by David Louden
“There were a few lads here yesterday, they’d said about the crackin’ time they had at some place called Rainbow.” Rob spoke with the kind of enthusiasm you’d associate with a child offering a well learned correct answer in front of a classroom of their peers.
I had heard of the place, it sat on the Sunset Strip and was the perfect ice breaker for two comrades. Agreeing I stuck my phone on charge and grabbed my wallet from the lining of my bag. I momentarily debated about the wisdom of bring five figures to a bar with me but without being able to meet and examine the sphincter of the rest of the inhabitants of room 3 in the International Hostel I opted to trust the drunken version of myself over unidentified strangers…though it was a closely contested race.
Sunset Strip was awash with colour, noise, happy, tanned and catatonic faces. In a one mile stretch it had more potential, living and regret than you could bathe yourself in if you had a lifetime to do little else. The evening wind was warm, it felt like childhood summer holidays before we had to grow up and become aware of how incredibly shit the world had become. Bar signs and street lights did battle for supremacy as the primary provision of light source. Tipping the cab driver we present our I.D’s to the shovel handed doorman. He’s busy working some serious moves on impressionable young College girls who could no doubt buy and sell him when it came to street smarts. Entering the famous Rainbow Room was like stepping into your own biopic. I wondered if things were different and if anything of importance ever came of my life who would play me in that movie, who would be crossing the Rainbow Room’s threshold in my place? The weekend was in full swing in the City of Angels, bikers, bunnies and hipsters all congregated in the dimly lit church of alcohol. The verbal buzz belonging to the place was loud enough to cancel out any music being played over the speaker system but I noticed just enough of Pet Sounds to feel at home. While I was motionless, absorbing the atmosphere, Rob had been busy and charged to the bar as he emerged into my line of sight with several bottles of beer. I take the moment required to applaud his amazing multi-buying skills before retrieving one. We take refuge on the patio in a makeshift gazebo alongside the rest of Los Angeles’ dying breed of tobacco enthusiasts.
“Friday night and we’re in L.A…amazin’ right?” mused my drinking buddy “So what’s brought you to L.A man?”
“One tale of woe is my limit per day, you’re gonna have to wait till sunrise for that opus.” I said, throwing back my beer “Anyway, regardless of what brought me here I’m here it’s Friday night and some of these Angelians are makin’ me want to touch myself in ways that are not PG13.”
We drank to new friends, to Los Angeles, and to touching ourselves and then we drank some more. Conversation is a lost art form; conversation between drunken strangers requires a masterful brush stroke and was so fluid that we had to make a conscious effort to not spend the night cock blocking one another into oblivion.
With thirty minutes to last orders I replenished what had become our homage to recycling as empty green, brown and clear bottles lived side by side on a round wooden garden table of the Rainbow Room’s patio. Rob, having brought his phone with him, was interrupted by an early morning call from the other side of the world and, based on the change in his voice and posture, it was Rosie. With more beer than I could consume in half an hour I lit another cigarette only to be tapped on the shoulder by an athletic brunette in a dark tank top and a tartan skirt brandishing a red Marlboro.
“Can I bum a light?” She asked.
“Certainly can, could you sit with me while my friends on the phone so I don’t look like a complete fuckin’ loner?” I replied.
She laughed before proceeding to park herself next to me and grab one of the surplus beers in one fluid movement; she was almost feline in motion, a nymph-like Julie Newmar as she oozed sexuality from the other side of the table.
“Where you from cowboy?” She asked, exhaling smoke from her cigarette like it was her last.
“Ireland.” I replied. I never trusted people’s understanding of geography, border difference or geo-political affairs to give me the rapturous welcome that being Irish often has when travelling across North America. So I keep it simple, never Northern Ireland, never Belfast…just Ireland.
“That’s hot…like Colin Farrell right?”
Normally there’d be a correction inserted into the conversation, my own kind of editorial but she was too hot to argue with and my jeans were standing room only. To be honest a few hours of travel and a border aside she was right enough, which was good enough for me.
“Aye.” Said I.
“I’m Sasha.” She smouldered.
Sasha and I talked about music, KISS largely; she seemed unhealthily obsessed with the size of Gene Simmons’ tongue. We had agreed that if we ever encountered Mr. & Mrs. KISS she could have Gene show her it intimately in glorious Technicolor, while I went to my knees at the alter of Shannon Tweed’s almighty cooze. Everything seemed sexual with her; she lived in Venice, less than a block from the Morrison house as she pointed out. The way she constructed her sentences was mesmerising. She paired words and twisted phrases that shouldn’t have sounded appealing, yet when they dropped off her tongue they were absurdly sexual. Rob arrived back at the table stressed. All of the evening’s camaraderie and good work trying to put Rosie in her concrete coffin in the heart of Birmingham was shot to shit. He grabbed a beer and a cigarette and devoured both before looking up; he hadn’t noticed the addition of Sasha the sexy rock head. He was so distracted by his brooding he certainly didn’t notice the momentary change of expression on her face as I slipped a third finger inside her.
“Oh…hello, you’ve been busy.” Rob directs to me “I’m Rob.”
“I’m Sasha, I’d shake your hand Rob and tell you how nice it is to meet you but I’ve currently got it wrapped around your friends cock.”
If there was ever a moment that made man feel like God this was it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Robert Oppenheimer patted himself on the back, walked a little taller and generally felt like Mary of Nazareth’s Baby Daddy before the realisation that he’d just fucked up everything but it’s hardly a match for hearing a beautiful stranger talk about your wand.
The Oppenheimer moment was coming though. During the course of genital manipulation, Sasha’s proclamation and my unfamiliarity with her physical and relationship landscape, everything in the immediate area all conspired to fuck me.
“Hey what the fuck?!” Barked a hairy biker as he looks directly into my lap to see Sasha driving stick. His eyes tracked the path of my arm as it became my hand and disappeared up and under Sasha’s skirt and deep into her lady purse.
“Oh fuck!” Sasha said before turning to look directly at me “You had better run Douggy!”
“Tank!! Get over here some fuckin’ clown’s fuckin’ around with Sash!” The biker barked again.
The wave of general revellers and Friday night roisterers parted as a torpedo-headed bull in biker leather and denim hurdled through bodies and bottles. As Sasha is dragged away by the hairy one I jump to my feet with enough presence of mind to zip up before firing a handful of empties towards the charging cuckold. Sprinting back into the bar I make a dart for the dance floor which will bring me back towards the front of the Rainbow Room, all the while someone is nipping at my heels. Risking a drop in speed I glance behind me, Rob is tearing up the treads too. We crash into the front door exploding it open into the face of one of the bikers. The glass shatters, his head erupts with a blast of crimson before falling backwards over the bins to the side of the bar. We race into the middle of the road and out in front of a Yellow Cab which by the grace of God- or whoever is in charge of miscellaneous hand jobs, stops and allows us to obtain safe passage. As the cab pulls away the side of the vehicle is blasted by the body of an overgrown man in a rage. I don’t think anyone could think less of either of us if we both admitted to carrying a brown load in our pants when faced with the prospect of having a gang of bikers ass stomp us to death. Li
ke all lapsed Catholics religion touches us at the most convenient moment and there’s few better than when facing a curbing. The time for prayer was upon us, eyes were closed and the bull was at the door. Just when bowels were about to be loosened a bellow from the front seat heralded the arrival of the Argentinean overworked, sweaty, superhero cabbie. His superpower may have been high cholesterol but he pulled the largest hand cannon I’d ever fucking seen, killed the engine and leapt from the cab.
“Who the fuck are you…fuckin’ with my cab!” Roared the Argentine.
We sat in the backseat, transfixed by the showdown outside.
“Fuckin’ moves fast for a big man, agile fucker!” I praised.
“What the fuck was that?” Asked Rob. It was pretty non-accusatory but it wouldn’t take a Private Dick to know he was talking about my not-so private dick.
“I was as shocked as you but that lady had hands like a sculpture.” I replied.
“I’m sure her ol’ man will appreciate that.” Clipped Rob.
I laughed, which set him off as the nervous energy escaped the both of us. Having fended off our would-be murderer with his canon and barrages of Argentinean curses Supercabbie returned to drive us back to Hollywood Boulevard. We found out we had a lot in common, he was a Manchester United nut and worshipped Gabriel Heinze, who had played left back for the Red Devils. Pleased to discover fellow United men he invited us to come visit him and Mrs. Cabbie in their secret hero base in Malibu. It was only when he pulled up along the starred sidewalk that I realised what a pro Cab Guevara was. Throughout everything he had left the metre running.
2
IT WASN’T LAST Christmas but the one before that, Kelly and I were living in a rented two bedroom apartment on Stranmillis, South Belfast and working every hour that God would bestow upon us in order to pay for the place. We had been fighting for months, we weren’t fighting anymore. We weren’t reconciled either, we just weren’t caring. It was the sorriest excuse for a Christmas morning since my old man came home drunk on the eve of Jesus’ Birthday in 1987 and decided he wanted to play with the immaculately wrapped Scaletrix that my mum had busted her ass to make sure I got. We had gone through the autonomic actions of gift purchasing but little thought was actually put into the boxes we wrapped in separate rooms the previous day.
For my sins I had given Kelly a pair of overly expensive diamond earrings. On opening them she merely laughed and dropped them into the neat collection of ripped red paper before saying something about me being a “non committal bastard”. She then proceeded to mutter about “what kind of asshole would waste four of a girls best baby making years” as I tried to tune it out. These days she wheeled out her desire to have children when it suited her argument. I remembered the Kelly that shuddered at the idea of late nights, early mornings and poo…at least when it didn’t involve uppers. I had spent the night in my favourite armchair drinking a bourbon and cough medicine cocktail, smoking cigarettes and watching the snow fall. By 6AM the rain had arrived and had been the first to play in the blanket of white that covered the Embankment, turning the beautiful fresh start into a dirty-grey pile of slush that looked more like partially rotting brain than any Bing Crosby song. Kelly rose two hours after that, where possible I chose to stay up. I couldn’t bring myself to lie in the same bed as her and not be connected to her but I didn’t want to be the one who’d camp out in the spare room and create precedent.
It hadn’t always been this way, that’s a cliché, but it is a cliché for a reason. It’s not like anyone starts a relationship with nothing to say to the other person. No-one wants to feel like a complete stranger and live together because it’s easier than trying to remember who owns the copy of Almost Famous – which was mine by the way. Four years prior to this Christmas morning we had met in Bookfinders on University Road. She was attending a poetry reading with a male suitor and looking massively out of place and uncomfortable with the amount of self satisfaction that was washing over the hairy intellectuals. I was on break from my part-time gig at the University’s main library and spent fifteen minutes trying to make eye contact with her. We exchanged pleasantries and numbers over a cigarette and two cups of jet black coffee. She had a remarkable brain, soulful dark eyes and slightest sign of worry on her forehead but a truly remarkable brain. She knew pretty much everything there was to know about Futurism, James Joyce, Italian Neo-Realism and REO Speedwagon to name but a few. Our first Christmas together she managed to wrangle me a first edition copy of George Orwell’s 1984 through her dad’s connections. Four years on and I’m looking down at a DVD copy of Antonioni’s La Notte. You’d need to know Kelly to know how insulting that was.
We decided to shack up some four dreamy months after meeting and two months later the seed of my loins had taken root in her maternal oven. It didn’t take though, something we told ourselves we should be happy about but, looking back now with the 20-20 that hindsight provides everyone with, it was all shit to save the soul. Kelly convinced the world that children were the biggest mistake and once the world was convinced it made it easier for the two of us to coast along on their coat tails. I guess we were doomed half a year in; it just took us the rest of that time to come to the end of the line.
“You been up all night?”
I decline to answer, taking a sip.
“You going to be drinking all day?” Asked Kelly, a mix of fatigue and concern.
My drinking had gotten a little semi professional in recent months. Having graduated University Kelly hit the ground with both feet; she now had her own business restoring old books. It always sounded dull when it was put like that but she had business lunches that month in Stockholm, Paris and Düsseldorf. I on the other hand was stuck in a crappy administration post I hated having realised that my years of “Artsy-fartsy shit” as my old man would have put it does not a profession make. The work was mind numbing, the money reflected this but the biggest issue was my inability to take any pride or pleasure from my work, so I drank. I drank in the morning so I could brave the sanitised white windowless walls, I drank at lunch to force myself back into the building and because I was unable or unwilling to mask my unhappiness I drank so I didn’t notice the steady crumble of my life.
“Not too much longer, do you insist on me coming to this show?”
The show I was referring to was Christmas dinner with her folks, as devout Methodists her parents weren’t too thrilled with our living in sin. They’d be even less thrilled that our living in sin would lead to their daughter back on the shelf only to have to live in sin again with some other waster. So today we would perform for them. On days that didn’t have their own greetings card we would be complete strangers to one another in our trendy apartment with its modern art, all other days would have us play Ma and Pa Walton for the in-laws never-to-be.
“I don’t want them worrying, please Doug.” She stated. I didn’t need to ask my question, it was the same as the last time. Her response would be the same as well. Every time we would do this dance and every meal would be like swallowing a piece of yourself.
I washed my face and had a quick shave; the fatigue felt like it was dripping from my pores. On the way to the front door I had caught sight of the interior of our bedroom which I hadn’t seen in two days. Kelly hadn’t slept much either, on the hard wood floor at the foot of our king size bed were several brown boxes, packed, duct taped and ready to go.
The drive to Bangor was a tense one, the roads were quiet. There was little need for concentration on the road which highlighted the bone crushingly awkward silence that filled Kelly’s black Nissan Micra. I had wanted so badly to mention how I had seen the boxes; I had witnessed the first move in her exit strategy and that it didn’t need to happen. I loved her; I didn’t know how to say it without breaking down the autobot façade she saw before her and revealing the ugly and scarred wreck that lived within my skin. So I played with the radio instead.
Dinner at her parents’ house was in the good dining room; come to think
of it I don’t think I’ve ever consumed a meal that wasn’t in the good dining room of the detached six bedroom house that overlooked the golf course. I always managed to avoid playing there; a feat I was immensely proud of and something that always aggravated her dad. Her parents Miriam and Alan sat at the polar ends of the long and immaculately polished dining table. The cloth table settings belonged to Miriam’s grandmother. Kelly had taken up a seat next to her dad, while I was sandwiched between two of her sisters Tess and Janie. I had always fancied Tess. She was three years older than Kelly, a tennis coach somewhere just outside of Belfast. Tall, slender and looked like she had the stamina to pack a lot away before needing a break. I had never expressed this; even I knew how inappropriate that would have been. But that didn’t stop me from expressing it to myself on the guest towels anytime I saw her. Janie had just turned seventeen and was blossoming; the family genes had to be applauded. All three girls were the double of Miriam who now in her mid-fifties was still a fine specimen of a lady, Alan seemed blind to this fact.
Kelly and I might have been having our problems but that didn’t mean I hadn’t noticed how smoking hot she looked in her Sunday best black Pearl Lowe dress with her wavy hair tucked back behind her ears. Janie’s low cut top provided ample dinner entertainment, “it was only a matter of time before I was severed from this family” I thought “might as well bank a few memories while I can”. The turkey dinner was perfect, I couldn’t taste it due to the heavy taste of bourbon and medical aniseed but I knew it was perfect. I passed on dessert so I could take root on the front porch and roll myself a medicinal one, something to dull the screaming silence of wholesome living. Two drags in a body brushes up against me as Janie slides out of the house through a tiny opening she’s made to avoid the door’s predictable creek.
“Merry Christmas Janie.” I said, hiding the marijuana behind my back.
