Big Yank accents and attitudes to match.
I said, “Might I get a couple of bucks from you guys?”
“Sir, I’m not sure you understand.”
“Sure I do but time is money and I’m a bit strapped. Caught me on a bad day.”
“Sir, this is not our policy to...”
I cut him off. I was weary of the accent already.
“You guys really are untouchable. But so as you don’t go away empty handed, we’ve got our very own Latter Day Saint and he lives right across the road. He’ll be chuffed to see you guys. Tell him Garth sent you. Have a nice day now... here’s a quarter...”
I felt better already. God works in mysterious ways OK.
If I knew Dex at all I’d be only mildly surprised to have him turn up late, wearing one of the suits. He already had their accent.
The kidnap strategy. Dex and I were going through it. I felt him eyeing me so I asked, “What?”
“How’s it to be big?”
“Excuse me?”
“To be a large guy, built like a brick shit house.”
Before I could answer, if such a thing were, he continued, “If I were built... I’d spend the time cracking skulls.”
“Jeez, what a thought. Don’t you think you might tire of it?”
“Never, I’d never get tired of kickin’ fuck outa them.”
“Them?”
“You, the others. When you’ve got my shape, you’ve got to be quick and very very unexpected.”
I laughed out loud.
“Rest easy Dex, you are both of those, in spadefuls.”
“Speaking of spades. I see Miz Lisa has a whole new sparkle... not knocked up is she?”
“Back off Dex. I don’t need a taste of the qualities you work at.”
He moved over to the sofa, stretched out and said in a quiet voice, “I’m going to tell you a story Nick.”
“Don’t feel you have to Dex.”
“Just listen up, alright. I’ve always had a mouth. No, don’t protest, I shout it off sometimes.”
Then he stopped. I waited and he said, “Shit, wish I smoked, this is a story that needs an aura of nicotine. Well, we’ll plough on. I was in a nightclub a few years back. I got into a beef with two guys... two black guys. Words were spoken. Are you with me Nick?”
“I’ve got the drift.”
But as James Joyce lamented, they weren’t the right words.
“Fuck, I did my best but they didn’t seem riled. Worse, I don’t think they took me seriously. So I threw some money down in front of them and said, ‘Hey, sorry about the hassle, have a bunch of bananas on me.’”
“Then I hope you left.”
“I scored. Fuck-knows eh. A Chinese-American lady... or was she from Hackney? It’s not relevant. I forgot about the apes.”
“They didn’t?”
“Wot, I told you this story already? I came out of the club, the lady on my arm, heavy sex on my mind, and this guy puts a knife in my heart. Now all I felt when I went down was ‘Watcha wanna do that for?’ The doctors said that you don’t live if your heart gets touched. But here I am. Is that a Country song or wot?”
“And the moral?”
“Hey Nick, it’s a story. Not a lesson. Your turn, amigo.”
“For what?”
“For a story. Here’s how it works. I’ll tell one, your turn then. Thus we bond and grow to love each other over the camp-fire. Gottit?”
“I don’t have stories.”
“Sure you do, any yarn will do. Even a bouncing one.”
“Nope, no story.”
He hopped up and seemed genuinely disappointed. I knew I’d failed some bizarre test. He said, “You’re a hard fucking trip man. But I promise you one thing. I downright guarantee it. Before this whole deal is done, you’ll have a story. Whether you fucking want it or not.”
Lisa didn’t show for two days. Then arrived, her eyes puffy. She’d been crying or getting high or both.
“Gimme a hug,” she asked.
I’m a bit awkward at that spontaneity but I gave it a shot. She wasn’t impressed.
“Call that a hug. Put yer pecker in it boy.”
It didn’t lead to sex. My fault. She got that look a women gets when they’re going to put the rough questions.
“Why did you never marry, Nick?”
“I didn’t plan not to, but one day I woke up to discover I was forty-two. It just got away from me. My career came first.”
“What career?”
“Exactly.”
“You could marry me baby.”
“I could, but I won’t.”
She flared.
“You’re such a sweet-talker Nicky. The old honeyed words. You could lie to me.”
“Why?”
“It’s called communication, to ease social interaction.”
“No Lisa, it’s called lying.”
“Didn’t you ever want to have children?”
“Nope.”
“Never?”
“No.”
That more or less put an end to that chat. I hadn’t felt like explaining. How I was afraid I’d be my father if I had a child. With my luck, a boy would grow and give me beatings. A little girl, that was the worst scenario. I knew I’d love her more than safety and she’d expose a vulnerability I couldn’t bear.
Most times I barely took care of myself. Lisa crashed early and I put her to bed. She looked almost innocent as she slept. A time later she thrashed and shouted. Most of what she said was incomprehensible but I thought she called a name a few times.
It wasn’t mine.
It sounded like Don... but I couldn’t be sure. What was certain, she was far from pleased with him. Was it “Donny”... hardly Donny Osmond though that would explain the nightmare.
Come morning, I thought I’d lay on a treat. Set the table real nice, had coffee perked, toast heating and the smell of down-home bacon. Centre of the table one red rose. Water on its petals.
Just kidding about the rose. At seven in the morning, one flower is hard to come by in Clapham.
She liked it and after she said, “I want to tell you something.”
I wanted to ask why everyone was suddenly telling me stories but decided to let it go. She began, “My mother was a lady of the night... well of any time. A hooker, or should I say prostitute. Ugly word isn’t it?”
I thought so.
Lisa played around with a crust. Moved it back and forth on her greasy plate. Her voice lost all accent, inflexion... as if she was reading a script.
“Have you noticed all these syndromes recently? Everything’s syndromised now. Perhaps I have PPSS. Wanna hazard a guess at that one?”
I could have made a reasonable shot but instinct said to keep it locked down. This wasn’t a scene for two players. I shook my head.
“Post Prostitution Stress Syndrome. Makes it sound almost respectable, yeah you could put it in a CV. Emma, that was my momma’s name. She didn’t know sheet about syndromes but she sure knew the book on stress. She used to say, ‘If I have to see one more jonny fish, I’ll vomit.’ Cute name eh Nick... what she called a prick.”
I definitely had nothing to say now. She continued, “‘I’ve seen hundreds of them and I’ve never seen one that looked nice’... that’s what Emma said. Don’t you think that’s kinda sad, Nicky? Not one pretty prick in all her years.”
I got up, made some fresh coffee. She wasn’t finished though.
“She was a nice-looking woman, but by the time I was a teenager, she’d gone down the toilet and her clients got rough. They became more interested in me. You know what I’m saying Nick?”
I poured the coffee and knew too well. She caught my wrist.
“I got good at it Nick. Is this making you hot? Want me to be a little girl for you?”
I sat down and she released my wrist. I asked, “Where’s your mother now?”
“Fuck knows. End of lesson.”