Hanging Around For Charlotte (prt 2)

I paced about the room feeling animal-like, stopping at certain ornaments my mother had left when she closed the door on her life with father. Cruel bitch but I loved her dearly. In fact I had inherited a lot from her from both sides of the coin. On one side she was genorous, loving, caring, never willing to let anyone down. Whilst on the darker side she was hot tempered, volatile and quick to outbursts with a razor tongue. She could be vain and attention seeking, and needing everything yesterday.
I was carbon copy of my mother, and like her could provoke an argument between two innocent by standers then take both their sides.
We had the same mind wiring, both prone to fits of jealousy and rage, yet fortunately instilled by a noble restraint. This I believe was our belief in spirituality, and a tendency to run to God when in need of respite. God not church. I only ever saw the inside of church when some poor soul had given up his earthly bones.
Finally I sat back down, reviving the idiot box again. Something of interest had to be on. I sailed through the channels as Captain Ahab, desperately hunting for a programme that would scream out of the screen like a deranged maniac and hold me transfixed as it slaughtered a few dismal hours.
Lighting a cigarette I began tapping at the tv clicker as if I were a paranoid author with a bee in his bonnet which would sting him on the ass if he didn't get it out.
One channel was showing adverts for flatter stomachs, another yawned the same old news, the next was busy trying to sell Jesus to the masses, whilst a fourth was holding a debate on the demon nicotine and sending smokers to hell without sermon.
I took a heavy drag on my own cancer stick and blew out my opinion in a smoke shaped exclamation mark. Was I not free to choose the colour of my death? Or the shape of my coffin? We needed more freedom fighters, there was too many full stops in the world and not nearly enough exclamation marks. But I wasn't going to allow my randy self to get into turmoil over it. I felt passionately about the things I feel strongly about, the problem was that the things I feel strongly about didn't have much passion.
I stuffed a video cassette into the sleek looking machine under the television. Irritatingly we are able to reduce the bulk of inanimate boxes of wire and chips, whilst we ourselves are over burdened with conscience and guilt. Ballooning like sunday magazine tripe.
As the films title, along with the names of actors, producers, make up artists, dolly grips and of course director rolled up screen, I placed the ashtray on the floor and sat next to it, stretching out my legs until they almost reched the fireplace and rested a diary on my lap.
While drama unfolded amidst explosions and blood stained 'f**k yous', i recorded the days non-events neatly into my favourite book, often straying into fantasy, willing myself to stay.
In frustration, in waiting for uncertainty I painted myself into another world, where bats flew with stockinged angels bringing them wine and diamonds, making the gunfire onscreen a distant blur. In fact the best thing I saw of the movie had been a neat copyright logo at the end.
i killed both television and its slick partner together. It was time to try a different kind of entertainment, one which would caress the hours, not beat them cruelly.
I considered masturbating but the incessant noise from traffic outside irritated. I yelled in an attempt to forget about the world beyond my door, then hollered some more. This time at my penis, wishing it would stir an inner most desire. It was useless, the constant revving of motorbikes and bleating of car horns made the sweet seductress and her lusty songs inaudible. I nudged her away from thought, fading her out like I was standing on a river bank watching somebody slowly drown.
I felt my teeth clench and noticed that my hands had curled at my side, forming hammer-like balls. The wait, time with its unforgiving STOP & GO signs was becoming more intolerable with each second. Idle memories I thought long buried came rushing back, driving me almost crazy.
I went upstairs. Then down again, roaming the house as if searching for new rooms to rest in. I visited the kitchen again, and peeked inside my fridge. The smell of mature cheese almost over powered me as I rummaged through different foods, a zombie in a quest for flesh. Milk bottles clanged as I shut the door, sending shivers down my spine: was I really in prison?
I came to a halt in the hallway, and stood in limbo, gazing at the sleeping telephone. Was anyone out there? Any life on planet earth?
My bedroom called out to me and I heeded it, sitting on the bed. Suddenly voices erupted around the walls, and for a split second I thought I had sat on a nest of leprechauns, upsetting some weird ritual. Feeling something dig into my spine I sat up bolt right, shaking frayed nerves to pieces in the process. The remote control which operated the stereo lay embedded into my duvet. No disgruntled leprechauns, no aliens, nothing. But the nothing wailed in agony.
I picked up the plastic control pad, hit the OFF button then threw the damned thingonto a nearby armchair, at the same flinging myself back onto my bed.
But for severe insomnia, which was even more potent during daytime hours, I might have tried sleeping. Instead I placed my hands behind my head and stared at the ceiling. A jail snapshot: all I needed was a shirt with painted arrows and a guard outside the door. A regular movie scene.
I whistled a few tunes, remembering sorry souls on deserted railway stations doing the same. More power to the patient and glory to the mad: I was waiting on this station forever.
A gree tobacco tin caught my eye on the window sill next to my bed, and when I picked it up I heard something rattle inside. Another mysterious phantom? I tugged at the stubborn lid and out fell eight familar blue tablets. Valium!
During the last few days of late nights and coffee mornings I had forgotten all about them, now here they were! Little soverigns of joy.
The day was about to start tripping on the other foot.
I replaced the pills and started to prepare what was my 'Benzo Ritual'. A simple routine requiring only three things to bring the valium to life: good music (opera is too loud, guitars are fine), fresh tea (extra sweet) and mnost important of all, time. Twenty minutes to be precise to allow the chalk from the tablet dissolve into serenity.
Taking benzos thrilled me always, and while I waited impatiently for the trusty kettle to boil I imagined swans alighting on my shoulder blades and cherubims skipping in my heart. I was dizzy as I stirred the sugar, like I was posing in a graveyard.
Wasting no time music seeped through velvet faced speakers.
As soft music began to drip from walls, I sat on the bed, a cup of tea in one hand and the outlaw pills in the other. Taking a gulf of tea first to wet my eager mouth, I bolted the eight valium down my sugary throat. It took only five minutes to go through the 'Ritual' but during that time I felt like an escaped madman, thrilled by freedom but a little afraid. Not of the chemical but of reality. Then when at last I felt the bennies slide down, I settled and sipped the rest of the tea, refined and composed. A lady at a tea party.
Another chapter turned in my head. It would last at most, half an hour and would lead me into a garden songbirds, ghosts and inhibition.
Knowing the pills were flowing through my excited system, trying to find my brain, I looked around the bedroom, then out the window at the outside world to see if I could ignite my oncoming dose, and quicken the silent fireworks that would have me burn in merriment. But as I hunted for methods to entice the tranquilisers, I heard a whisper in a corner of my mind, 'let it take you by suprise, only then follow the groovy creep.'
I stood up, ignoring it, trying to force my blood to absorb the bennies. Excited symphonies lurked just below the cream.
My wandering eyes found the aquarium that I had placed out of sunlights reach. This was the kiddie! The trick! I thought, as I picked out a fish to follow around the tank. I chose the most graceful and watched him swim and dive, occasionaly coming close to my face almost pressed againt the glass, miming a shout at me. Looking at all six fish collectively, they resembled sherriff's badges in the wild west, each one looking like they'd been shot as they sank to the coloured gravel.
Minutes later I felt a gentle surge rise within my body. The voice had been right, bliss had arrived when I had been least aware and giddy child it felt perfect! Falling to my knees I thanked the chemical magician for his charming suprise.
Torrents of peace swept over mind, bones and muscle; washing away worry and sweeping all troubles under their blue crests. I hear anxiety shriek as it ran powerless to its dungeon. I felt doubt disappear and confidence race to the surface. My fretful wait for a frigid lover through the keyhole, I waved it on its way then stood, arms out-stretched savouring delicious freedom.
My home was truly a kingdom now! I wandered again into every room experiencing different atmospheres. Miserable ornaments looked cheerful, I gathered stagnant dust from shelves, holding it in the palm of my hands as if I were cradling velvet death.
In rooms hidden from sunlight I saw legends on fire in the shadows and dark visions crawl the walls, so I moved on into rooms where the sun was strongest and sat cross legged in the middle of the floor like an exposed shaman.
Under the benzo's powerful spell I had keys to doors that were always closed to the timid. In this humble home on a busy, quiet road in the heart of Spring, were doors which lead to Sodom & Gomorrah and beyond. And I was taxi driver for the curious.
I went to to the window overlooking the main road and saw a woman pass, laden down with weekly shopping. While watching her struggle I felt a grin spread over my mouth which suddenly vanished as quick as it had come. Could this be a sign? Was this woman with her awkward steps a glimpse of myself in decades to come? She might even be a bizarre symbol of years of addiction?
I drew the heavy curtains, screwing up the thought like waste paper.
The room was dark now, I walked into another one and it too had an inky mist. A drowsy feeling fell upon my skin and I realised with great sadness that sleep was about to descend, stealing away my wicked perceptions, leaving me dumb to rest, as dumb and naked as a babe in arms.
I made my way slowly to the bathroom, feeling the impending dull as I walked with head bowed. The fancy footwork had gone, I heaved up my stairs and slithered into the bathroom.
The mirror was carboard now. I noticed my crown of morpheus was crooked, slipping to one side. My eyelids were closing, the tap water scalpel sharp, ice-like.
I watched it gush from the tap, a ghoul staring at freshly opened arteries in an accident, then cupped my hands, giving my face several slaps with the water, hoping like hell it would revive the anaesthetic kiss.
Gone. All was lost. There was nothing I could do but watch my serenity ebb away from my mind, and get sucked into the plug hole.
Pulling my face out of the bowl, sleeps whiskers brushed over me. In the background Puccini was bringing a mixture of emotions to life, I was oblivious to them all.
I stepped into the empty bath to relax. It reminded me of a coffin as I attempted to get comfortable. Within minutes I was asleep. My carcass dead as sand as my mind strayed into the mad realm.
I came to in a library, no different than a million other libraries. Everything looked straight and sober and in its place, a well behaved rehab clinic. Counting three other people I wondered if they too had arrived with the help of a pharmacist.
The librarian, a plump woman in her fifties was busy stamping every book she laid her porky fingers on, while the other two shuffled sideways along the shelves, both their heads tilted almost to their shoulders looking like crabs engaged in a strange dance.
I giggled and all of a sudden a mighty 'Ssh!' escaped from the librarians red flabby lips, and I felt the gazes of the dancing crustaceans burn into my back. What the hell is this place? I thought to myself, fearing also they might be able to eavesdrop on my mind.
I wandered to the children's section and began looking for a book I hadn't read as a child. I pulled a Enid Blyton from its nest and fumbled through the pages.
Suddenly I was made aware of another presence and turned to see two children, a boy and girl both around eight years old, sitting on a cute ladybird sofa in direct sunlight streaming in from a bay window. Not a single book in sight.
They were locked in an embrace, ignoring me completely. As I stared I felt a warm buzz in my gut rise like fever, while a feral jackdaw coughed roughly in a pine tree outside.
Dashing the sinister requeim, I replaced it with curiosity while the fumbling couple continued their forbidden kisses. The boy was familiar to me.
It stayed this way for a time, as if my dream had stalled and trapped me inside the very heart of romance. A potent brew, innocence and daring.
Finally I tore my eyes from the couple and noticed a sign above the library exit: God is Love, Love is Power. An odd sign for a book temple. These were places notorious for their love of peace and quiet, almost DEMANDING them yet this sign seemed to yell at me louder than a storm.
'Funny old thing,' I whispered, dropping my eyes onto the still open pages of a Blyton in my paw.
I was barely into the fourth paragraph when I heard a sound like a pin drop from the direction of the young lovers. I glanced over and was shocked to see them no longer snuggling into each other but sitting quite a distance apart. Both were looking down at the floor, hiding an obvious sorrow.
Something glinted at the boys feet. It was the pin I had heard moments earlier, but was not actually pin at all. As I focused on the shining article I saw it was a single tear, still wet but solid looking. The boy wept hard, a little imp of sadness.