Chapter 1: Miles…The basic economic problem – scarcity
Chapter 2: Miles … A diverse portfolio
Chapter 3: Miles … All quiet on the western front
Chapter 4: Grace … Norman Fucking Rockwell
Chapter 5: Paddy … The Fellowship of the ring
Chapter 6: Grace … Catch me if you can
Chapter 7: Levi … Saturday Night Fever
Chapter 1: Miles…The Basic Economic Problem – Scarcity
Life moves pretty fast. Too fast sometimes, you know?
Ferris Bueller was spot on with that one. The poetic wisdom of youth.
Some people just live a bit harder than everyone else. It all just matters a bit more to them, you know? Every second, moment, smile, wave, hug, kiss. Hello and goodbye. It's all just so. Important.
You just want to remember it all. Every bit of it. Wallow in it. Have it stick to your skin and walk round with you. But that's the funny thing. You can’t. And no matter how hard you try, you never will be able to. Bits of it will always leave you. Pass you by. You’re left with warped glimpses of nights you said you’d never forget. Fading memories of people you said you’d always love. And no matter what you do, and how much you run away from it, you will never be able to slow it down. We’re all fucked. All of us. It's an incurable disease. The passage of time.
So, what's the solution? Slow things down. Enjoy yourself. Take in every last second of it. Every kiss, every cry, every fuck, every drug, every love. Cherish it all. You regret the shit you don’t do far more. Live on your own terms. When time breathes down your neck, feel a sense of relief in that you splashed about. Got wet. You didn’t just stand around the edge of pool with your trousers rolled up, hoping someone might push you in.
Do what you want, when you want. Worry about it in the morning after. They’re always causing disaster anyway.
Fuck them. Whoever they are, fuck them. Because they’re not like us. Me and you. So, who are they to judge. They just don’t get it. And that’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Worrying about it wastes some of that valuable time. And you certainly don’t want to be losing any more of that than you have to.
And don’t spend too much time waiting around. Which is a fairly ironic comment given my current predicament.
Jimmy and Oli are expecting something brilliant from me here. A class bit of tradesmanship. The power of the man with the phone numbers. I must admit I do have a knack for this sort of thing. The dodgy side of life. It doesn’t appeal to me at all though if I’m being honest. Acquisition of illegalities is a fucking effort.
‘Fuck. Straight to voicemail.’
‘Ring again then’.
Brilliant idea Oli. Fantastic even. The lack of comprehension of the way these things work is bemusing. If at any point he was going to sell us these pills, he’ll certainly be less fucking likely to once he sees we’ve blown up his phone with 67 missed calls. Bait as fuck. No ones that desperate for anything. Subsequently, being a paranoid lunatic as most dealers are, we will give him the immediate conclusion a polis has got hold of his number and is having a crack at a game of catchy kissy. That’s something you don’t want to do. That’s a very simple way to get blacklisted by your most reliable source of extra-curricular supplements.
‘Fuck off’ - ah yes, stern. Well done, Miles. He might take a fucking hint.
‘That’ll be a fourth time and I don’t want to piss the cunt off. You ring him if you’re so keen. Here’s the number’.
Leave him to his own devices. If he takes you up on your offer, brilliant. Saves you a job. Of course he won’t though. He’s not got the bollocks or the ability to be arsed enough to do so. Taking drugs is fine, but for people like Oli associating yourself with dealers is a step too far into that world. Diplomatic approach, I guess.
‘He’s supposed to be your mate, not mine. Then again, you think everyone is your fucking mate’.
AHA. You’ve got me there Oli. A real lyricism and wit to your measly attempt at an insult. Satire has always been a strong suit of yours.
‘He’s more of an associate, and anyways, there’s no harm in trying someone else’.
There certainly is harm in trying someone else. The further down the supply chain you go the more risk and uncertainty you deal with. But I’ve played that off well. Shoot him a grin filled with seduction and optimism. Whichever long gone ancestor blessed me with such charm will be beaming down on me from above with pride. The reality of it however is that our options are now limited. That also means the people we are left with to buy from become increasingly dodgier.
‘Who the fuck else is there, that isn’t gonna bump us, rob us or send us on a one-way trip to the RVI with their shit cowies. Its 7-o clock now Miles, we’re already fucking pushing it for time if we’re gonna get this shit in for tonight.’
One thing he is impressively good at is stating the obvious. I know that you, fucking clampet. No need to rub salt in the wounds.
‘Fuck it, I’ve got a number kicking about somewhere for the Stannipa lot, at least they’re local, gives us more time to work with’.
A sentence 15-year-old me probably hoped I'd never usher again. Desperate times desperate measures. Probably how the allies felt being on the same side as Stalin through the second world war.
‘The stannipa lot are ye fucking havin’ me on, well I’m not gan with you, fuck that, they’re lunatics.’
And that is probably how Roosevelt reacted when Churchill invited Stalin to Potsdam in 1943.
‘Aye, but their stuffs alright though. Jimbo can come with me; he’s not said a fucking word for the last 5 minutes.’
And this is why I love Jimmy. You can’t piss anyone off with silence. There’s no stupidity about it or mistimed remarks. Bigmouth certainly does not strike again. He’s wise beyond his years. I really admire that about him sometimes.
’No’. ‘Yes’.
‘Fuck sake, can you not just go yourself, I’m not even after any pills.’ He knows he’s going to end up coming with me. He just needs the fact he argued against it as a sort of morale peace of mind for himself, and so if anything goes wrong, he has the immortal high ground of “I told you so”.
‘Think of the guilt you’ll feel Jimbo when I come back from that place with a punctured lung, and I tell your mother you abandoned me at the peak of the action while I’m playing her like a fiddle as she comforts me from side of a hospital bed. You know that’s definitely how it would play out too. You can see the defeat in your eyes.’
Yes, that’s right. Play on the heartstrings. I’ve got him by the balls. His hamartia. The fact he is simply too nice.
‘Fuck sake. Whys it always me gan to meet fucking dodgy people in dodgy places wi you, always fucking me’.
‘Because you my dear friend are my closest companion, and your ugly mug and tall stature make you fairly intimidating, plus if shit kicks off you’re a lot better with your hands than I am, and on top of that you get to absorb my wisdom and intelligence for slightly longer than any of these cunts, making you by default the second most intelligent member of our little group’.
‘Means, I have to put up with your incessant bullshit for longer than anyone else’.
‘In other words, yes. Yes, it does Jimmy boy’.
Gotchya.
‘On that note, where the fucks johnny, said he’d be 5 minutes half an hour ago’.
He’s not fucking wrong. That kid wouldn’t know the time if it was plastered on his fucking forehead, and he was in a room full of mirrors.
‘Probably wanking, or walking his dog, or doing a combination of both’.
His two most used excuses for where he is mashed into one perfectly timed jibe. An almost rehearsed chuckle greets the slight on Johnny’s name. I am undoubtedly hilarious at times.
‘Lazy prick has no concept of time, would turn up late to his mother’s funeral then when brought up on it he’d try gaslight you into believing there was no need for him to be there in the first place’. Again, another round of the chuckles.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Message.
‘Carl says he’s gonna meet us back at mine in a couple of hours.’
‘He’ll be with Izzy again’.
‘Well that’s convenient for him and all, lying there shagging whilst we retrieve his party supplements, all for him to leisurely drop in once he fancies’.
‘Bastard’.
Do you blame him. I fucking don’t. He’s successfully weaseled himself out of the most difficult and frustrating part of the process. The waiting around bits. Of course, we can act hard done by, but we know in his position we would all do the same.
We huddle under a bus top in the pissing rain, on the corner of wingrove road that joins on to nuns moor road, the twelve whizzing past us on its way into town, parallel to the age withered Medina grocery store. A sort of checkpoint Charlie between Fenham and Arthur’s hill.
I’m sat, with the other two stood over me, eagerly awaiting a response from the other end of the line. A cigarette makes its way from the box in my pocket to my mouth, soon followed my light and a deep inhalation of smoke. Fucking bliss that. Like a breath of fresh air. Never really been one for nicotine but fuck me a snout when you’ve got a bit on your mind to contend with doesn’t go a miss.
Jimmy and Oli man. I fucking love them to bits but they don’t half make me tense in situations like this. Their lack of assurance that I’ll be able to sort this ticks me off. Have I ever had it fall through before? Of course not.
The two of them are similar in ways, yet at the same time so different. Jimmy is a much more wholesome character than the rest of us. I’ve known him my whole waking life, a prefixed result due to our disposition as neighbors. His actual name is Frank, yet everyone calls him Jimmy, just like his dad. Jimbo’s tall, with a good build. An innocent face with a welcoming smile, with fluffy blonde hair. He’s got no real appetite for drugs and certainly does far less of them than us lot. He’s smart too. He wasn’t always as smart as me but in recent years he’s picked up the pace cause he actually fucking tries in school. And I mean fair play. Only gonna benefit him in the long run. Nowt wrong with trying if that’s what your after. Just some cunts aren’t cut out for it. Me per say.
He cares far less about the shitty little edgy bits the rest of us like. Electronic music and all that shite. Cares more about the bigger things in life like what people think of him as a human being. Again. Fucking fair enough. Aye the righteousness is arguably a bit fucking wet at times but its only gonna benefit him in the long run. He’s better than the rest of us shitters. He might actually make it to heaven. He sports a white Fred Perry polo beneath a pretty green windbreaker, with straight leg, stone island jeans and adidas sambas. Classy man. Sorta got that football casuals look about him but with a sort of cool hippy twang. Adopted that from his dad and all. Blokes fucking ahead of the curve when it comes to middle aged fashion.
Oli’s different and yet similar to both of us. He’s tall, with long, thick brown hair and sort of olive skin. A bit of a looker. A sort of self-belief in his own gift of the gab too. He’s far less interested in academics than Jimmy and substitutes that interest for a much more potent fascination in women, drugs and partying. Basic primal instinct. You can’t fault it. A sort of aggression to him aswell, that goes dangerously hand in hand with his own belief he can never be wrong. Despite this, he and Jimmy both have a tendency to acknowledge there’s a line in life with how much you can get away with being a total bellend and seem to be remarkably observant of my tendency to fucking leapfrog over it. Force of habit, I guess. It's funnier living life that way and it's incredibly easy to get in the swing of. At least I’m self-aware. I know at times I fully take the piss with things.
He’s wearing a white palace t shirt with a navy-blue Patagonia gilet, loose fitting black cargo pants and black Solomon shoes. He thinks he’s a cool cat and in all honesty, he is dressed well, but you sort of get the sense it's an outfit put together of clothes other people deem to be ‘cool’ or ‘trendy’. No individualistic style to it. Not yet at least.
The two of them watch as my phone call gets answered. Standard interaction. ‘Who’s this? What you want? Here’s where to come to get it.’ Standard bollocks. End of call.
You would think his mother was in hospital and I’d just got off the phone with the ward the way Oli was gagging for me to tell him what had been said. I take a little pause before speaking to wind him up. Patience is a virtue young man!
‘Reet. Ive got an address. 10 minute walk from here’.’ Ill walk with yous but am not coming in, no chance. Ill wait down the street once we get there’. FUCKING ARSEHOLE. Then again, the thought of Oli awkwardly stood in one of those flats whilst I do the exchange is alarming. His face expressing sheer concern and contentment at his surroundings. Perhaps his absence isn’t that much of a crime.
‘Fine. Said to come with no more than one anyways’. General rule of thumb. You want some company but not enough to make whoever you're buying off think you're gonna attempt to jump them.
The three of us swiftly move down Nunsmoor road, past the park, and I pass Jimmy the last drags of my cig. The decaying rows of terraces rattle and buzz with the cosmopolitan noise of Newcastle’s west end. I can’t help but notice the shop on the corner of wingrove avenue has changed hands again. Third time in about 6 months. It was a wedding dress shop, then a phone repairs shop and now it’s a fucking nails and beauty salon. An obvious money laundering favorite for Fenham’s entrepreneurial folk. There’s nervy tension in the air as the three of us cross over onto Brighton grove, passing from Fenham into Arthur’s hill, and up towards the stanhope street flats.
I wonder if there was a film made of my life how they would score a scenario like this. Imagine asking Zimmer to write a piece for a scene where three witless teenagers try to get their hands on some ecstasy. Fuck Zimmer I’m too suave and contemporary for that. Maybe Aphex twin. Or Radiohead but specifically that album where they’re trying to be Aphex twin. Or sod both of them and go for Binary Digit, purely for the fact I’m cooler than you and I know who Binary Digit are. Yes, that’s more appropriate.
These two are starting to piss me off. The absence of a bit of fucking patience is overwhelming. Bastards completely ignore the fact purchasing narcotics is often a delicate process in which you spend a lot of time waiting around. Why the fuck is it always me who has to sort everything? On top of that, they start to question me too. Doubt that I might not be able to pull this off or think that somehow, it’ll fall through, like they have a better option. Fuck sake. Next time one of them can do it, or Ill just buy for myself and they can sort their own stuff, useless bastards. Why the fucks it always in places like this too, you never meet dealers in nice, spruced up, surburban areas. Have you ever met a dealer in Gosforth or Jesmond? Na, didn’t think so. Look at these streets. What once were probably thriving neighborhoods completely let go to the wayside by shitty incompetent council schemes. Same can be said for everywhere round here. Problem is that the people who can actually make the difference don’t give a fuck. Doesn’t matter to them, they don’t live here. Urban economics and town planning has become adroit in hiding them away from the systems losers. The people who grow up here either spend their whole life trying to move away, or they drown, and become a product of their environment, crime, drugs, poverty and broken homes, or they accept the cruel world of being the good, honest ordinary working man, and raise kids, who will one day leave home with the same options as their parents. The cycle goes on, cause the cunts in suits and nice new build houses let it, watch and sneer through binoculars,’ look at those poor savages!’. The feeling in my stomachs back. Soon as shit becomes ever more complex than originally conceived, the awkward stomach bug returns, bastard. Loves a dramatic entrance. My insides feel like a fucking pin ball machine. Need to find something to take the edge off.
The three of us cross swiftly from one side of stanhope street to the other, dodging the onslaught of cars and buses coming up the road, and we make our way down past the rows of shops until we reach the foot of our destination. The concrete complexity of the flats breathes down on us as I reach for my phone, courting further instruction.
Brutalist architecture. What a tragic misstep in human evolution. God I can be so snobby at times.
The lingering silence between us is soon interrupted by some fucking radgie down the other end of the phone, who instructs us to wait at the bottom by the entrance for someone to come down and bring us up. At this point Oli decides to fuck off me and Jimbo and make for a short-lived exit, off to go wait somewhere for us to come back with the shit. Jammy prick. Ten quid says he’s off to the bookies. Addict.
Sure enough, a hooded young Asian lad not much older than the two of us comes down to the door, opening it, then with little attempt at conversation heads back up the stairs and motions for the two of us to follow. Real conversationalist clearly. I correct my previous sentiment. Sometimes silence can be fucking alarming.
The brick walls are a defeating brown, with a horizontal black line running across the middle of each wall on each floor. The flats are drowned in silence, as if some sort of presence had ravaged their soul, once homes now sets of four walls with furniture between.
The hooded lad stops at the third flat along on the second floor and begins to work a key in to the door as he ushers me and Jimmy closer. The wood thin and hollow, swinging inwards freely as he moves in, followed by us two.
Through the door of the flat there is a passageway some five meters long, with a door on either side and a singular door at the far end from which I can hear voices conversing in low tones. The plaster walls a yellowly cream colour, with fadings accordant to cigarette use and darkened patches spotted about the walls. A stench of cannabis and sweat plasters my nostrils. Fucking grim man.
Me and Jimbo follow the lad across the passageway, before he partially opens the door, and tells us to wait behind it, as he closes it and steps through into the front room and engages in conversation, with the backdrop of some awful music playing out of a telly. Even fucking more fucking waiting around. Get in.
Jimbos eyes catch mine and he shoots me a luck as if to say “you’re a fucking twat for bringing us here Miles”. Sorry kid. I share your anguish. But this is a necessary evil. Sort of like when Obi Wan cuts Anakin’s legs off in Revenge of The Sith. Not one bit of that he enjoyed, but he did it for the republic's good.
As the two of us stand waiting, voices begin to emerge behind the door of the room on the left side, one voice growing louder and closer as there’s an audible turn of the door handle. The sinking feeling in my stomach plummets even fucking further, somehow brewing a sharp pain in my chest too as the voice saying its goodbyes draws familiarity. A burning sensation flushes through my insides and my throat dries. Jimmys cottoned on to the situation too as the combination of the voice and the look on my fucking face resonates, almost in simultaneous movement with the door and the sweet face stepping through it.
Out into the passageway steps the only girl I’ve ever loved. Fuck me man. Talk about unfortunate timing. Why here, in this shithole. Grace Tressel. A delicate, skinny frame, with thick, dirty blonde hair that had a sort of gleam to it, a smile that could kill and deep, saddened emerald eyes, that with years of unfortunate experience have learned to charm and deceive.
Dressed stylishly, with a sort of indie sleaze look, baggy stone wash blue jeans that complemented her tight white t shirt, which hugged her sides almost perfectly, cut just above her belly button. She accompanied this look with a light brown fur coat, and a cross necklace that came down to the top of her chest.
She has a magnifying look about her, it's hard to take your eyes off her once she enters a room. She wasn’t exactly your typical Disney princess sweetheart but there was just something about her that was inescapable. At surface level, an extremely intelligent, educated, pretty face. Yet years of a disastrous home life, the ongoing game of pass the parcel with social workers and a history of abusive relationships had bittered her, made her cold, given her an edge, a promiscuous, wilder side. Boys were a sport, and she was impressively good at it.
As the door closes behind her I catch a glimpse of a lean, thuggish looking male smirking in our direction through the narrowing doorway. Smug prick. She knows how to choose them that’s for sure. Muscled up losers with the intellectual complexity of a plant pot.
Unrequited love fucking burns. Particularly when it is stood right in front of you, reading your every thought and emotion, whilst you’re planted defenceless. When it knows everything about you, knows how your mind works. When it knows the face behind the mask. My actions and words put up a strong wall but I've got a feeling my eyes are giving the game away. Once they lock into hers, Im fucked man. Totally fucked. Powerless. Got a bad habit of melting around her. Out the window goes the cocky charming street kid and out comes the little child. No matter whatever next chemical I put inside my body, the greatest form of self-destruction for me will always be my attachment to her.
‘The fuck are you doing here’. Not making any attempt at hiding the fact her being here is fucking alarming.
‘What does it concern you?’. Smug response from her as per usual. Shes smart man. Kinda like me in a way. Maybe that’s why I've always liked her so much.
’ What are you doing here’. Again, yet this time with less violence in my voice.
‘Well if you’re so desperate to know, I was here on the basis of a little bit of fun. And anyways, since when the fuck do you care what I’m up to’. Fucking hell. Clearly not in the mood for chit chat. Hate it when she gets all snarky and cynical.
‘You know that’s a load of shit’. ‘What is?’. ‘Me not caring’.
A kind of defeated look grows across her face as she looks back up at me with a momentary gaze of affection, before quickly flipping back into character. You're not fooling anyone kid. I know you remember.
‘You know, Id ask what you were doing here, but everyone knows what you and your little group get up to these days’. Her tone transgresses cynical to mocking as she further cracks away at trying to provoke me. She’s not wrong but does anybody actually give a fuck.
‘Better than whatever the fuck you get up to. Look at yourself. Are you ever gonna pack this shit in? This is the real world we live in now, you aren’t a 15 year old with a vendetta against the world anymore. The shit you do matters’. A level of seriousness graces my words, my maturity feels almost too much like pretention. I sound like one of those slimy pricks I hate so much. Fuck. I hope she sees through it and knows I’m only going on like a dick cause I care.
‘Ha! You’ve got some cheek letting those words leave your mouth’. She chuckles as she addresses the hypocritical nature of my remarks.
Feeling the hurt within me, Jimmys hand moves to my shoulder, and pushes me in towards the wall gently as the conversation is abruptly ended, as the Asian lad returns through the door, presumably in response to the sound of our voices.
‘Problem?’, he asks in an investigative tone. ‘No’, Grace snaps before either me or Jimmy can posit a word, ‘I was just leaving’. The Asian lad makes no response to this, and instead switches his focus to us two, who he instructs to come into the main room behind him. I glanced back as I watch Grace exit the front door and once again walk out of my life.
Chapter 2: Miles…A Diverse Portfolio
Never buy from dealers your own age. They enjoy being dealers far too much. They dress like dealers. Most importantly they act like dealers. They’re proud of it. They flaunt it. Give themselves far too much unneeded attention. In actual fact, they’re shit at what they do. They have no sense of operation, far too much time spent waiting around. Take this deal for instance, whole thing is a fucking mess. One check of the CCTV around the flats and it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out why these cunts are bringing people up here at all hours of the day. Bait as fuck. Yet these cunts are far too invested in their image to realize their idiocy.
The two of us follow our tour guide into the main room, and I take a sharp observation of the place before quickly becoming involved in conversation with an accomplice we knew from our time at school, the other half in this exchange, a lad called Crowley.
Although our secondary education had not yet technically finished, Crowley’s certainly had, having been kicked out at some point in year 10, taking up from that point his now role as a pharmaceutical tradesman. He had once been chubby, but drugs had turned him skinny. He had a face like a sort of bulldog, and deep bags under his eyes. Scruffy, wiry straight hair which looked like it could do with a wash. His countenance matched by his grey tracksuit. Despite the premature end to his education, he had an air of intelligence the rest of his cronies lacked and had always had a sort of soft spot for our lot, finding our antics rather amusing. We had shared a sports class together, which was largely spent heckling the kids who actually put any effort into their physical education, or alternatively hiding in the bushes at the back of the field smoking snidey cigarettes.
The walls of the room were much the same as those of the passageway, a small dingy kitchen area to the right side of the room, which clearly hadn’t been used for its original purpose in a long time. The once cream carpet was now a sort of grey and had managed to collect a selection of various empty takeaway boxes, oozing with the smell of grease. Centre focus was a black glass coffee table, slightly above knee height, with a pile of baggies of various substances upon it, beside a recently used bong, skins and a grinder. Each side of the table a ragged black leather sofa, one with a couple of unameables sat on it, who were far two concerned with the joint they were sharing than the two strangers who had just entered the room. On the other sat Crowley and some old cunt. Beside the sofa on their side was a wheelchair, and in the corner a moderately sized television, blaring out some tragically composed rap music.
‘Kelly!’. Crowley greets my entrance with a level of affection, addressing me by second name in the same way everyone else does, the only people not to do so being my mother and nana. Crowley also acknowledges Jimmy with a nod as he steps through behind me. A sort of mutual level of respect there. Honor amongst thieves sort of shit.
‘Wondered when the fuck I was gonna see you kicking about round here. Sorry to keep you waiting a minute, was just fixing up our mate Billy a little hit before we let guests in. Would’ve been rude not to considering this is his flat.’
Crowley accompanies his choice of words with a twatty grin. By Billy he was referring to the old cunt he was sat next to, who still had his belt tied round his wrist, a mucky spoon and a set of needlework’s besides his lap. He was clearly clueless to his environment, despite evidently owning the flat. His body was almost trying to mimic the curves of the sofa, eyes in the back of his head, sweat hurdling out of his face. Poor bastard. Shit like this makes you hope these lot get nicked.
‘What was it you were after again then, cowies?’ ‘Aye. 10.’ ‘That’ll be 75. They're strong as well mind, so be careful. Come up will have u shitting bricks. Then it'll hit you like a fucking train and you’ll be off ya chops for the next four hours hahah.’
Exactly what you want to hear. No pun intended. Knowing you're getting your money's worth is always reassuring.
‘You after owt else, fucking tonnes of ket and coke sitting about.’ The proposition of buying more shit from this bastard and making a direct contribution to his crude enterprise did not sit well with me, despite the diversity of his portfolio.
‘ Na, but I'll take a 3.5 of bud, having a bit of trouble sleeping at the moment.’ ‘Thatll be 25 on top.’ ‘Sweet.’
With a low grunting sound, Jimmy shoots me a ‘I thought you were packing in smoking that shit’ sort of face as Crowley leans over to the table to grab our stuff, before handing it to me in exchange for a small wad of cash. After a quick exchange of handshakes, we exit the flat promptly, and reunite with Oli who had been waiting for us in a kebab shop round the corner. Thank fuck. Breathable air. The feeling in my stomach has suddenly lifted.
Chapter 3: Miles…All quiet on the western front
In the name of the father, and of the sun, and of Mike Skinner. Amen…
Mesmerizing tones, rising pianos. Mesmerizing tones, rising pianos. Mesmerizing tones, rising pianos…
The three of us has now become six, as the boys once again huddled under the bus stop on the corner of Wingrove road, day now become night with faces ring illuminated by streetlamps and cheap cigarettes, the nip of the late November air nullified by a warm alcoholic buzz, ambient progressive electronic symphonies in our footsteps, music that makes you feel like the night is going somewhere. Drinks at mine before we go about doing anything has become a serious tradition in our outings, mainly for the fact I’m the only one with a sound system. As a consequence, my bedroom is now used as a meeting place at which the boys chat utter shite for hours on end and pretend to enjoy drinking, in the brief period between picking up the drugs and actually going anywhere. Slick insults followed by bursts of laughter and brief silences fill the air with the tingle of nervy excitement. A familiar routine by this point, the twelve bus from Fenham to the stop just before Byker bridge, then the short walk down to the Ouseburn from there, a mandatory precursor to whatever the journey of the night brings us.
Me, Jimbo and Oli have been joined by Carl, Johnny and Paddy. Carl is from Elswick, one of Fenhams neighboring areas, a slightly rougher area on the other side of the west road. Its estates birthed mainly criminals and girls who slept about, yet Carl falls into neither of those categories. He’s arguably the best of us all, a sort of sweet nature, he’s emotional, and cares deeply for his girlfriend Izzy, who he spends a large part of his time with. Yet despite his sweet nature he certainly has a capability for violence, which he has used on occasion when challenged. Hes tall with thick brown hair, blue eyes and thick eyebrows. He dresses well, and despite dropping out of school early is fairly intellectual, with an intrigue in a lot of life’s bigger questions. He smokes a fair amount of cannabis, but he occasionally indulges in the party scene with the rest of us, and certainly doesn’t shy away from nights like this was going to be. He’s wearing a white Nike t shirt underneath a collared ralph Lauren jacket, with black straight leg jeans and TNs. Class act.
In short, Johnny is a fucking spud. The only reason he decided to stay on at school was so that he didn’t have to go into full time employment . All part of his big plan to waste as much time doing fuck all all day every day before actually having to shift his arse and earn a proper wage. A real waster. Hes a towering six foot 3, with messy ginger hair and sort of beady blue eyes. He’s wearing the 1995-96 Newcastle shirt underneath an ACG fleece, with beige cargo pants and air max 95s. His redeeming qualities were his sense of humor and his wide variety and spontaneity of insults, available for deployment at any given time. What he had in humour he certainly didn’t have in punctuality, being possibly one of the only people alive who possessed the ability to turn up late to a meeting at their own house.
Paddy has an air of class about him the others lack. He’s from Gosforth, and thus has accumulated the nickname ‘posh spice’ amongst us lot. There’s a certain grace and decorum in his strut, matched with a high level of self-confidence. He’s easily the most successful in his encounters with women out of the lot of us, despite not being the best looking. He’s wearing a long-sleeved Ralph Lauren rugby shirt with dark blue jeans and black air force ones. He undoubtedly, however, has a good combination of features, tall dark and handsome, well spoken with a studenty type of intelligence. His drug use is conservative. He certainly endeavors but only at the proper time, much like his approach to most other things in life. He balances a healthy and promising sports life with the debauchery of his more rogue comrades from the west end, a double act of sorts. He’s a bit of a slimy bastard. I can’t say I’ve ever fully trusted him. Bit of a confidence trickster. I do hold a certain level of admiration for him though. You do when you’re around anyone long enough.
10:36. Bus is due any minute now. Was meant to be here 5 minutes ago. The 12 always takes the piss. Perfect opportunity for me to posit some great philosophical bollocks. The language of lager and cheap spirits.
Mesmerizing tones, rising pianos. Mesmerizing tones rising pianos. Mesmerizing tones, rising pianos. Mesmerizing tones, rising pianos.
‘This. This right here is my favorite moment of the night. The moment before it all begins. Before we lose ourselves in the chaos of it all.’
‘ Fuck off’. Oli’s quick with that one, like he expected it coming.
‘You say that every fucking time before we go out.’ Ah yes, he was expecting it. Maybe the alcohol has dulled my usual poetic brilliance. All that was missing from him was a “you faggit Kelly” on the end.
‘Haha its only because the fucker who dies in that shit film you like says it before they have their big night at the festival’.
Well that’s bollocks. It’s not shit. Johnny actually likes that film as well he’s just saying this because they’ve caught me off guard from my usual position of rapid-fire wit and are capitalizing on a one time opportunity to take the piss.
‘Ive forgotten the name of it, the one where Zac Effron plays a DJ’. Again, he’s chatting shit. No way has he forgotten the name of it, he’s got a poster from it on his wall.
‘We are Your Friends’, I snipe back, ‘and it’s not shit it’s a modern classic, with a soundtrack far beyond any of the shite that comes out nowadays’. It really does. Fucking masterclass from a musical standpoint.
‘Aye aye. All I took from that film was how good a ride Emily Ratajkowski would be’. Har har.
Of course this hypermasculine remark is met with grunts of agreement from the boys.
‘And how shaggable Zac Effron is’ Paddy quickly chirps in, met with the laughs of his comrades. ‘Hahah you’d know all about that posh spice’.
‘Takes a shagger to know a shagger’, Paddy craftily returns. God. All he thinks about is his penis and what its in-between.
After a brief pause of silence I take a last grab at saying something memorable, effortlessly flicking the bud of my cigarette into the curb. ‘No, but seriously, boys, this is it. The last moment of full clarity before the rush of it all takes over. Before we truly become immersed in the night.’
Chapter 4: Grace…Norman Fucking Rockwell
Men. They’re so fucking simple. All so dull and rigid. It makes it far easier to bounce around them when they have the emotional intelligence of a plank of wood, and luckily for me that is ninety-nine point something percent. They’re simple in all ways. Their desires, the things that turn them on, the things they want to hear. Once you’ve mastered the art it’s easy pickings. Show them any amount of feigned interest and make them feel as though they’ve drawn your attention because they are somehow different to the last cock you handled in any way whatsoever and suddenly the cute little stoic hard to get act becomes ‘I need you Grace, you're so unique and different to all those other girls, I just think we have this really special and profound connection, I think I love you’. Yuck. There are two types of men, the confident to the point types, who have this perception of themselves that somehow, they matter, who will get straight to attempting to charm and dazzle you, all in effort to seize the illustrious pleasure of fucking you. Then there’s the ‘nice guys’, who aren’t really nice guys, they’re just too afraid to ask for what they really want, so they hide it under this act of kindness and righteousness. Fucking pathetic. There’s also your Miles Kellys. The ones who are far too indifferent to it all. The rare ones you just can’t seem to figure out. He fucking does my head in that boy. Its far easier just not to bother with those types. Save yourself the hurt of having another person let you down.
I bend slightly towards the bathroom mirror, applying the last touches of my lipstick before making the final decision on which fur coat I should wear tonight. Leopard print or the light brown one. Hmm. I try them both on in the mirror, admiring the slender curves of my waistline in these low rise jeans, making sure my thong rises slightly out of each side, then admiring my small but perky tits poking through my tight white top. They’re small but deceivingly impressive and I’ve never had any complaints. They’re good enough to look good on top. I think it’ll be a bra-less night tonight. Leopard print coat, definitely.
I put the lipstick inside my bag and reach around for my purse, grab it and then open it to check if the cocaine I acquired earlier in the day is still there. Classy I know. I pull out and observe the ID had took from the toilets of a pub in Jesmond last weekend. Once again, classy. Finders keepers is a principle I’ve always kept close to my chest.
Rose Jackson. 25th of February 2004. Ah. You’ll do.
A notification comes through on my phone to let me know my taxi has arrived, and my friends with it. I silently exit the room, move across the landing and down the stairs of the house it pains me to call home, down towards the front door, and then exit silently, making no attempt at any goodbyes. This fucking place. Can’t wait for the day I do that for the last time. I begin to smile as the cold, dark November breeze hits my face, walking towards the taxi and opening the door. Another night of fun begins.
Chapter 5: Paddy…The Fellowship of the Ring
I have perfected the art of the confidence trickster. That was what Kafka called it wasn’t it. Fuck knows. I only read the chapters of metamorphosis and other short stories with interesting titles. Being a confidence trickster is all in the smiles, the waves, the way you introduce yourself to people’s parents, etc. You have to bathe in yes sirs and no sirs, and ask how people’s holidays were, and how their football, or rugby depending on which given company you are with, are doing. Find common interests with the people you can find use in and make them believe you are like them, and that you give a fuck about the sophisticated and nuanced things in life. Its far more beneficial to your interests to keep up the gentlemanly, sporting persona. It makes you far easier to trust. “Satisfaction with his lot glowed pink on his exposed cheek”, the telltale sign of a confidence trickster. You see if you keep up the impression you are content and want for nothing in the world, people are far more likely to give it to you. My interaction with these fuckers is my release from the act. My behind-the-scenes footage, the whisky waiting for the Broadway actors off stage. My catharsis, comedic relief even. They are witless morons but there is no snobby judging with them, no moral, or societal standards to maintain. Apart from Kelly of course. There’s a bit of a mutual respect between him and I because neither of us trust each other. He grinds my gears but I admire him in a way. His arrogance is fucking overwhelming. He dominates the intellectual field of his beloved west end bumboys but what has he got to fucking show for it. I am a man of the real world. I like the pub and rugby and nice girls with nice families, with no sexual footnoting and a fiat 500 in which I can shag them in. He simply has no etiquette. He presides in his postmodern fantasy land of Hunter Thompson, William Burroughs, drugs and Marilynn Monroe type women who he chases around after in some feeble attempt to fill the empty void inside him. For I know him all too well. He thinks he is the social observant, that he is the one that reads everyone and makes snidey comments about them upon a single glance, yet I have him found out. “For I understood them so well”. Another Kafka quote. My god I am an intellectual. I’m getting a bit sick of the unts unts unts music these lot love so much. Dance music is for lazy, instrument- less musicians who have benefitted from the rise of the electronic world, and fraudulently created the impression they are somewhat talented. Its fucking fantastic when you’re on drugs though, and there’s not long left now till I’m high again. My God. Thank fuck for the weekends.
The bus jerks and rattles as it makes its way towards the city centre, past the nunsmoor fields and the murky, run down, terraces of Arthur’s hill across the road from them. We’re at the back of the upper deck, the boys making obscene amounts of noise as they jump back and forth between jokes and insults. Everyone else on this bus thinks we are twats it’s obvious. No fucking class. It's not hard to get yourself involved though. They are rather funny at times. The sound of their beer bottles clanging with every sideways movement of the bus, the windows fogged up in November cold. As we pass through the city centre, the lights of the outside world glow through. Faces moving past, shifting at pace. Newcastle alive with the buzz of Saturday night. Girls and guys linking arms, braving the northeast cold in short skirts and heels, polos and jeans. The bus takes a brief pause at the Eldon square bus stop to let passengers on whilst the fat fuck driver steps off for a brief smoke, and the boys edge over to the window to observe the sea of people below, ferrying about the town centre.
‘Here yous, is that fucking Louise Johnson’, Johnny blurts out gracefully as ever, clearly indicating he's spotted a foe of ours from school, a girl a year older, standing across from the bus on other side of the road. Not a favorite of mine got to say. Far too chavy. Fake tan and block eyebrows. Grim.
‘It fucking is aswell. Didn’t she get the clap or something from sucking off that radgie from Benwell, whathisface, Skully or somec.’ Absolutely no shockers there got to say.
‘Aye I heard something like that too’, Jimmy replies with a mischievous chuckle.
‘She always was a cunt, especially to your bird Carl’, I input letting my thoughts of her be known.
‘Poor Izzy man, puttin up with her shite’, Oli posits, showing signs of sympathy for once.
‘She fucking slapped me once and all the cheeky bitch’, Johnny remarks, growing increasingly annoyed at the sight of her. Let's be honest. He probably deserved it as much as she is a cow.
She’s in heels she probably struggles to walk in, a tight white skirt and lowcut top that shows off her breasts, beneath a pink blazer. She’s almost orange with fake tan and has bleach blonde dyed hair. She wasn’t fat but she wasn’t thin either, and wore trademark hoop earrings religiously.
‘Fucking charva’, Mile’s statement is met with looks of agreement from the rest of the boys.
‘Here. Watch this’, Johnny chuckles as he rises from his seat towards the window, banging at it to catch her attention. Ah fucking hell. There’s only one way this is going. Idiot man.
‘Oi Dickhead’, he shouts from the opening at the top of the window.
‘Ah diven’t man she’s a family friend’, Carl pleads with Johnny, ‘can’t be arsed for the shit I’ll get of me ma for this’. At least one of these clampets has some fucking sense about him. Miles is sat giggling spurring him on. Little prick.
Too late though Carl. As she looks up towards the window, Johnny turns, pulling his trousers down, pressing his arse cheeks into the glass in her direction. The boys cry out in laughter as Johnny wiggles further into the glass. Fair enough. Bastard is rather amusing I suppose.
‘Bet you fucking loved that you dirty bastard’, he shouts again turning back around to face the window. Bet she didn’t.
His gesture is met with a clear look of disgust on her face, as she shouts over to two thuggish looking males coming out through the automatic doors of the Eldon square shopping center, explaining to them what has just happened.
‘FUCK’
‘Ahh fuck’
‘Is that’
‘yup’.
‘Didn’t they do Chrissy Thompson with a screwdriver a few weeks back’. I wish I knew who that was. I assume he’s also a delinquent. Fuck. This doesn’t sound good.
‘Ah fucking hell aye’.
The two males turn and point up to us lot, Miles and Jimmy both ducking their heads beneath the window in attempt not to be seen. Johnny however, remains like a rabbit in the headlights, catching their razor sharp stares as they shout up to him.
‘Oi yi fuckin freak, Al fuckin break ya face yi fuckin nonce. Deein shit like that to me bird ya fuckin weirdo’. That hardly counts as English but it certainly does sound threatening.
They begin to walk at a pace over to the bus, making their way round the side towards the door. Christ
‘Fuck fuck fuck they’re getting on’. Well done for stating the obvious Oli. Fucking kudos.
‘Ah fuck guess that’s it then, nice knowing you boys’.
‘Johnny I could kill you you fucking spaka’. I agree Carl. I really do.
‘He’s gonna do us like he did Chrissy’. Another quality bit of input from captain obvious.
We’re all simultaneously swiftly taken by a moment of shock horror as we realize the consequences of Johnny’s idiocy. If I survive this I’ll personally bury him and take great pleasure in pissing on his grave.
Then suddenly, the engine starts to rumble beneath us, and I can hear the doors shutting below.
‘No fucking way’.
‘Maybe there is a God’.
‘Fucking hell your joking hahaha’.
The bus begins to move off forwards, the two thugs below banging on the windows in fury, sensing the misfortune of their timing. Miles and Jimmy rise in triumph as the distance between the two and the bus grew, moving to the back window to throw up their middle fingers and make hand gestures in their direction. Smug gits. I hope with all my heart shit catches up to them one day. As the two below begin to run after the back of the bus, Miles and Johnny shout in unison, ‘SUCK ON THAT CUNT’. Genius.
‘Hhaha that’ll be us going in to hiding for the foreseeable. No fucking way will he let that slide’. Yes. I really hope he doesn't.
Shortly on from there the bus passes on to Byker Bridge, the boys clambering off it at the stop across the road from Alfie’s bar, each of us wishing the driver well as we file out into the night, lighting up our ciggies and taking our bearings.
‘Fack. Which way is it again boys’, Johnny blurts out trying to remember the route we had taken so many times before, through these east end estates.
‘I just remember it’s close to that fucking studenty tescos and all the old biscuit factory’, I respond in attempt to nurse the situation.
‘I remember the way you fucking clampets’, Miles announces, striding on from the heard, turning off from the main road and past an old church building, ‘ it’s not far from here, just another five minutes or so that way’.
‘Ah aye’ Oli posits, ‘ kids not wrong to be fair’.
Once again, the boys have fed Mile’s ever-growing ego.
That’s right. He’s always right. Yes. Follow him. Like you always do.
‘You definitely still got the pills Miles’.
‘Na mate I fucking scranned them all on the bus, I’m due a heart attack any second’.
‘Ah fuck off you prick’.
‘Yes they’re still there, safely tucked away in my sock’.
‘Right cheers for clarifying’.
The boys proceed to make their way through the murky Shieldfield streets, the ominous Byker tower blocks leaning over us. We walk with a victorious kick in our step down towards the Ouseburn, where the noise is waiting for us.
Chapter 6: Grace… Catch me if you can
Most great theatrical performances end with a standing ovation, with flowers being flung at you left right and center from your audience, before you and your ego return to your dressing room for whatever your mystery man has left waiting for you, and the complements of your co actors once you make your way to whatever shitty after party that follows. At least I assume that’s what happens anyway. I wouldn’t know. I’ve not been on Broadway. Yet. My performances end with a fuck and a taxi home. The pressing question is, which character am I tonight. Am I the hot, flirty girl that is possibly too much for some of these boys to handle or am I the innocent type who makes longing eye contact in substitute for words, subconsciously signaling my burgeoning desires. Am I 19 or 21, an artsy studenty girly who reads Sylvia Plath and drinks flat whites, or the wild, Kate Moss esque heroin sheik chic who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. Its all far too much fun. All facilitated by the witless collections of morons that are the male species. Where’s my standing ovation? Where’s my fucking flowers? There will be no messing about tonight. Attractive males only. No shitty sympathy kisses to get my numbers up. I wonder if any of my regular playthings will be in attendance tonight. It’ll be tricky to avoid interacting with any of them without catching the stares of another. Easiest solution is to avoid them all and find new material to work with. New cast members for my all-star production. Its all quite exciting really. The men in these types of places are particularly interesting. Raves mean well dressed boys with a certain level of arrogance over the belief they’re somehow underground and edgy because they like taking drugs and listening to electronic music. How cute. At a surface level you would think they would be somewhat appealing, but once you peal past that you realize they’re all first and second year student mummy’s boys who discovered their sense of independence far too late in life for them to be anything special, and are pretty much all exactly the same beyond their outfits. Very dull. Good enough looking for a shag though, I must admit. They use words like ‘sick’ and hand roll their cigarettes because they need to give off this impression that they’re not bourgeois and didn’t grow up in a new build house in Surrey. They see girls like me and think that I’m all they’ve ever wanted, because I align with their new sense of independence as Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t approve with the amount of blowjobs I’ve given. They’re all very, very pathetic. Easy pickings I tell you. There’s also the feral druggy types. They’re fun and the bags under their eyes sell a big picture but they’re far too much effort for what they’re worth. More concentration on what’s going up their nose than you. And most of them have issues getting a hard on. Not fun at all. You can’t do anything with a soft dick. There’s only so much fingering you can do before you want the real thing.
We make our way out of the taxi and file out into the night. The queue is already at least fifty people long. Fuck. One thing I can't stand is waiting. There are a few boys we recognize a bit further up in the queue. I’ll use eye contact and the usual ‘oh my god I've not seen you for agesss’ to jump in with them. Of course, they’ll love it because which man with a working penis doesn’t like attractive female company. Too easy. Libby and Eve are complcit with me on this one. My god I love my friends. We’re like a slutty west end version of destiny’s child. Well. Not that destiny’s child probably weren’t slutty. They were probably just more arsed about hiding it. Hugs and hellos to unawkwardise things. I fucking hate small talk. Smile Grace. They’re doing you a favour. The queue stretches down the side of the warehouse and nearly all the way up to the corner of the street where there’s some hippy bar. It’s sort of beautiful down here on nights like this. The street is lit up with fairy lights across lampposts and the noise of youthful chatter populates the air. So many people here for the same thing. Kind of exciting. Someone further up in the queue says there’s been a problem with the soundsystem but they’re letting people in in a minute. Thank fuck. Sure enough, the bouncer steps out from the entrance in a big black fur hooded coat. He’s tall and stocky yet has a wholesome face which retracts any intimidating qualities he might’ve had. Hmm. Not really my type. The queues moving a bit now. You get the sense he’s not really inspecting these IDs with a fine tooth. Thank fuck. I light a cigarette and smoke it like a French girl from a 60s black and white film. I am so cool at times.
‘Fuck grace I think I can see Miles and his lot coming down the bank at the top of the road’. Eve has spotted him and his band of merry men. ‘Fuck sake. That’s a headache I didn’t need’.
They’re arrogantly sauntering towards the back of the queue, and I can hear the decadence of their remarks about the rest of the people here already. I’d probably laugh at some of the things they’d be saying because in all honesty they would be true.
Miles. Fuck. He’s got style I must admit. It's certainly developed from the bag of shit he used to wear. I’m beginning to think something about him has changed. His thick black hair is the same, and his face hasn’t changed much, but there’s definitely something. Perhaps it’s the lighting. He seems more sure of himself with age. Certainly more than he was at 15. There’s a sort of confidence about him he didn’t have before. Maybe he's less of a virgin now. What the touch of a women does to a boy eh. He’s still a cunt. His face and the words that leave his mouth might’ve changed but those looks in his eyes won’t have. The ones that cut right through your exterior act and see you at your core. Not for me thanks. Reality is nice and all but I prefer my men to be non the wiser. In his case, there’s nothing more frustrating than a boy who won’t fuck you but then gets arsey about it when you fuck other people.
‘Olis looking fit’ Libs blurts out to the disgust of the boy she’s just been talking to. That’ll be her all over him tonight.
‘Yeah I think he’s had a haircut or something. Looks like he’s been on the sunbeds aswell’.
The queues moved on quite quickly and it's time for me to show the bouncer my ID. I pass it to him and smile at him in a sort of innocent but sexy way. No questions asked. I step inside the entrance and can already feel the bass in the floor despite only being in the tickets room, the red LED lighting flattering my skin. FUN!
Chapter7: Levi… Saturday Night Fever
Dj-ing is pretty much the same as sex. It's all in the foreplay. You’ve got to start slowly. Find rhythm. Bring her up progressively track by track. By her, I mean your audience. Kissing, biting, moving, teasing. You can’t give them what they want right away or after twenty five minutes they’ll be bored and just be waiting for the next cunt to start their set. You’ve got to start slow but with something that will catch their attention. Entice them. Hone them in. Then from there you take them on a journey track by track. Show them little bits of what you’ve got but never too much that you give the game away. Then finally, just when they’re gagging for it, when they can’t take the teasing anymore, you penetrate. That’s your big track. The one that catches them in the moment and keeps them there. All of them on one harmonious wavelength. Pure fucking exctacy man. That’s usually a piano belter of some sort for me. Its fucking ELECTRIC. No better feeling man than feeling a room move on your command. You’re in control and you can feel the euphoria in the air. Pure fucking EUPHORIA. From that point its easy pickings. You could play whatever you fucking like and they’d up jumping singing hail Mary’s. Even the fucking theme tune from Saturday night Fever.
I’m on peak time tonight. My sets 2-3. Catch all the kids at the peak of their high. Boy oh boy I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. Tonight has to be a masterclass. This is my shot at the bigtime. Peak time at the Revolution. Of course, I’m not headlining. That’s some other fucker. No 20 year old headlines the Revolution. But nonetheless this is my chance to show some of the older cunts in the scene I’m the new kid on the block. I’m the cool cat man. Got the clothes, the looks, the girlfriend and the tunes to show for it. And I’m gonna take some heads off in here tonight. Its ripe for it man. Queue to get in the gaff is all the way down the fucking street. Pure noise and excitement aswell. Sound system in this gaff is unreal too. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The bass is incredible. You can feel every vibration in the sole of your foot, passing up through you.
The dancefloor is slowly filling with bodies as they’ve not long opened up. Some other young kid is on opening, just slow groovey house tunes at the moment. I go behind the decks and say a few friendly words to him and leave my bag underneath the set up. Then I slowly begin to pass my way through the crowd over to the bar. Like some sort of ghost in amongst the people. My audience. Feeling what they’re feeling, synergizing my heartbeat with theirs. There can’t be any ego about it. It’s their night as much as it is yours. Your job is to get the crowd out of their minds and into their bodies. It's your job to ensure they have a good time.
I make my way to the bar and order a routine Amerreto and coke. Just something to settle the nerves. My eyes move to my straw as I take a sip and realise my girlfriend Jayne is making her way over to me. My god she’s fucking beautiful man. Drop dead gorgeous. She’s cool too and she knows it. Far cooler than I’ll ever be. She walks with a real confidence and swagger in her step that is illuminated and electrified by the neon lights on the walls. My god I’m one lucky sod man. She has a face like 2000s Jessica Alba, with slim cheeks and almost perfect lips. She has thick, textured dark brown hair with bangs to either side, that accompany hazel doe eyes you could fall into, which give her a sort of cuteness. She’s about five foot five, dressed in a tight white t shirt that says “jesus loves techno” with no bra underneath, that hugs her slender figure perfectly. She’s got a couple tattoos on her left arm and wearing hoop earrings that catch the light well in here. She’s in low rise Evisu jeans with Clarks wallabees on her feet, same as mine.
“Hey cowboy”. She beams at me in a way that makes my heart want to jump through my chest. God I fucking love her man.
“Howdy”.
“Don’t suppose you could get me one of those cowboy”. She motions to my drink, speaking through the noise of the music in the background. She’s well versed in her Tarantino references, fucking cherry on the cake. I ask the lady on the bar for another one of the same.
“You nervous”, she pulls in closer to me and speaks into my ear.
“Little bit”.
“Don’t’ be. Look across the floor”, she turns and smiles, “this place is for the taking. I’ve never seen so much excitement as I did on the way in. Crowds looking a little stiff right now though. Looks as though they could use your helping hand.”.
“I’ve got it all planned out in my head. You know. What I’m gonna play and when. But that doesn’t mean anything. Its like trying to pick a perfect wave when your surfing. It’s a reactionary thing, you know. Just got to feel it man. Pick my moments.”
“Shut up Levi. You’re waffling.” She laughs and kisses my cheek, then pulls away and moves off again into the crowd to find her pals. She’s something special man I swear. I look across from the bar out on to the floor. More and more bodies filling up. Lights of all colours coming down from the ceiling and hitting their faces. Feet shifting and moving. Hugs and hellos drowned out in the music. Vast open darkness filled with life and youth. I'm fucking ready man. What a night this will be.
Commentaires