Tension seemed to be mounting in the household, but at the same time I felt like I was getting my shit together. I kind of think there is a balance in life, at least in my life. I mean that as problems develop, the resources to deal with them seem to appear. I’m crapping on a bit. What I really mean is that when I’ve got some cash in my pocket I feel like I can do anything.
The one thing that I like best in life is having a really big night. What we call in Australia, “getting on it”. The “it”, refers generally to alcohol. If you were being crass, you would probably say “getting on the piss”. But to me “it” is something more than that. The “it ” is like a circus ride, or a special place or an attitude to life. It’s a commitment to a different way of thinking, often made by a group of people, but can be done alone. An agreement to go on a journey that doesn’t really have a begging and has an extremely vague end point. It’s like the great man Steinbeck describes in Tortilla Flat, about how different levels of drunkenness are reached at different points of the bottle. And beyond a cirtain point, anything can happen. Getting on it, for me, is all holding hands and running past that point. And this is my favourite thing.
My first pay arrived the following Friday and I was hanging to get on it. Em was working and then going strait to a Salsa dancing lesson. No doubt with that skinny Irish bloke. I was invited but couldn’t really be bothered sitting around waiting for them to finish. We had our phones though and had a vague idea that we might meet up later.
I didn’t really know anyone else to drink with but I wasn’t worried about going out by myself. A lot less complicated anyway.
The best thing about London is the pubs. Actually it’s the best thing about the U.K genereally but I didn’t know it at the time as I hadn’t left the capitol.
I arrived home from some school I’d been working at in the north and quickly changed into some clothes that I felt comfortable drinking in. 15 minutes later I walked out the door wearing my favourite tight black cords, my white Puma street shoes, a plain tight gray T – shirt and my oversize down jacket. I’d thought about bringing a book, or even getting a newspaper but decided against it. Too closed off. I wanted to be open to people.
I went into the first bar that I came across on the other side of the park. It was a big space with lots of pool tables. The Friday night crowd had already gathered and there was a lively drinking vibe. At the bar I was greeted very politely by a saggy looking middle aged blond.
“What would you like darling?”
“A pint of guiness please”
“A pint of guiness was it dear?” She hadn’t understood my accent.
“Yes thank you.”
She pored it expertly, serving someone else between the two pours. I watched the creamy bubbles slowly rise towards the top like a two toned Irish lava lamp, and my mind emptied of all other thoughts.
“That’ll be two fourty thanks love.”
I handed her one of my very hard earned twenty pound notes and took a long pull of the extra cold happiness.
“Thank you darling” she concluded, handing me my change.
Now I’m not one for the use of manners as a general way of living. I like to be informal about nearly everything. But the polite deferential respect that this woman showed me made me almost giggle with good will towards her. Like asking directions at the train station. “Yes sir.” “Its over there sir” “Platform 3 sir” “Anything else I can do sir?”
I felt like a lord.
I took a seat on a bar stool, placed my jacket underneath me and positioned myself such that I could see the telly.
I took in the smell of fresh smoke and old smoke and damp in the carpet, the noise of strange accents, the hot bath like over heating, football highlights on the screen, money in my pocket and a really cold beer. I felt that the night was starting well.
During the second pint I started to reflect a little on my life. Ben didn’t seem threatening anymore, if in fact he ever did. He still really interested me as a character though. The longer we’d lived with him he became even stranger because nothing new was ever revealed about his life or his past. I’m prone to day dreaming, especially when I’m teaching, and I’d imagine all kinds of possible backgrounds for him. Could he be an ex con? Maybe he was in a witness protection program? Was he a government agent, living incognito whist infiltrating terrorists in the North London area? Was he a transvestite that pranced around in Emma’s clothes when we were out of the house?
He’d held up fairly well since his accident and was due to go back to work on Monday. Annoyingly though, since he’d asked about my writing, he had taken the lab top into his room and we hadn’t been able to use it. He said it was because his computer needed fixing. It made me a little nervous but I was sure that I had deleted all that I had written about him. So what anyway? Wasn’t my fault he was a twat.
After my fourth pint I was ready to change scenery, when someone I recognized walked through the door.
