find someone.
“Enjoy yourself. We’re only young once so now is the time to store memories for our dotage.”
“Our what?”
“Dotage – old age.”
“Not interested. I ain’t goin’ to peddle my ass around all the time like a whore – and nor should you.”
“Mickey, forgive me but what I do is none of your business.” Was that another whack from my verbal sledge hammer I saw on his face? “Go out and get yourself laid. Slag it around a bit – it will do you good.”
After this somewhat embarrassing conversation, Mickey stopped attending Adam’s so, arrogantly, I assumed he’d followed my advice and was sowing his sexual oats with, literally, gay abandon. His absence caused very little comment from the rest but I overheard a few remarks which were extremely unflattering to Mickey’s character.
After a final and triumphant flourish of insults, Sheba and Paul ceased their sniping and to be frank, after our minor contretemps I was put off Mickey a little. I soon dismissed him from my thoughts and life and enjoyed the various distractions that the world still offered.
Catch Up
From all this social activity which had impressed itself on my free time, it might be assumed that my recent past had been utterly neglected – that my home life, apart from a few glitches, had somewhat settled down. Nothing could be further from the truth. My habit of compartmentalising my life was proving stressful as, when out with some of my new group of friends I, from time to time, spotted some from the older set (from the racks) and had to use quite a lot of ingenuity to avoid the two camps from meeting. Sudden detours down alleyways and side roads became the norm.
Although my trips to the Centre became somewhat intermittent, I still managed to show my face, as well as other parts of my anatomy, to my friends and clients.
Zenda was particularly incensed by my occasional extended absence and threw tact down the lavatory when in my company. In ‘The Green Goddess’, I received from him an arched swipe: “Oh, she’s got too above herself for the likes of simple little us. We’ve all seen her beetling off when spotted.” He then addressed me directly, “And who are all these weird wankers you’ve got yourself hooked up with?”
I was thrown, “Er, just some of my workmates. We go out...”
“And there we have it – complete bull!” Zenda stabbed. “I’ve” ’ad most of ’em... and I’ve seen ‘um in the Clipper – and a right bunch of screamers they are, too!”
At this point Andy came through the door and wandered up to our table. “Zenda, darling, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?” He extended a hand for me to shake.
“That wasn’t funny the first thirty times you cracked it.” I slapped his hand playfully and, after yelling for a coffee from Renata, Andy sat down.
Enter Jacko. “Hi, stranger!”
“Oh, don’t you start.”
Actually, my trips to the racks still amounted to about once a fortnight but the gang, once they had hooked onto this running joke, revelled in their newly found victim. The attention I received from being the butt of this particular joshing actually pleased me a great deal and to continue this joy I happily played along with it.
It was about this time I began dating another singer (I’ll call him William) who was turned on by having his pubic area shaved. As he was quite a randy songstress who frequently indulged in this turn on, it was often difficult to find enough stubble to satisfy his desires. William was quite a pinup and, when he was in town for a concert, we had to leap through all sorts of hoops so that we could meet up without any hint to his adoring public, not to mention his current girlfriend, where his true desires lay. The meetings were always held in rather dubious hotels and frequently rushed as he appeared to be permanently hurrying off to some rehearsal or other. One day his schedule must ha
ve been somewhat loose as he arranged that we could spend a whole day together. Before we met, I phoned work and claimed sickness then wondered what we would do. Would we spend all our time in that grim hotel room? With the best will in the world, I couldn’t fathom what we could get up to after our initial intimate shaving and sweating encounter. To my complete and utter surprise, William suggested that we go out for a meal. Now, I know almost nothing about cars. To me, they are a major mystery that I have no intention of solving but as we approached his car I could see that it was hardly an old banger.
“Where are we going?” I asked the heavily disguised William, as I squeaked into the passenger seat. As you may have guessed, because of my life in the city, I had experienced many types of private vehicle, from cars to lorries and even, on one particularly outlandish occasion, a horse and cart but this mode of transport in which I now snuggled was from another dimension.
“A little place I was told about – out of town. It’s a bit of a drive but I’m sure you’ll like it. Anyway, we’ve plenty of time.”
After a couple of hours of purring through some sublime countryside, we pulled into the car park of an old coaching inn style building. It had been overhauled and resurrected as an expensive restaurant which, to use modern parlance, would enhance our dining experience. A particularly smug gentleman who obviously recognised my companion smiled radiantly at him then gave a somewhat pitying look at me. Feeling that an explanation was required urgently, William pointed out that I was one of his advisors and we needed somewhere quiet to discuss future plans. The fact that I looked younger than my sixteen years of age means that he couldn’t have been fooling anyone. We were shown to a discreet alcove where we couldn’t be seen by the few other diners. Our menus arrived. One of us received his with grovelling courtesy whilst the other had his shoved at him as if it were an afterthought. I will leave you to guess which was which – not difficult. I didn’t get a chance to order as William took it upon himself to make my choice for me.
“And will that order be for both Sir and Sir–ette?”
“For my guest and myself – yes.” William answered pointedly.
Right away we both spotted that the precious waiter hobnobbed on our side of the fence. William and I talked inconsequentially for a while – then our first course arrived. William’s delicacy was lovingly slid into place before him whilst mine was dumped down without ceremony. I watched William’s face darken but it soon brightened and we continued talking. When the plates were cleared, the waiter’s body language positively screamed at us with the different ways in which we were being treated. When he made to leave with the empty plates William clicked his fingers at him.
“Oi! Hang on a second, will you? Come back here! Now!” The waiter turned – all smiles.
“Sir?”
“Get the manager here. Immediately!”
“Sir?” repeated the young man with eyebrows arched innocently – thus showing mocked and shocked curiosity.
“All right, buster, less of the looks and attitude, just do as I say.”
“Sir?” Was he playing for time?
“Listen, Beulah, I want you to take that camp flabby fat arse of yours up to your office and bring it back with the manager – or whoever is in charge of this circus.”
There was a marked alteration in the waiter’s manner.
“Yes, Sir.” He was about to leave when he turned back to us. “Somethin’ wrong with the food?”
I think it was dawning on him that he had gone too far and trouble was about to brew.
“Just go!” His exit was far less confident.
William took a sip of wine, gave me a wink and waited patiently.
After a few moments Mr. Big arrived. Our recalcitrant waiter was hovering by the kitchen door making himself aimlessly busy whilst, all the time, listening intently to what followed. ‘Mr. Big’ introduced himself and called my dining companion “William.”
“Are you always this insultingly familiar with all your guests?”
Quickly reverting to William’s surname, ‘Mr. Big asked if there was anything wrong and what he could do to correct it. After a perfectly timed pause during which the smile on the manager’s face started to freeze, William answered.
“My colleague and I have chosen your establishment for a quiet business meeting over, what we were led to believe, would be a well presented meal and what did we get?” William stopped speaking as if expecting an answer from the now fast deflating object of his ire.
“Well, if there’s any...”
“I’ll tell you what we got,” stabbed William. “Total disrespect!” He cast a look at our waiter who glanced away under William’s fixed glaze.
“Well...”
“I have dined in Berlin, Tokyo, Sydney – all the major capitals – even in New York – which is infamous for its boorish service, but never have I received such downright rude insolence as here. That man...” He pointed to our waiter who suddenly felt the need to inspect something in the kitchen. “That man, and I call him that only out of politeness, is the pitz!”
“Well...”
“I haven’t finished...” William shot him a look that would have downed a charging rhino. “He has made my companion feel extremely foolish.”
I started to add that I didn’t mind but William was now in full sail. “Do you hear how Carl is being both magnanimous and forgiving? That is the mark of a gentleman.” I had never before been called a gentleman and it made me feel rather smug. “Now, we want to continue the rest of our meal with the type of service one expects from an establishment such as this and we would like another waiter to serve us who knows his job – and not that little jumped up Mae West we had previously. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir. Certainly, Sir. I will get right on it, Sir.” And off he went to make everything right.
I looked at William in awe, “Wow!”
“Now that that’s all sorted, we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”
We never saw our smarmy waiter again and the newly appointed attendant was everything one could wish for. The rest of the meal passed off well with William and I enjoying a delicious repast, complementary brandies and a massive reduction in the bill along with platitudes from the Manager who was obviously terrified that his restaurant would receive a bad press from such a distinguished guest and lose out on the chance of becoming the ‘place to be and be seen’ for visiting celebrities. Incidentally, William refused to accept the offered bill’s discount and paid the full amount – along with a generous tip to our substitute waiter.
‡‡‡
In the mean time, Marti’s wound had healed well and her tummy continued to grow. We were still meeting up on a regular basis but, as I had fulfilled my duty as a sperm donor, there was little to hold us together. This revised situation suited us both and we began to drift apart. Sex was no longer on the menu and, to be frank, this was fine by me as, for me, ‘straight’ sex was more of a duty than a life affirming desire. Never–the–less, we still maintained a closeness which was perfectly acceptable to us both.
As for my Art classes – well, they continued and through the guidance I was receiving, my talent, such as it was, began to blossom. All the other students were pleasant and supportive but, on a personal level, I managed to keep a distance. My life was getting far too complicated to allow any more socialising to intrude upon it.
My place of work was becoming ever more a place of frustration. Not only did I hate the job I did but I was beginning to resent that it interfered too much with my social life. I had begun to distance myself from my fellow workers and I had the feeling that they now considered that I was a Youth of Mystery and we continued our working relationship on a pleasant but somewhat formal basis. They knew that Sheba and I were now good friends both inside and outside of office hours but, apart from a few snide comments which Sheba and I ignored, nothing was mentioned. Our boss dropped a few unsubtle hints that the firm didn’t approve of fellow workers meeting socially on a serious bas
is, but we conveniently made out that we didn’t understand.
Paul and Eric
About this time a minor event unfolded at Adam’s bed–sit which, in the beginning, was somewhat comic yet proved to be a major breakthrough in Paul’s life.
It all started when a small group of us were with Adam and lounging about in the kitchen which was adjacent to his room. We were lolling around on some stools and a few dining chairs, drinking coffee and quietly enjoying one another’s reminiscences. There was a sudden and frantic knocking at the kitchen door. Hardly waiting for it to be fully opened Paul, with a horrified cry, elbowed his way in. His eyes stared wildly about and his face was twisted up in utter horror. He slammed the door shut and leaned heavily against it, breathing hard. With Paul, such entrances were rather too frequent to command much attention. He waited for someone – anyone to show either remote interest or mild concern and ask, ‘My God, Paul, what’s wrong. What’s the matter? You look awful.’ No one did.
“Whose turn is it next to make coffee?” someone asked.
“Jim’s, I think,” replied someone else.
“Excuse me,” wailed Paul, “Excuse me but I’m having a major crisis here!”
“Again?” came a voice from the cooker.
In quick succession, Paul snorted and growled. Miffed that his dramatic entrance hadn’t achieved the desired effect, he attempted to enlist the ensemble’s sympathy. “My darlings, you simply won’t believe what has just happened to me!” As there was still no response, he tried again. “I am totally and utterly devastated! It’s all too much!”
“You’re telling me,” Jim added.
Paul ignored both Jim’s remark and the laughter it induced. “My whole world has been destroyed and now lies in complete ruin!”
