‘Buy you a drink?’ I said.
Her face slackened. She gave a tremble of negation.
‘White wine?’ I said.
‘No thanks.’
‘What’s with all this no thanks? Can’t you read? This is a singles’ bar.’
‘Excuse me!’ she said. ‘Bartender! Sir! This man is bothering me.’
‘Damn right I’m bothering you.’ I tapped her shoulder. ‘What d’you expect, kid? Why d’you come here anyway? You like the Californian Chablis or these plastic ducks they have on the wall?’
‘Hey. Hey. You. Shut up or get out.”
This was the bartender.
‘What is this? Am I the only guy in here who can read? It says singles’ bar out there, in neon. I’m single. She’s single. What’s the problem?’
‘He’s drunk.’
This was one of the loners.
‘Okay, who said that?’
I slithered lithely from my stool. This deed somehow necessitated a second manoeuvre, that of picking myself up off the floor.
‘He just had ten cocktails, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Here he’s … Put him … Get the …’
I felt several hands on my arms, a knee in my back and a tug on my rug. Well, time was travelling anyway, and I thought I might as well be moving on.
Fifteen minutes later, or it may have been twenty, I stood staring at a caged lift: the chest-flexing iron lattice, the accordion doors. I swivelled and strode up to the end of a passage. I rang the bell. I was drunk, okay, but I was getting my second wind by now. That’s the thing about drink: some of us can take it, and some of us can’t. Put another few down me and I’ll be as right as rain. I straightened my tie and guided my hair back with my hands. I rang the bell — a good long ring. Someone clattered down a wooden staircase. The door sucked open.
Ossie was standing there in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. I could see Martina down the end of the passage, aproned, with plates in her hand.
‘Hey my man!’ I croaked. ‘Was coming down a track!’
He took one step forward. ‘It’s late,’ said Ossie. Martina’s curious face appeared beyond his shoulder. Ossie said, ‘Go home, John. Just go home.’
The door cracked shut. What’s with him? I wondered. Some guys ,.. Okay, so I’m running a bit behind schedule, but… I looked at my watch. It said one-fifteen. Then I remembered something. I wasn’t only late to arrive — I was late to leave, too.
That’s right. I had already been to the dinner party. And something told me I hadn’t behaved too well.
——————
Today is my birthday. I am thirty-five years old. According to the last good book I read, this means that I am half way through my time travel, my travel through time. It doesn’t feel like that — it doesn’t feel like half way. The prestige number-plate on my Fiasco says OAP 5. I’ve got the mind of a kid, but I’m a pretty senior partner over at Rug & Gut & Gum. It feels as though I have just started out. It feels as though I am just about to end, just about to end. That’s what it feels like.
Morning came, and I got up … That doesn’t sound particularly interesting or difficult, now does it? I bet you do it all the time. Listen, though — I had a problem here. For instance, I was lying face-down under a hedge or bush or some blighted shrub in a soaked allotment full of nettles, crushed cigarette packs, used condoms and empty beercans. It was quite an appropriate place for me to be born again, which is what it felt like. Obviously it hurts, being born: that’s why you scream and weep. Next, I had to frisk myself, to make sure I still had my wallet, limbs, face, dick, being. Next, I had to run crying through the concrete concourses in dawn rain until my panic slowed and I recognized the city and myself in the matt and muffled streets. Then I had to find a cab and get back here. The guy wouldn’t take me until I showed him money. I didn’t blame him. I had dreamed — and who needs dreams with this kind of nightlife? — of torture, laughter, pincer-grips on the frail-tubed spine.