‘Hey, John,’ he called from the other side of the fence. ‘Hey, addict!’ Beside him an old man stood waving at no one that I could see.
‘What?’
‘Come here.’
He beckoned. I came panting up to him.
‘What?’
‘Selina. She’s fucking someone else — a lot, all the time.’
‘Oh you liar.” And I think I even took a weary swipe at his face. Alec is always doing things like this.
‘I thought you ought to know,’ he said offendedly. He smiled. ‘Round from the back, one leg up, her on top. Every which way.’
‘Oh yeah? Who? You liar. Why are you — who, who, who?’
But he wouldn’t tell me. He just said that it had been going on for a long time, and that it was someone I knew pretty well.
‘You,’ I said, and turned, and ran …
There. I don’t feel better. I don’t feel better at all. I’m rolling over now, to try and get some sleep. London is waking up. So is Selina. The distant fizz or whistle or hiss in the back of my head is starting again, modulating slowly, searching for its scale.
——————
Oh man sometimes I wake up feel like a cat runover.
Are you familiar with the stoical aspects of hard drinking, of heavy drinking? Oh it’s heavy. Oh it’s hard. It isn’t easy. Jesus, I never meant me any harm. All I wanted was a good time.
The disease I host called tinnitus — more reliable and above all cheaper than any alarm call — woke me promptly at nine. Tinnitus woke me on a note of high exasperation, as if it had been trying to wake me for hours. I let my sapless tongue creak up to check out the swelling on my upper west side. About the same, yet tenderer. My throat informed me that I had a snout hangover on, too. The first cigarette would light a trail of gunpowder to the holster, the arsenal inside my chest. I patted my pockets and lit it anyway.
Ten minutes later I came out of that can on all fours, a pale and very penitent crocodile, really sorry about all that stagnant gook and offal I went and quaffed last night. I’d just rolled on my back and was loosening my tie and unbuttoning my shirt when the telephone rang.
‘John? Lorne Guyland.’
‘Lorne!’ I said. Christ, what a croak it was. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m good, John. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, fine.’
That’s good, John. John?’
‘Lorne?’
‘There are things that worry me, John.’
‘Tell me about them, Lorne.’
‘I don’t happen to be an old man, John.’
‘I know that, Lorne.’
‘I’m in great shape. Never better.’
‘I’m glad, Lorne.’
‘That’s why I don’t like it that you say I’m an old man, John.’
‘But I don’t say that, Lorne.’
‘Well okay. You imply it, John, and that’s, it’s, that’s about the same thing. In my book. You also imply that I’m not very sexually active and can’t satisfy my women. That’s just not true, John.’
‘I’m sure it’s not true, Lorne.’
‘Then why imply it? John, I think we should meet and talk about these things. I hate to talk on the telephone.’
‘Absolutely. When?’
‘I’m a very busy man, John.’
‘I respect that, Lorne.’
‘You can’t expect me to just drop everything, just to, just to meet with you, John.’
‘Of course not, Lorne.’
‘I lead a full life, John. Full and active. Superactive, John. Six o’clock I’m at the health club. When my programme’s done I hit the mat with my judo instructor. Afternoons I work out with the weights. When I’m at the house, it’s golf, tennis, water-skiing, scuba-diving, racquet-ball and polo. You know, John, sometimes I just get out on that beach and run like a kid. The girls, these chicks I have at the house, when I run in late they scold me, John, like I was a little boy. Then I’m up half the night screwing. Take yesterday …’
It went on like this, I swear to God, for an hour and a half. After a while I fell silent. This had no effect on anything. So in the end I just sat through it, smoking cigarettes and having a really bad time.