‘He calls you Gaylord behind your back you know!’ I shout. He doesn’t respond.
‘You’re one sad, dirty fucker,’ says Fats, as he gets back in his car.
‘Fucking wanker,’ cries the Gaylord.
And they drive off, leaving me stranded on the hard shoulder with my cock out. I have to say I feel distressed and confused.
Chapter 7
What came over me? I think to myself, standing on the hard shoulder of the motorway. I let myself get dragged out of a car by a fatty, be insulted by him and his homo friend, and I didn’t do a thing about it. How come I didn’t kick seven shades of shit out of them? Because, you know, I’m a psychopath. I have been known to damage people. I’ve broken legs before, and I disfigured someone’s face when I was in the nick. I admit, I’ve never killed anyone, but that was more down to luck on their part than any fault on mine. So it stands that I’m a very bad man, OK? So how come I just took their abuse, and the only thing I did back was try and hit them with my spunk? Is my cock the only thing I’ll dare hurt anybody with these days? Maybe I’m getting soft, and I’m not talking about my erection for once. With this thought, I slump down on my knees, and to my surprise, for the first time since I don’t know when, most likely ever, I find myself crying. And through the sobbing, words that I’m not in control of emerge. ‘Jen, Jen, help me,’ I whimper, as I think about the warmth of her furry red bush. I must get back to it, I decide. If I get back to Jen’s bush then I will be myself again, and everything will be all right.
To do that, I reason, I need to stop this effeminate sobbing and hitch a lift. So through the power of my will, I pick myself up, dry my eyes, stand on the hard shoulder and stick my thumb out. However, hitchhiking on the motorway is not as easy as I thought. Cars zoom by, and while a number of them toot their horns, no one stops. I lose track of time, but I guess I must be there for half an hour. Sometimes passengers look at me while the car drives by, and they turn around to look some more, and quite a few horns are sounded, but no one feels like interrupting their journey. Then, finally, a car drives past, slows down, and pulls onto the hard shoulder some way up the motorway. A figure gets out and waves at me, and I run towards it. As I run, I feel strangely free, with quite a breeze blowing on my nether regions, and I realise that my cock’s hanging out, swinging from side to side. It must have been out all this time and I’ve been flashing every passing motorist and their passengers. No wonder they’ve been honking at me. I put it away quickly, and as I get closer, the waving figure looks more familiar and distinctly ginger. Then at last I see. It’s only fucking Buddy Holly. I’m nearly there and he’s still waving.
‘Hi, Elvis!’ he shouts.
‘All right,’ I reply.
‘You need a lift?’
‘Could say that.’
‘Well, hop in the back then, if you’re going back to Cambridge.’
I finally make it to the car and get in. I’m sweating like a pig and smelling like one. In the front passenger seat is a woman, in about her mid-thirties, with dyed-blonde hair with dark roots, a bit podgy and a bit simple-looking, but with huge breasts and a lovely smile.
‘This is my girlfriend Emma. Emma, this is Elvis.’
‘Hello, Elvis. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Same here.’
‘Who’d have thought, me getting to meet Buddy Holly and Elvis.’ She laughs a lovely sexy laugh. I can feel the first pulses of an erection as we drive away.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ says Buddy, ‘but didn‘t you have your willy out just now?’
‘I must admit I did,’ I say. ‘You ‘see, I have a very rare skin condition that means I have to air it periodically or it breaks out in sores.’
‘Sounds nasty. Don’t you ever get in trouble, getting your willy out like that?’
‘No, I have a doctor’s note.’
‘Ah, I see. We’ve just been to an auction of rock ’n’ roll memorabilia up in London. I was outbid on most things, but I got Fats Domino’s autograph. Listen,’ he says, ‘I’ve just had a thought. Now that I have you as a captive audience, as it were, why don’t I audition for you now? Save me taking up your time next week.’
I’m in no mood to hear the wittering twit sing, but I don‘t feel like being chucked out of another car. ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘go ahead.’
And without further ado, he sings ‘Peggy Sue’, in an unpleasant, nasal manner, with a range of vocal affectations that I find intensely annoying. In other words, it’s a perfect Buddy Holly impersonation. I have to say, I’m impressed.
‘OK, you’re in. We’ll get you an outfit and some gear tomorrow. We’ll rehearse your act over the weekend and your first gig’s on Tuesday.’
‘Thank you. Elvis, you won’t regret it. But don’t worry about the outfit, I’ve got one already.’
‘Oh, Mister Elvis, I’m afraid Buddy won’t be able to play with you this Tuesday,’ his bird pipes up. ‘Any other day is fine, but on Tuesday we’re going to my parents’ for drinks.’
God save me from stupid women, even ones with enormous and inviting breasts. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I’m afraid I will need him on Tuesday. And to be honest with you, if I can’t get the hundred per cent commitment I require, then I will have to consider other artists, possibly even another Buddy Holly tribute act.’ I can hear Buddy swallowing. In the rear-view mirror, I catch a glimpse of his eyes as they dart towards her. I know that look all right. It’s the look of a man thinking dark and violent thoughts. ‘Em,’ he says finally, ‘tell your parents I won’t be able to make it for drinks on Tuesday.’
‘Buddy, you said you’d be there. You can’t just mess people about like that, it’s not nice.’
‘Em, this is more important.’
‘Oh, is it?’
‘Yes it is.’
You could say it’s an awkward moment. Buddy’s face turns as bright red as his hair, while Em vibrates, although whether it’s from annoyance or fear I can’t tell from where I’m sitting. They both stare out at the road for a good few minutes. Then the silence is broken by the sound of Buddy singing ‘Heartbeat’.
Her stony face crumbles and she breaks out her big idiot grin. She puts her hand on his shoulder as he sings, and he turns towards her and gazes with his now soft eyes. For the second time this day, I have the feeling I am about to die. ‘Keep your eyes on the road, love,’ she says gently.
For the rest of the journey, I’m treated to Buddy’s life story, how he’s worked as a postman since the age of eighteen, but has dedicated his life to rock ’n’ roll, or at least listening to it and obsessively collecting memorabilia. He’s particularly devoted to Buddy Holly of course, and once spent five grand on a letter written by the four-eyed twat.
‘How come you managed to afford that?’ I ask.
‘Well, to be totally honest with you, I suppose I didn’t have that much else to spend it on. I was living on my own, and I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time…’
‘Yeah, Buddy didn’t have a girlfriend until he met me, did you, Buddy?’ Em interrupts suddenly.
‘No,’ he snaps.
‘Oh, that surprises me,’ I say. He’s quiet for the rest of the journey.
Buddy drops me off in the centre of Cambridge. I arrange for him to pop round the next day to begin his training, and say goodbye to both him and Em, who gives me a lovely, silly smile as I stare at her huge tits. I catch the bank just in time to deposit the cheque, and while waiting in the queue I think about all I’ve been through in the past few days, and come to the devastating conclusion that I need to get very drunk very quickly. I don’t get drunk that often, at least, not as much as I used to, and charlie will always be my main vice, not including wanking. But sometimes, I just really need to get absolutely bladdered. Flush the shit from out of my head. First though, I’m starving, so I stuff my face in McDonald’s before I go looking for a suitable pub. I wander down Hills Road and chance upon an old haunt which I knew as the Blind Beggar, but which since my last
visit has been renamed the Frog ’n’ Ribbit and painted all over in vomit-green gloss paint. It’s half-five when I walk in, and I’m nearly the only person there.
Behind the bar is a young man with dreadlocks and piercings all over his face.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A pint of Guinness please.’
‘Right you are.’
‘It’s quiet in here.’
‘Yeah, it is now, but this evening it’ll be packed.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, students mostly.’
My interest is piqued. I resolve right then that tonight will be the night when I finally get into the pants of something that’s younger than forty. Although eighteen or nineteen years old would be ideal, I’ll settle for anything in its twenties or thirties. Between forty and forty-five would be a compromise, and anything older than that would not be acceptable. I must admit normally I find it pretty impossible to chat up the younger birds, because I can never think what to say. Old birds I can charm the pants off, literally, because being a psychopath I have great powers of manipulation, but with the young ’uns, I get nervous, my brain stops working, and I blow it. Tonight, however, I’m going to be so pissed there’s no way I can possibly lose my bottle. Yes, tonight is definitely going to be the night, oh yes indeed.
The barman’s name is Oliver. He’d be quite handsome, I reckon, if he hadn’t shoved fifty pieces of metal through his face. We talk for a bit. His company’s pleasant enough, I guess. As more people come in, Oliver finds less and less time to talk to me, and after a while, he just nods at me as he passes, even when he doesn’t have anybody to serve. At quarter past seven I’m pleasantly drunk. That’s when they really start arriving. And my god, they’re all so beautiful. Or at least, they’re young and female, which in my book amounts to about the same thing. There are boys there too of course, some of them with the girls, but I don’t pay too much attention to them. They all look pretty weedy and I could easily break their windpipes if the situation called for it.
I think I’m going to play it cool for a while. After all, I want to have the choice of the widest possible selection, so I’ll wait until the place is full before making my move. I sort myself out in the lav in the meantime so I don‘t come over too desperate, and go back to drinking at the bar, looking the part of an enigmatic and intriguing loner. I keep this up for another hour, and by half-eight the place is packed. However, it’s still not time to make my move. They need to be drunker, I think, and besides, there’s so much choice. Too much choice, in fact. There’s so much cleavage on display, so many legs, arms and midriffs, just so much flesh, I don’t know where to begin. I find myself getting overheated and decide I’ll be able to make an informed decision if I go and sort myself out in the lav again. When I get back, some local old drunk with a red face and a tache comes up to me, no doubt mistaking me for a kindred spirit. ‘Didn’t you used to be a boxer?’ he slurs. ‘I was on Nationwide.’ I tell him to fuck off. He does, but takes a good five minutes about it before going off to talk to a bunch of students, who take the piss and laugh at him. He’s just grateful for the company.
A couple or so more pints and suddenly it’s half-nine. Oliver takes pity and talks to me again, enquiring what it is I do for a living. I tell him I’m a drug dealer and Elvis impersonator. He thinks both jobs are pretty cool. Now he likes me. I give him my number should he need anything. He says he‘ll keep it in mind. Then it’s ten o’clock, and I realise I’ll have to make my choice pretty soon, but I’m still no closer to deciding. Until I see her. Her hair is long and black and makes its way right down her back. She’s small but not skinny, and she’s wearing a dress that makes her look quite bohemian, although I can tell she’s wearing a Wonderbra underneath. There’s something mystical about her, spiritual and in touch with nature. Her face glows with kindness, and her eyes sparkle with magic. Now, surely she wouldn’t turn me away?
I’ll go to the lav to sort myself out, I decide, then I’ll make my move. I do, but when I come back, I can’t see her. I search all over the pub looking for her, afraid I’ve lost her. Then I find her again, standing with her group of friends upstairs on a crowded balcony. Any minute now. First I watch her for a while, trying to read her, looking for clues. And then it’s quarter to eleven. I can see some of her friends getting ready to go. It’s now or never, I say to myself, or Elvis says to me from beyond the grave maybe, and I launch myself forward. Walking is difficult, I find, and I stumble towards her, bumping into people, spilling my pint. ‘Oi! Watch it, mate,’ they say. And then I’m right next to her, but she doesn’t see me. So I stand there for a few minutes, and some of her friends glance at me uneasily. I can’t think of what to say. I’ve frozen, just like always. But I have to do something, I tell myself, now or never.
‘I like your dress.’ That’s what I come up with.
She doesn’t hear me. I say it again.
‘What?’ she says.
‘I like your dress.’
‘OK, thank you.’ She smiles half-heartedly, then turns back towards her friends. They mumble between themselves and make moves to go.
‘No, don’t go!’ I shout in her ear, ‘I’ll buy you a drink, what do you want?’
‘No, thank you,’ she says. I realise with horror that I’m still wearing Eddie’s old eighties gear. Where is my head at today? I think to myself.
‘Is it the shirt? It’s not mine, I borrowed it.’ I stumble forwards after them, knocking drinks out of people’s hands as I go. I’m losing them, so I lunge towards her, and grab hold of her long hair. She cries out, and I find my arm being grabbed so hard that it makes me lose my grip. Some surprisingly strong students restrain me until one of the bouncers gets me in a headlock, takes me downstairs, and throws me out the door. ‘We don’t want to see you in here again, now fuck off,’ he says.
I look up and down the street hoping to see her, but she’s nowhere to be found. I wander into a small, quiet pub as last orders are served, pick up some alcoholic old hag who must be in her late fifties, and I try to get her to give me a blow job in an alleyway in exchange for a bottle of whisky I’ve just bought her, but she only gets halfway through before she has to stop to be sick. By now I feel very tired and I just want to go home.
Chapter 8
I wake up in my own bed. Don’t ask me how I got there, because I don’t remember. There’s an unpleasant smell though, and it occurs to me that I’m caked in my own sick. I’m lying in a hardening pool of it, and have to peel bits off my face. That was a close one, I think to myself, I could have choked to death on it. I sit up, and as I do so, my head spins and my vision disintegrates into a psychedelic display of dots. I want to go back to sleep, but my bed’s covered in sick. Maybe I’ll just lie in it anyway. No, I’d better sort this mess out, I guess. I’ll start with me. I drag myself into the shower. Just as the water hits me, I realise I’m going to be sick again. I stumble out of the shower towards the toilet, but just end up spraying the bathroom floor and the toilet seat with sick. Now there’s more of a fucking mess to clear up. I head back to the shower. I’m going to be systematic about this, I decide. I’ll clean myself up first, then the bathroom, and then the bedroom. Anyway, I manage to get myself clean and put a few clothes on. I’m just about to start mopping up the bathroom floor when I have to be sick again. I get most of it in the toilet but I still spray the T-shirt I’ve only just put on. I’m thinking I might go to back to bed. Then I remember that the bed’s full of sick. And then the doorbell rings.
I stagger downstairs and open the door. It’s fucking Buddy Holly, the real one. Only joking, it’s the Buddy Holly that I know, dressed as the other Buddy Holly, the dead one. He’s a dead ringer for him in his outfit, except for him being a ginger. I’m not sure what he’s doing there, and I almost slam the door in his face and go back to bed, but then I remember that I told him to come round, and that my bed is full of sick.
‘Where the fuck did you get that outfi
t?’ I ask him.
‘It’s authentic fifties gear this. Well, the jacket is anyway.’ The jacket is pale blue, worn with a white shirt and a black bow tie. ‘I thought I’d wear my blue one, because blue was Buddy‘s favourite colour. Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t, funnily enough. Better come in then.’
He’s brought his own guitar, a red and white electric Stratocaster. ‘Can you play that thing?’ I ask.
‘I can actually,’ he says. ‘Well, I can’t do solos, but I can play chords.’
I sit him down in the living room and make him some tea.
‘Hope you don’t mind me saying,’ he says, as I offer him a biscuit, ‘but there’s a bit of a funny smell in here.’
‘Yes, that’ll be sick. I’ve thrown up all over two rooms upstairs.’
‘Right.’
‘Yeah, went on a bit of a bender last night. Probably drunk nearly thirty pints. Not sure really, can’t remember anything much after nine o’clock. I think I might have pulled.’
‘One of those nights, eh?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Could I just use your toilet before we start?’
‘Wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘Ah OK.’
He’s brought a Buddy Holly karaoke CD to sing along to. I put it in my portable player and get him to stand in the middle of the living room. ‘OK,’ I say, sitting on my sofa, ‘hit it.’ The backing starts up, and he launches into that ‘Rave On’ song. He’s only pretending to play guitar, but he’s miming the real chords. He’s got the moves, he’s got the voice, he’s got the clothes. I hate to say it, but he’s fucking brilliant. He’s as good as I used to be in the prison rec yard all those years ago, well almost. Buddy must be pushing forty but right now he looks nearly as young as the real Buddy was when he snuffed it.
He finishes and gives me an approval-seeking look the likes of which I haven’t seen since the days of training Gay Elvis. ‘What do you think, was it all right?’ he asks.
Hound Dog Page 5
