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Take yesterday.
Eleven forty-five, and I strolled into the Jack the Ripper, the roughest and least local of my many locals. The dump wasn’t that crowded: the girl behind the bar just kept disappearing and failing to meet my eye. Two or three new arrivals were greeted, listened to, obeyed, given drinks and change — without any acknowledgement of my cocked fiver and strident excuse mes. Well, I’m not one to soldier on with this kind of treatment.
‘How about it?’ I said loudly. ‘I mean, what are my chances, If I stick around for a couple more months?’
People turned, but the barmaid did not turn. She went to the till, which jounced and jingled at her bidding. She swivelled primly—she wasn’t one of nature’s barmaids — and held up the change just past my face, which was boiling now, as she saw.
‘We’re not serving you,’ she announced. Her face wavered. Then she looked into my eyes. Her face, its small universe, was all present and correct. Along the bar people perked up their interest.
As it was, even when I stepped in here, I wanted a drink quite badly. And that was five minutes ago.
‘You’re WHAT?’ I said. ‘Why? Who says? Why?’
‘Not after last night.’
‘What do you mean, last night? I wasn’t even in here last night.’
‘You don’t even remember, you were that drunk. Jerome!’ she called. ‘Jerome!’
Jerome, the blue-jeaned bumboy with earring and dyed blonde hair, cruised over from his toytown window-display of pie-warmers and bean-blasters.
‘Yeah?’
This was Jerome’s contribution. The girl had begun to busy herself elsewhere. Over her shoulder she now said, ‘Tell him. He was the one last night.’
‘What’s all this last-night shit?’ I said. ‘I just told you, I wasn’t even in here last night.’
‘Hang about,’ said Jerome. ‘Here Flora, it was the night before last.’
‘Sunday night.’
‘What are we today then?’
‘Monday,’ said Flora. ‘It was last night.’
‘Well which was it?’ I said. ‘You work in a fucking pub all day, you can’t remember either.’
‘He smashed the machine,’ Flora told Jerome, who crossed his arms unhappily. ‘Then he had a go at Mr Beveridge. Then he made obscene suggestions to me.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Jerome.
‘Hey. Jerome. You. Fuck off,’ I said. ‘Flora. Come here. Come here.’
Flora also crossed her arms. ‘I’m not going near that one,’ she said.
I dropped my head. I drew in breath. Tears formed. Boy, did I need a drink. I wanted to tell them that I had great trouble with my eyes and rug and heart, and that I was friendly with Lorne Guyland and Butch Beausoleil. More attractively, though, a lumpy clutch of beer glasses stood on the bar before me. With two spread hands I shoved them over the side. They took quite a time to fall, and by then I was half way to the door. ‘You stay out!’ I heard Flora yell as I shouldered my way into the air.
There were two more pubs near by, the Butcher’s Arms and the Jesus Christ. The annoying thing was that I was banned from these joints too. So I checked in to the Pizza Pit. I sat in this crepuscular caravan with a tub of red wine, and with a Big Sharp One sizzling unregarded on its platter. Sunday night… terrible to the touch. Or was it Saturday night? I killed another carafe, then crossed the road in search of some proper grub. With the aid of a long line of lagers, I consumed three Waistwatchers, two Seckburgers, an American Way and a double order of Tuckleberry Pie. But hang on a minute… Do you think I might have left anything out?
After lunch I recrossed the road to the newsagents, and took my place at the wailing wall of the pornography section. As in any library, the material is arranged to suit the specialist: there are magazines featuring chicks with big tits, there are magazines featuring chicks in silk and lace and garter-belts, there are magazines featuring chicks getting roughed up. Boy, are there a lot of magazines featuring chicks getting roughed up. You’d think the punters could get by with a mere half-dozen of these monthly publications, but no, they need more. Pornography has a smell, a special odour. I think it comes from the treated paper the barons use. The smell of pornography is arid, acrid, the smell of headaches and wax… I had just taken another look at Debonair—at Vron, my future stepmother. My future stepmother has a pair on her, no doubt about it. She could even cut the mustard in one of the magazines specifically featuring chicks with big tits. I replaced Debonair and picked up Lovedolls, Take it from me, they don’t come much dirtier than Lovedolls, not in England, not legally. So there I was, muttering in a low grumble and torpidly flipping through the pages, shoulders up, head down — when to the sound of a loud handclap the splayed centre-spread was violently dashed from my grip.