Hanging Around For Charlotte

Had I looked more closely into the black coffee I made this morning, perhaps I might have known what kind of day it would be. I only have my easily excited mind to blame.
Last night I had the pleasure of entertaining a young lady who I had met through an acquaintance of a pretty devil.
I had never seen her before yet somehow I must have, and I realised quick sharp what had happened. I'd met lust, the sweet something we all desire and think about in fantasies, in bus stations, in crowded cities and cemeteries. She was the fun-loving girl whose name I'd scratched many times on school desks, the gal in the chip shop queues that I occasionaly stared at slyly through the corner of my undressing eye. The puppy girl in my room had been with me always, but last night in my room she had been there for real.
Inbetween swigs of coffee I dragged deeply on a cigarette, switching back in my mind to the night before, remembering she had told me she would call in today. I hoped to God I'd made a good impression and found myself wishing I had been more daring, cursing silently for holding back on telling her exactly how I felt.
I stopped waiting every hour to look at the clock. Birds carried on swerving between the clouds, ignoring my pleas to join them.
I decided to fetch another packet of cigarettes from the shop around the corner. I walked for miles, tens of them it seemed, and counted eight truanting children before I'd reached the end of my street and noticed that Mrs Jenkins in number forty two had stopped ordering her milk and eggs.
Once inside the shop I waited patiently for the till lady to serve the thirty or so people in front of me, closing my eyes to try to imagine I was someplace else, away from the mob of expectant mothers, retired soldiers, alcoholics and skint hopers writing their Christmas lists on lottery tickets.
By the time I was close enough to read the morning headlines on still damp newspapers I'd been to paradise ans back.
A different route home toolk me past shop fronts, pubs and young career criminals who knew the name of every type of pill better than any chemist. The next generation. I had been one of those, and as I stepped over a sleeping cider babe I almost wretched at the danger of it all.
The sun came out when I got to my door like it had been hiding from me. It lit up the kitchen so brightly as I made another coffee (white this time) thay I thought I saw something curled up down the sink plug hole. But too occupied in listening out for a knock on my door, I covered it with the rubber plug and let it sleep.
I made for the bedroom, sitting in front of the clock like a condemned man. I chewed a cigarette, flicking through radio channels and pages of books by obscure authors.
'This is what old age must be like.' I said aloud, screwing the sixth fag into a ashtray. 'I want to be in the ground by fifty, with Abise With Me and all the mourning trimmings.' I told the blue sky as if telling God my intention. I ran my fingers over prized posessions; a planet shattering music system, collection of vintage horror films and a box of gadgets that only worked by remote control.
'Shit, I don't want to be too old to appreciate these!'
Time inched onward, the day seemed to be on its hands and knees crawling over thin ice. Again I glaned at the clock, infuriated by its laziness. Time the stubborn, merciless ruler.
A packet of felt tip pens on the desk caught my eye. I took out the purple and rattled it between my teeth. I coloured a fingernail, then scrawled the word AMBITION on the front of the local newspaper. I coloured another fingernail and replaced the pen. Taking out a black marker I dotted LOVE on my right knuckles and HATE on the left, pretending to be a bovva boy with nowhere to go because he had frightened all of the cafe boys away.
People like that, along with thieves and conmen, create their own hell on earth where it hurts the most. There is no disclipine, none at all in hard luck and bullies.
I went into the bathroom, stepping up to a window to open as wide as it would go. Looking out to see if she was approaching, I saw four crows looking like rough coal fighting over a discarded ham roll, salad spilling out like the veins and watery guts of a road kill. A crippled cola can glistened in the sun. I closed the window.
As I crossed my landing a book gave up jostling for its place on the bookshelf, falling at my feet. Taking it into the bedroom I held its cover up for inspection: 'How To Choose Your Pet'. I flicked through its pages, remembering all of the animals I had kept as a young boy: budgies, hamsters, mice, goldfish, newts, frogs, terrapins and a cat. All had found their way to my door through keen love and interest. I love cats, I have always preferred cats over dogs. A dog is too obedient and clingy, relying on their master for everything like big eared babies. But a cat! Cats do as they please, no rules, utter rebels. I understand a cats sense of humour.
Staring down at the pictures I realised I missed the company of animals. The special bond, which wavers almost to conspiracy, between man and beast.
I looked for an animal among the pages. Something that wouldn't bite, sting, scratch, howl, swim or fly. I went back to the shelf and squeezed the book back into its place, and turned to the clock again. Frustration clenched its massive hand into a fist and punched me in the face, knocking me onto my bed. I lay back, shaken and dazed then twisted my head to watch the world spin without me.
Outside a million and one things were happening; good was battling bad, junkies were getting their first score and tourists were flitting through the sky in the hope of seeing either the Queen in Britain, the pope in Italy, the Dalai Lama in the Himilayas or Oprah Winfrey in the United States. While somewhere in a shaded corner of the universe a few of Lifes great tricksters, Love, Faith, Hope and Hate, were in hysterics together, shooting pool in a smokey tavern leaving troubled souls decide their hell.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door! She had finally arrived dragging Love from the smoking Inn. Pictures of us together flooded my erratic imagination, and foolishly I chased them to the front door.
A postman stood with half a smile on his face. Where was she? I looked over his shoulder, up and down the street taking no notice of the parcel he had shoved into my trembling hands. As he turned to leave I peeked into the opening of his bag to see if she was hiding among the letters.
The door shut like a jail gate.
A parcel? For me? Could it be a pair of wings sent by the God of Mercy, or an illicit kiss stolen from a sleeping gypsy queen?
I fought with sellotape for the secret in the box, tearing, ripping, filling the air with vulgar obsceneties, then dropped my eyes to the object on my lap; 'War Time Memories', a music cassette sent with compliments from a beer company I'd never heard of.
Did people during the war really have time to record songs? Wouldn't the silence inbetween gunfire be too deafening for anything, save a chance to listen to last words from a fallen comrade? I have seen battlefield photographs and the blood only seems to amplify the quiet.
Imagine the bullet holes. Having to count them all. Or bringing comfort every sick man, woman and paper thin spirit. The horror of conflict.
The nightmare act of stealing another life and wrapping it in death was too much for me, its ghost too big and hideous. My wait for Lust was painful but could never be measured against Death from mortar fire.
I lobbed the cassette into history, making for the coffee jar and switiching on the radio in my dining room. It rarely had anything to say but it was better than listening to a tone deaf kettle.
Out of the window I saw sparrows and starlings bickering on branches, a den of thieves if ever there was. It took me on another mind trip, back to a previous life, a place where if you had a benzo prescription you were treated like a lottery winner, and tramps lauded as great storytellers. Working men frowned on the idea but they were afraid of freedom. I could see the ball and chain dogging them daily; the wife, kids, mortgage, yellowing nine to five eyes and permanant limp.
I wanted none of it, throughout my growing pains I wore my hair long, singing dirty hymns in the park with all the other errant songbirds. I dressed down but kept my head held high, forever planning my grand escape out of the septic jungle.
While the mob talked babies and company cars in the pub on fridays, I was busy creating new worlds. They scoffed at me, believing my worn out heels and sore blisters came from either begging or stealing, never to understand they came from higher agonies. Those blisters, together with my haggard appearance were born out of a faith that the dreams Id had as a cub would not wither on a starving bone, and I'd fought hand in scabbed hand with hunger to keep them all alive.
Kettle steam suddenly misted over my reflections, I pulled away from the window, prepared a caffiene shot and went into the television room. It was always filled with the aroma of fresh fruit from the wooden bowl, whenever I opened the door I got a short dizzy high from it, similar to a pill buzz and for a minute I stood with a silly grin on my face before sinking into the blood red sofa.
Images on the tv tossed and turned at my command, never catching my attention fully. Cookery programmes, soap operas, quiz shows, 24 hour news, black & white films, all tried in vain to lure me into their wretched tedium by dressing it up in short skirts, scandal and occasional exclusive.
Sipping at the mug I expected a knock at the door to arrive any moment like a creak in the floorboards at night. A child driven mad by time.
An American chat show appeared from the debris of advertisements in a blaze of jazz trumpets. Iys audience was made up of struggling housewives mingled with secyions of grunge kids and pensioners. All whooped and cheered as the host emerged from the stage curtain, forked tail in tow.
I noticed two young women sitting behind him on tall stools as cameras pickout waving and back to front baseball caps. One brunette, the other blonde sporting a crayoned beauty spot like Marilyn. Both looked dumb enough to make a career in cartoons.
I watched in disbelief, allowing my coffee to go cold, as the two girls fought and argued over the same man, while the host stood among his audience, arms folded, chin between finger and thumb. The man was unveiled next, a cruel, hard looking type in cheap shoes and crooked tie. Every story needs a villian.
He took his place on a perch, between his women, barely saying a word throughout the money spectacle, as they continued spitting insults at each other over his shoulders and sat in silence like a soft drink in a room full of alcoholics. Unwanted, yet wanted very much; the misfit on posters of old western movies.
The circus rolled on letting all beasts of the heart loose to wander free, howling all; envy, spite, hatred, every kind of bitch was unleashed. At one point I actually believed I could physically see the sweet nothings and intimate strokes these people onstage must have shared, scurrying around the floor, desperate for a hiding place.
The moon, great keeper of secrets had joined forces with the sun it seemed, and together they shone until all three, two sheep and a hungry dog, were utterly naked.
Stripped to their souls like bad hangovers, they were the sorriest looking rascals this side of lunacy. Dignity obviously alien to them and before the grinning host could crack his whip to begin another shootout I blew his tongue off its hinge with the television wand.
I peeked through the curtains at the slow world to check if my girl was sitting on my backdoor steps; nothing. Then turned around and looked at myself in the mirror above the fireplace. Who is this guy? I thought.
The reflection flickered like flame and I found myself trying to mentally chew off any bit of me that was unflattering, tasting the butter of vanity that had turned me fat. A moody disco Narcissus.
I stared at the thinning hair with specks of white; scars which I'd gotten from days in the underworld, eyes ringed like handcuffs, body like a brewery, smokers cough, twisted tongue, beard that looked like a massacre, dirty fingernails, the entire shebang in framed glass.
'You look like a fry up.' I told the ruffian in front of me, digging my long nails into hairy palms.
Boredom was laying the mustard deep toay. Any minute rigor mortis would set in, stinging like hell. I felt as if I were wearing clowns face paint and sifted through my tension for the next caper, another way to score a buzz.
I fished my wallet out from a porcelain teapot that had never once been used for tea, only gin. There was no money inside, like the tea there never had been. Whenever I had cash I kept it folded in a breast pocket of my shirt, pinning the flash gangster style down.
I knelt down and placed the contents in a line on the sofa. Two library cards, yellowing receipts, a London tube ticket, a fake coin I recieved from A.A. for a months terrible sobriety and a postcard from somewhere to remind me of anywhere.
Each had a whiff of gin about them but the fake coin with its superior looking shine smelt strongest. I gathered them all up and tipped them back into the pot. Ashtray relics.