by David Louden
She stood in the middle of Bookfinders with a group of pseudo intellectuals; her eyes skimmed the organised chaos that was the book shop’s filing system. The shelves led all the way up to the high ceiling of the old, often cold always slightly dusty establishment. The shop was in a degree of disrepair. The stairs were warped and felt dangerous under your feet. You would venture up them at your own risk, the front door looked to have been forced more than a handful of times and now only stood up to the barrage the wind would assault it with thanks to a metal gate that had been mounted on the front. They had started serving lunch in recent years in an effort to make some extra money, as cataloguing and selling literature seemed to be not in their interest – not as much as reading it anyway. Kelly stood alongside two dark haired, slightly bearded polo neck wearing yawners who quipped self satisfyingly over the merits of Yeats. As one of them said something inaudible to my ears the other laughed and I caught her glance as she came out of her eye rolls. She never was a Yeats fan, and found him as insufferably smug as she did these two. It triggered a pair of matching smiles in us. Finishing my coffee I got in a little closer, I faked an interest in an anthology of Scandinavian architecture before a banged up copy of Kafka’s The Trial caught my eye. Grabbing it I paid instantly and gave Kelly a polite wave as I exited the shop. As the door closed I could hear the beginning of the second half of the poetry jam they were all attending. Tucking Kafka into the inside pocket of my jacket I lit a cigarette and waited. To this day I’m not entirely sure what I was waiting for, maybe it was for karma to catch up. I had been particularly good that year.
To my shock and euphoric pleasure I’m asked “could I bum one from you?” the Polo neck yawners had lost the only interesting thing about their company as she now stood beside me sharing a cigarette and what felt like blind date conversation. It wasn’t long before we were laughing as she explained that her older sister Tess had set her up with Rory or Polo Neck 1 as he would become. Kelly had just started her second year at Queen’s University and Tess, in her infinite wisdom, had thought it nice that she would know someone “useful” in Fast City. Someone that would show her around and, presumably, bore the sweet fuck out of her. I got a belly laugh from her when she asked if I had an interest in poetry and I expressed a profound love for prose about men from Nantucket and women with massive beavers. I would walk her up University Road towards The Parlour before we would realise that we were heading towards a London Underground station, as tends to happen in dreams. We ride the escalator down into the belly of the old station and board the empty train. We huddle around a hand rail, even though there’s an absolute abundance of seating in the abandoned carriage. Kelly leans into me for support as the Victoria Line kicks us around on the tracks, she brushes her sun kissed hair from her face before kissing me tenderly on the cheek and whispering in my ear.
“Why do you keep doin’ this to yourself?”
The answer, I thought, was obvious. A beautifully simple concept that surely she must see, surely it couldn’t just be obvious to me…she had to know.
“Cos I love you…and I’m not ready.” I reply.
We exit the tube train into a wave of heat and rich sunlight. Reluctantly Kelly steps forward from the gap, taking my hand and into the lobby of the Venice Beach Hostel. Potted plants surround us in the waiting area of the hostel; to the left is a brown leather couch, to the right a set of stairs that lead you to the first floor and the makeshift reception area which looks out on to Pacific Avenue and the lunch crowd as they file into Mao’s Kitchen across the street.
The long haired reception worker sporting a long goatee beard tied in a green band, is at least half Asian and based on the amount of time he lingers mid-sentence is an avid believer of the medicinal qualities of the green leaf that William Randolph Hearst and his “Yellow Journalism” took great exception to. Photocopying our passports the baked receptionist introduces himself as Walter before taking us to our room, Kelly seems withdrawn, distracted. Her mood seems to darken the corridors. We reach our room. From the window you can see the ‘E’ of the famous VENICE sign. The room is large; it has a separate breakfast area to the right including a table that seats three comfortably, high ceilings with cherubs embracing the light fitting. The wallpaper was from the 70’s and most notably from a time when it was cool and dandy to smoke inside in the state of California. Kelly takes a seat on the edge of the bed, she appears nervous.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask.
“You live here now?” she replied.
“That’s kinda…yeah I live here now.” Finally answering her question.
“What about the baby?” Kelly holds her stomach which has visibly increased in size in the twenty minutes it has taken us to get from Bookfinders in Belfast to Venice Beach. “Don’t you want to be part of its life?” as she finishes posing the question blood begins to seep through her flower dress.
Immediately I run to the kitchen of the hotel room, all the while amazed how much it looks and smells like the house my Uncle used to own when I was a child. I hadn’t noticed before but the hostel room’s radio was switched on, Changes by Black Sabbath played from the static filled So Cal station. I grab water and towels and rush back to Kelly but it’s too late. She’s standing in the doorway of the hostel room in a black gown; her hair tied back, shoulders exposed. “Kel,” was all I managed, she smiled back at me “I’m gettin’ married Doug…can’t you just be happy for me?!”
Gasp. My eyes spring open, at some point during the course of the unconscious night most people have dubbed sleep I’ve forgotten to breathe. My arms are dead from having them folded for; I check the clock, five hours. I’ve been grinding my teeth again as my jaw feels like Joe Fraser has taken exception to me. 10AM comes quickly, I forgo a change of clothes – unable to muster the courage needed to enter Kelly’s museum to the senses. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, the dull morning light bounces from ceramic tile to ceramic tile. In the wrong light a bathroom can make even a bronzed Adonis look terminally ill. When you haven’t slept properly in weeks, ate anything other than takeout once a day for a week and have been punctuating your waking hours with whiskey and prescription medication the results are often enough to shock you into action. I had reconciled myself with the fact that I would need to sort my shit out; that I would cut my hair; shave my beard and get outside and interact with the world. It was a good plan and then the front door closed.
Kelly had come for the rest of her stuff, Rick stood under the doorway between the hall and the living room. Visibly trying to appear more menacing than he was. Toothbrush still in my mouth I’m drawn back to the living room at the thought of seeing her. Standing in the living room is a stranger with my Kelly’s eyes; she has dyed her hair in the two days she has been out of the apartment. The small change is heartbreaking.
“Kel can we talk?” I asked.
“P-Please Doug, don’t m-make…”
“R-R-ramblin’ R-R-Rick! Get the fuck out of my house!” I yelled.
He jumps before collecting his composure. I turn to Kelly who’s in the midst of grabbing her books from around the fireplace.
“Get that cunt out!” I state pointing at Rick.
Kelly gives him a glance and he melts backwards out of the apartment though the shadow of his feet can still be seen under the closed front door.
“It’s not enough you’re fuckin’ killing me here Kel you’ve got to bring that stuttering dickhead with you!” I bit my tongue too late on that occasion.
“Doug, Rick’s a friend, I know you don’t...”
“A friend. Shit Kel, why don’t you ask him why he’s helping a girl friend move her shit out of her old apartment.” I spat.
She nodded. “I understand. I’m just trying to make this as easy as possible. I’d hoped maybe you’d be out. I won’t take long.” She said apologetically and to her credit looking like she meant it.
“Please don’t do this…” I pleaded “I know I’ve been difficult…” it had
come to that point.
Not only was I pleading she stay for my sake but I had run out of words, my vocabulary had expired. There were so many things I wanted to be able to convey; perhaps it was a higher understanding of her mannerisms that told me to save the effort. Had I thought it would have made a difference I would have told her I knew I was a miserable bastard. How it’s selfish to relish the misery from working in a dead end job, to bring it home and dish it out so that everyone around me is cut down to size. How I would stop, put it behind me and make her happy if only she would stay.
It took her forty minutes to eradicate what it took us years to build together. Within the hour she had completely sterilised the house of her existence everything but the bed sheets. Kelly had offered to make me dinner; I’m not sure whether it was because she was still genuinely nice or whether it was to appease her conscience. Either way with Ramblin’ Rick ordered to stand outside like a dog that had pissed on the rug it was tempting. “Perhaps I could get a dessert too, make the fucker wait all night”. Kelly was a sucker for a good cause; she donated to just about every animal charity that she came across and had exhausted some of her best years taking care of me.
I declined her offer of a homemade meal. I didn’t want her on the clock; I didn’t want her looking to get away so she could take Rick home and start taking care of him. I wanted her; her to give me another shot at making her happy – even though I wasn’t entirely sure I could make myself happy. As she left I got to thinking about our first Christmas together. I was working security at shit stores in town for extra cash. She was due in Dublin for a meeting with some author she admired. I had come home cold and without hunger. This was never a good sign. By 8PM I was complaining about my throat, 10PM saw her shepherd me to bed with a hot water bottle and the hours between 3AM and 7AM would see all liquid and partial solids evacuate my body with a level of violence and force that would have left you thumbing through the Yellow Pages for an exorcist. Having made an early morning run to the twenty four hour Boots pharmacy out by Forestside Kelly would ply me full of medicine, putting me over the legal limit and sending me to sleep. As I drifted off I heard the door to the apartment go. Waking around 1PM I’d wrestle with spaghetti legs and what felt like failing kidneys to get to my feet. Kelly had left for Dublin, she’d be back that night but it meant that pees, poops and lunch was all on me. As I got to the kitchen my hang dog eyes caught glimpse of my nurse. Kelly fired a stern look my way.
“Get that ass back in bed Mister.”
Yoghurt and a banana toasty, far from fine dining but probably the most challenging thing my stomach could have expected to keep down. It felt like the best meal I’d ever had. I lay in bed as Kelly curled up next to me, taking my temperature on the hour and placating my “I’m not well!” demeanour by loading and playing the Wrestlemania DVD boxset she had been keeping for my birthday. She understood me, she even loved me and I appreciated her. Bret Hart was doing a signing one year in a book store in the centre of town; I had kept my love of the suplex and spandex under wraps until we moved in. “Oh now that you think you’ve locked this down all your geekiness comes out” she would say – I missed him on account of Gordon from Level 3 phoning in sick so he could go fishing…fucking twat. I forgot to meet her for lunch that day; I guess missing out on the chance to slap palms with the Excellence of Execution was more than my twelve year old self could deal with. I got home to a quiet house, even though her car was in its space. As the door closed Kelly appeared at the top of the hall dressed head to toe in a replica “Hitman” pink and black outfit, she even got a hold of the wrap around shades. She looked great in the plunging neck line black vest as the straps sat dangerously across her nipples – tiny hints of areola playing peak-a-boo. I had reached the summit of what life had to offer at the point – or so I thought. I was wrong though.
“Wanna come wrestle the champ?” She said.
Ok now it’s definitely the summit. I planted the flag three times that night.
A few years on and she’s standing by the same hall only this time she’s on the way out for good and has asked me to take care of myself, there was something in her voice. It was less of a conversational platitude and more like a plea to that side of myself that she’s all too aware of. The self destructive aspect of my personality that takes delight in hitting the big red button and watching my world explode simply because it can. Whether it was to combat the kamikaze self or to let him loose on the festive streets of Belfast I decided to leave the house that night. Taking the 8A Metro into the centre of town. I strolled the wet and vacant streets of Belfast until I reached the Garrick bar. One of the first things you’ll notice about Belfast is that Sundays and Festive holidays are alike, there’s fuck all open and every opportunity afforded for you to drink. It would be a novel change to get blind drunk in company; it had been a while since I had to worry about the fragility of other people’s feelings and with that in mind opted on a wide birth of all things spirit based.
The lunchtime football crowd took their time to disperse but inevitably every red and blue scarf exited disappointed from the bar as the Christmas fixture list ended with a series of unsatisfying one-one draws. As the staff transformed the wooden back bar from dark sports venue, into dark disco space I felt as though I was unwelcome. That my sunken features and general demeanour was enough to put a hex on their profits. Returning to the more comfortable surroundings of a front bar, a space more in keeping with lonely drunks and rebellious conversation I took up a seat in the corner nearest the door and ordered four Guinness “to save queuing” I tell the bar staff. As the day progresses the City Centre bar fills up with general dabblers in alcohol and eventually the night time party crowd. In desperation to look like something that resembles a functioning humanoid I scroll through my phone’s address book for someone to co-opt into socialising with me. I hadn’t noticed it before but they were all gone. Two friends had married and settled down, forcing out a gaggle of tit suckers along the way. One had moved to Paris with a girl who had been in his dorm and another had turned his back on twenty four hour shops and decent wireless internet coverage and moved out into the sticks, Fermanagh – the Deep South of Northern Ireland. Kelly’s departure signalled the final nail in what had been a glorious decade of decadence.
Eventually a hen party would arrive to spark a slither of interest, ten women in figure hugging dresses, high heels and waving pink sex toys will do that to most red blooded men. At the bar I order my standard supply of Guinness and make small talk with one of the many blondes in the party while she runs an eye over the cocktail leg in their celebration of the final night of freedom.
“You’re too young to be one of those guys.” She said.
I wasn’t entirely sure which guys she was referring to but her elaboration would reveal she meant the old men you’d find in every Irish bar who would arrive at opening, leave at closing, buy every round, cry poverty and always drink alone.
“I’m only in training.” I replied, putting my best foot forward “I’ve got the exams to look forward to though, the written is pretty straight forward but after a skinful the oral can be a real challenge.”
“I would have thought you’d be decent enough…with oral.” With that I found the majority of the blood in my body rush south for the winter.
It had been a while since I’d hear such a blatant line aloud. She shook my hand before leaving, cocktails in hand and headed back towards her friends.
“Hey!” I automatically call out, unsure what I’m going to follow it with “What’s your name?” She stares at me as she weighs up whether to answer “You know,” I continue “so that when I’m touching myself later I know what to scream.”
She laughs almost spilling the drinks. “That’s cute. Scream Mary.”
6
“Son that’s some fucked up shit goin’ on inside that head of yours!” Proclaimed Herb.
I’d been drinking with Herb, real name Gary Carlisle – a sixty year old former roadie fo
r Willie Nelson, for a few weeks. Herb’s tipple of choice was a ‘Kilt Lifter’, native beer of a brewery in Arizona, topped off with a double scotch. In the morning the grey moss-faced mountain of a man would add a raw egg to the proceedings to “wipe the slate clean” or “start the day with breakfast” depending on the ferocity of his hangover. The hangover I was convinced was fictional, as I’d never seen the old fart sober long enough for him to brew one up worth ingesting the sickly yellow looking concoction.
“You’re a dark lil shit!” He concludes.
“True dat muthafucka!” I offer Herb a fist bump but the cultural significance of my extended hand is lost on him.
I had found this safe haven, a bar called The Snake Pit situated on Melrose, by complete accident. With Rob and Jen flying off into the sunset together the experience had left me short on amigos. Enter Johnny who, when he wasn’t putting the moves on prospective lady agents in order to make him the next big thing, was a regular and reliable drinking buddy if the occasional and accidental cock blocker. Chloe had disappeared from the scene. After our night in Tokyo and a couple of days playing hide the anatomy she found the call of San Diego too much of an alluring proposition to resist. Johnny had called to propose a celebration of my freedom from all responsibility. It was something I’m sure Chloe would have shuddered at the prospect of being called. Drawing up a battle plan in the master suite of the Motel Six we agreed to meet on Melrose. I left the room with enough time to see Johnny empty a pocket full of quarters into his magic fingers coin receptacle and drop denim. As fate has it I ended up at one end of Melrose awaiting his royal tardiness while he stood swearing my name at the other. Inevitably, as I didn’t bring my phone along for the party, I gave up waiting on the Hollywood Hero and dropped into the first bar that took my fancy. It was The Snake Pit’s neon sign in the window that caught my eye, when in doubt about a logo always go for a hissing snake…always. It was the perfect Vampire bar, all darkness and leather. Motorhead’s Bastards album sounded out from an iPod connected to a set of wireless speakers behind the bar. Booths lined the left hand side, upon my entry I’m approached by Elsa, the tattooed barmaid and Queen of The Snake Pit. Outside of the bar and in her civilian clothing Elsa would be considered to be something of a cougar. Her jet black hair is in a bob cut, her wrists carry a couple of designs that I can’t really make out in the dim light of the dark bar but the Sailor Jerry-esque showgirl on her right arm is unmistakably well done.
