london calling

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Gareth was an amazing guy, not the type of amazing one would normally look up to or admire, more like a snake charmer or flash magician; fascinating at first glance, but then as you got up close, scarier than any convoluted nightmare you could imagine. Runty, balding, bad teeth and dirty clothes, he looked like he hadn’t seen a decent meal in weeks, and if it hadn’t been for the smell of smoke which permeated his clothes, I might have guessed about his lack of hygiene. His left leg was deformed in some way, or so a pronounced limp claimed. But I didn’t see any of that.

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"One day I'll be a famous musician with loads of women," he screamed over the vibrations of the dance mix. "And I'll be a great writer", I boasted in return. We were on the dance floor of the Chelsea Hostel, the latest British eclectic dance tune blaring in the background. I was 19, first time abroad and naive as a puppy in a slaughter house. Both of us nigh to half piss drunk and acting like fools, yet as alive as two people could hope to be, having found a kindred spirit.

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In a pact between two lost souls, our words made the proverbial promise, the virtual cut on which we would open our skin, our blood binding us to a vow made in the heat of vanity and wishful thinking. A duo of too-trendy Scottish gals overheard us, rolling their eyes they moved away, disdain written in the the purse of their lips and their jaded darting eyes. Their superior bored expression, one that once made me cringe with shame, now annoyed me. Even so, it still hurt. A splash of alcohol in a wound that never quite healed. I’d never been pretty or popular, but until that day they had treated me, a stranger, like I was somewhat human.

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When I first saw Gareth, he was in a room, surrounded by a large crowd of people, just talking, yet he was the focal point. He had been playing guitar with a few other guys and singing random tunes, but his aura consumed the otherwise easy-going ambiance that night. He was one of those people who carried around an invisible energy beam that pulsated from his core wherever he went. When he opened his mouth to sing, you could feel the pain of a crushed locomotive with 72 lost souls on board, the sound so deafeningly loud that he needed no microphone. And when he looked into my eyes, there was the muck of a dirty brown tide from a broiling sea, scarred with debris from a horrific tsunami.

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I am not sure why I was so captivated by him, and he by me. Perhaps because he noticed me, a me who had never seen much attention. When I spoke, he didn’t turn away. And we had the oddest conversations, as if we were speaking of things at three different levels, riddles and insinuations of comprehension, the type of metaphoric communication you read about in philosophy yet barely understand.

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Eventually I did understand, but by then it was too late. He invited me to a friend’s place across town. Having nothing better to do and up for adventure, I felt compelled to go along - me, a person who had seldom thought to do anything more spontaneously off the wall or dangerous than not returning a library book. Of course, I didn’t believe that taking off to Europe for six months by myself at the age of nineteen to stay in hostels and travel the globe as anything unusual.

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We took the tube to a divey squat in King’s Cross, held by a group of down and out buskers (street musicians) who got by on the dole and what little they made in the tunnels, peddling their skill as musicians. On a good day they could make fifty quid in an hour or two, enough for food, ale, and a bit of hashish for the gang. No one was home when we arrived, so after mounting the metal staircase to the second floor, we had to boost up to the narrow ledge by the fire escape, scuttle a few feet sideways and climb in through the window, which was always left ajar for that purpose.

The door was padlocked, an indication that the abandoned tenement flat had been occupied as a squat. Not technically legal, but cheap housing was scarce and jobs almost non-existent during the early 80s, and once you were in you were in. There was no way to prevent the influx of immigrants and vagrants; so long as the bobbies weren’t called in too often, no one was much bothered to kick them out. Candles and blankets made do as there was no electric or heat, and little reason to cook with so many cheap take outs. Besides, food was always secondary to smoke and hard ale or a bottle of cider.

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Gareth’s friends were an odd lot, likable enough in their own quirky ways, equal parts friendly yet insecure, but generally accepting of my extended presence as a non-contributing tag along groupie. I did my part in cleaning up and being non-obtrusive, and although the novelty of sleeping on a smelly carpet wore off quite soon, the digs were free.
There was much to absorb in this slice of obscure existence I had never before witnessed, coming from an average, middle class WASPy background where fathers worked, mothers baked, and kids went to school. And then there were the drugs, which I had seldom experimented with at home other than the small toke of a joint. Hash and weed were the staples when money was good, and there was always plenty of wine or cheap speed to be had.

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And then there was music. Someone was always singing, playing or listening to music. Music I’d never heard before, music I might have heard but never paid attention to that was suddenly brought to focus, band music, people music, songs these people had written, songs other people had written and the guys had rewritten in some clever way, changing the beat from rock to reggae, adding a few politically pointed verses.

I had never had any musical talent, but I liked music as well as the next kid. And it didn’t seem to matter that I had no talent and no voice and no knowledge about what they spoke of. Gareth was my in, and life was cool. For the first time in my life, I was just one of the gang.

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this is a part of a novel i'm working on. upvote if you like it :)