CH. 7

7

-“I think I ate too many.”- I kept telling myself. –“Something is definitely not right.”- Completely paralyzed, again, but it wasn’t freezing, it was burning from inside out. Jungle had me in a very tight submission, so did the hammock; breathing was becoming impossible. –“I did everything the way they told me too, what went wrong?”- I did them, all of them, on an empty stomach, alone, deep in the jungle, at the break of morning, with as much water I could carry, just like the shaman bloke said. A metallic colored spider bit my hand as I watched helplessly. –“The insects will kill you if you’re not careful.”- I had lighten the four fires around me, wore long sleeves, a buttoned neck, and military boots, all of it dripping sweat. –“They’re still getting in.”- Mosquitoes where; pain and dehydration. I saw the gallons of water I’d carried but I couldn’t reach no matter how hard I tried.

-“This is it now, get your dues paid and your affairs in order; you’re going to die now.”-

Respiration tightened even more forceful and the sweat getting into my eyes blackened as the smoke hunted me. I remembered about a time I kicked my cat when I was very little, and another one that my friends did so and also punched, in the stomach, until I puked and passed out on some abandoned terrain. I listed all the hurtful things that I’ve said and have been said to me, and all the lies. I revived my most acute moment of shame. I apologized to all the girls that I’d left, specially that one veiling her face with her hands. I even felt things that I couldn’t possibly remember; feelings of reclusion, powerlessness and fear, inside the venter, floating tightly, asphyxiated. I was truly repented.

-“I’m ready, please take me now.”-

A mother, three of her children, all dressed in white, all carrying drums, cruised the rainforest, singing and beating a very distant lullaby. I took a deep breath, the deepest one of my life, and suddenly the jungle let go of its grip, as my chest expanded, the vegetation did so, to give pass to a breeze that washed the smoke off my lungs and picked me up on my feet, much lighter than before.

I gulped the water, it was the best, I smoked a joint, and it was delicious. I danced, or rather something danced me, and I sang, or rather something sang through me: -“Soy un guerrero tan tuyo Naturá”-

All day had gone by in what felt like only minutes of agony, then an instant of renaissance; I made my way back to the world before the sun came down on me.

I was in a bar with a Maya name that means little piece of heaven and there’s were I saw Annchu, shining. I thought I must had been hallucinating so I went and touched her, and we hugged, and we kissed, and we held hands as I told her about all the places that I’d been, all the things that I’d lived, in my quest to find her.

-“I’m sorry for leaving like that.”- The cutest girl in the world told me.

-“There’s something I need to tell you.”- Here it comes. –“Someone in Peru is waiting for me, I love him.”-

She broke my little heart; a tree in Chiapas witnessed a tear come out of my eye, but, still, a feeling of completion consoled me as I realized that I was truly proud of myself since I’d done it the way that I would want to do everything; in the name of love, even if I lost, again. Not every love story has to be a love story.

I did shag an aussie girl soon enough too, that helped. She had a friend so the three of us caught a ride with some potosino blokes. I took one hell of a lot of dried mushrooms with me. After a good couple of days on the road we reached the Belize border. The car couldn’t cross since it didn’t have any papers, I didn’t have any money left either, so I stayed with the Tsuru, a tight budget, and the mission to drive it back to their city, then take a bus home.

Not far from there I found a nine blue colored lagoon, sold my discman and my camera to some mate with a taco stand, and with that, I hung around for about a month, with my hammock, and my shrooms. That’s when I saw that beautiful Indian girl washing her hair with the little waves and thought she resembled Mary Jane. I swam across the lagoon, took me all morning to get to the other side, amphibianly chest crawled the white mud that would’ve swallowed me, covered all of myself with it and let it dry to the sun as I took a breather, and then swam back all afternoon.

-“Hey! You owe me gas money. I spent hours, out there, looking for you kid. How could you think of doing something like that? You know how many I’ve seen drown in my years? There are currents you know? Strong ones, it’s dangerous.”-

-“The mushroom was guiding me.”-

-“You are a crazy man.”-

-“You have no idea.”-

I munched my last allied and started to make my way up, por la libre, to San Luis Potosi, in a car that had been a cab before, more than three hundred thousand kilometers old, a single front light, since I’d used the fuse to replace the stereo’s one, and a repo tire. That was a tricky drive, sleeping on the side of roads, zigzagging with the monster lorries on the rainy mountains of Tabasco. I dropped the car as agreed and bought my ticket north.

I rang the doorbell of my house; mother asked me to enter through the garden door since I was only allowed to occupy the service room, outside, until I cut my hair, my beard and my attitude. That wasn’t very nice so I sold what was left of my car and bought a ticket to the only place I could think of after listening to so much music, London. 

An Irish bum approached me in Charing Cross. –“You look like you could use some bud.”-

-“Do I?”- I gave him a tenner and that’s when I knew he’d nicked me, welcome to the Great Britain indeed.  

Callum wouldn’t answer his mobile, he never did, so walking a few blocks seemed like a good idea. –“London will chew and shit your crazed Mexican ass.”- He’d replied when I wrote to say I was coming. I remembered that when my legs gave up and the realization hit me that blocks just aren’t the same size on that side of the water spill, especially when you’re carrying a couple of sotol bottles in an already heavy backpack. I made it back to the station, to the booths, and after several attempts he answered.

-“I’m here, what now?”-

-“Now you take a train to Tunbridge Wells”-

-“Check”-

The ride was satisfying, big chunks of green, just like the place that I want to grow old on, something to do with the fact that home is a dessert probably, neat and warm architecture, and the weather, at least to me, just perfect. I had a glow, that I think I’ve lost, and people noticed, even sometimes smiled; I was insanely happy to be there.

Made another call, got the address. On my way I saw somebody calmly smoking skunk, sitting on the grass of an intersection holding a Fosters with the other hand, no one bothered, I smiled. Callum greeted me at the door.

-“Mate”-

-“Mate”-

-“You ever finish that book then?”-

-“I did, you’re part of it; one hell of a dreamer of an Englishman.”-

-“Is that good?”-

-“It’s a compliment.”-

-“Good”-

-“I brought booze from my land; you’re going to dig it.”-

-“Cheers mate, I’ve got a little surprise too, come on up.”-

That glow that I’ve been talking about went neon as I walked into a room and saw a pair of decks and a whole bunch of records sitting superbly on a stand.

Then I met his mum and something truly amazing happened, she gave me a key. I mean, some long haired, bushy bearded, Maria Sabina top, green aviators and headphones, bloke, and Mexican of all kinds, walked into her house, and she straightaway trusted him with it? –“There must be millions and millions of decent folks still around then.”- I told myself. That was a sign of great things to come.

-“It’s all about music.”- I told everyone I met and that blonde beauty sitting next to me in The Opera House pub. –“I want to grow up to be a table dancer.”- She’d said; such a daring and inviting comment. –“On which side of truth would you like to be?”- I asked, drunk. –“Your side”- She answered promptly and caressing my arm, and that’s about the last thing I remember as some soup looking and tasting home brew, which my mate insisted on me to have, murdered me; a huge sitting while should’ve been dancing situation.

There was another astonishingly good looking golden haired one called Claire; she had us all going on for her. There was a jerk off too, wore a suit, worked in the city, and smoked crack, in his own flat though. Guess who ended up with whom; sad story, such a dam good looking bird that she was.

Beer and bud were very good, conversations even better, and the music on top; I was all right. I got me a month’s worth travel card to London and did the first tuition payment at a music college near Old Street Station. I spent entire days in the studio, hands on decks, a pint in The Beehive, and then made my way back to ride every evening on Fleur’s car, also had a red Fiesta, if I’m not incorrect, I do recall it smelled like crap, but we couldn’t mind, as the scents were seduced by those of our spliffs, while we cruised all of Kent, trying to define artist in this fucked up world. Fleur is the first and only fan I’ve ever had and cared for; she used to draw my name in cool ways and digged my mixes. –“Hell man, you’re a fucking living legend.”-

I met a girl in class, a Hindu lawyer that didn’t know shit about music, but was considerably fit, so I took her out for drinks. She got hammered dumbly rapid and when we were at her flat she wanted to smoke. –“Have you ever even done it before?”-

-“Probably once?-

-“Probably? Then probably you shouldn’t, at least until you sober up.”-

-“What are you, crazy? If you can handle it, I can handle it.”-

-“We’ll see about that.”-

She had a toke from my key chain pipe and rested her back on my chest. I started kissing her neck and having my hands make their way underneath her jumper, undid the bra, went for a good grip of her tits, and then she woke up.

Slap! Slap!

-“What the…”-

Slap! Slap!

-“… fuck is going on right now?”-

Slap! She had a good right.

-“Fuck off me! Fuck is going on?”-

-“You tried to take advantage of me?”-

-“What are you, fucking mental?”-

Slap.

-“Jesus! Fuck off! It’s called making out it is, you wanted to.”-

-“I fell asleep for a minute.”-

-“Well I couldn’t tell, and how in the fuck is that my problem anyway, you crazy bitch.”-

She tried to slap again; I weaved.

-“Get the fuck out of here!”-

-“Fuck off. It’s the middle of the night, I don´t know where I am or have a single pound.”- 

-“That’s not my problem, get out or I’ll call the police.”-

-“That isn’t fair; you’re the one having this little episode.”-

-“God I feel like such a slut.”-

-“Yeah well… I’m gonna go find myself a bed.”-

-“Just leave me alone.”-

-“Oh, I am.”-

Drove me to the tube next morning, not a word was said and never made it back to class either; crazy ass bitch.

There was another girl at college, a fit as fuck somehow famous r’nb deejay. We walked out together and she wanted to have a drink, I didn’t have any money, as usual, and was too proud to say so. I jumped into the bus shaking my head as she stood there doing the same, major sitting, dancing, screw up, like that other pink haired punker attitude hottie that invited me to join her to the park, the park for fuck’s sake’s. I don’t think it has ever served me well, being too proud.

It’s not that I’m saying that RTW was boring sometimes, because I’m not, or maybe I’m, just a little bit, but after a while, there wasn’t much to do during the weekends really. One time there was; a gig at an adjacent town that we reached after crossing some dark woods while tripping on Tasmanians,  in the back of a house with a high density of drum ‘n bass and females letting go; gargantuan fun. It wasn’t long until the bacon party pooped all over us; we were mad, and bored, so much that somebody lit a scooter on fire in the middle of a park, we all grouped and cheered around it. –“Who the fuck did this?!”- A Bobbie, stick in hand, charged towards the crowd. We all ran laughing hysterically; we were bored no more, at least for a little while.

Passing through Nan’s part of the house on my way outside, to the shed, were we did the smoking, was always nurturing; a rich trick to learning about the ways of the kingdom that I so much fancied. It was noticeable that she had a decent life all sorted out for herself, but still did others laundry to get a few extra coins, and then buy Callum an electric guitar or herself a new tele. Back where I come from is more like many dependents and a single bread giver. Independence then, has to be a must, in the ways of developing people, that’s all people. Many of our so called countries have had a war with that pompous word as its name, and then forgot all about it really, pure independence. Nan didn’t forget; Nan had good memory; humankind should learn from Nan.

The room that I’d occupied for a month, once had been by E.M. Forster, the same house and everything, it was a room with a view indeed, and that was great coincidental motivation to a man that types. I left it thoughtful and thrilled, said the proper cheers and goodbyes, and boarded to live in London, what I was there for in the first place.

Tibet’s Corner was the name of the bus stop after a thirty minutes or so ride from Putney Bridge. There were about seven of us Mexicans, both sexes, and a Colombian couple, in a small flat, witch’s leasing agreement said four, tops. I didn’t get a bed and slept on the couch until somebody left and I had a job to actually pay some rent. That didn’t take long, the first CV I dropped was in Fabric’s offices; got a call the next day, Scottish fella, thick accented Mark, asked me to go to an interview. Everybody in the flat was ecstatic; circumstances were charming for the wannabe deejay, studying electronic music in London and paying for it while serving drinks at Fabric.

I did get the job, but it wasn’t exactly a bartender position, it was more like being a bucket and torch carrying rat of the place, but still, it was Fabric, so I was spoked; they gave me a t-shirt and everything.

I had to be there at twenty one hundred every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Rammed down the stairs with a giant empty bin with wheels in each hand and placed them on rooms one, two, three, and VIP. Bars then started erupting hundreds of carton boxes after filling up the refrigerators; we flattened, pressed, packed, and took them out for recycling. Trolleys filled with ice to all over the place, and finally, before doors opened, I learned to ask my security mates for a copy of the lineup, since people always asked who’s mixing, and I always liked to know. Once the miniskirts had cleared the line outside, in the British weather; pussy ice blocked, we were sent to pick up their mess and the carpeting flyers; I made myself a decent collection. 

There was a very tight chamber, in the middle of the stairs and room two, were the press and about eight of us rats sitting on a bucket were accommodated, changing batteries of our flashlights, rolling one of her, or doing a bump of cider smelling speed or tongue numbing farlopa. There was a one inch thick layer of mold in the walls of that rat-hole; talk about unsanitary working conditions.   

From then on it was all about wandering around picking up empty flasks, cans, and plastic cups, while annoying pillheads with the light; the most random collection of deformed expressions. After a while I knew that place like a rat does its own. Whenever I had a break I would’ve hung around the backstage rooms pretending to pick something up and listening to whatever the hype living ones had to say or do, or at the very top of room three, just outside the sound engineer’s room, the one that had a tattoo that read: La vida en ecstasy, pulling in a fatty and gawking at the black silhouettes that rendered through the lasers, and figuring that was it for me, or with an extra JD and coke or RB with vodka sitting on the dressing table of the females only spot, resting my back to the mirror while they picked their tits up, and never long before one approached, wanting a drag a drink a little conversation and probably rock and roll, or dancing my bones away with the bass coming from the floor in the dramatic experience of sound that mighty room one was. A demented wanderer, in El Bosco’s De tuin der lusten, I was.

Aluminum in the green, crystal in the purple, bins, cups back to the bar backs, pretty simple, and exhausting. There were interesting things to do too, like putting together the Pervert’s table with the tennis balls on every corner, or getting a True Playa a drink, also very demeaning shit, like wiping up pill puke or surprise some sort of human trying to catch his own piss with his mouth.

The best times were whenever I was able to swat my way into the booths for a couple of minutes and learned every label on every record around and minded closely the fingers working the turntables and the mixer. I covered for a sick steward once and was assigned to room one’s. Digweed did Fabric for like seven hours that time; phenomenal. Freeland was also legend, and Ian, my favorites though, the later stages of a DJ Hype set on a Friday, no MC, or Villalobos’s Fizheuer Zieheuer on a Saturday, that sounded scarily good.      

There was a redhead bartender with that Z name that means life in Greek, whom I never did, even if she said thing to me publicly like: -“How come you’ve never waxed your bum before? How am I going to lick it then?”- Instead I nailed a Polish colleague of her, I think because I’d only recently watched The Schindler’s List, I’m serious, had some weird historical crush to her; she was a weird shag, should’ve done Zoe better; we were very close in some natural way, and I was in love with her. She porked thick accented Mark and is now a proper lesbian, I think. Not every love story must be a love story.  

Sundays were gay nights; most of them barely dressed, always sweaty, and humping the guy in front as they’re walking, that wasn´t eye candy, house music and mixers were always the same, so that wasn´t pleasant either, but it was rarely crowded, and they were, after all, pretty respectful, so it was bearable. An ecstasy vendor, Italian mafia, great curves and moves, girl, always dancing on top of three, made it even more so. There was an extra member of the staff for those days, a funny bloke, who’s job, he’s words, was to unsuccessfully inhibit people from having sex in the loos.

Once in a while we would’ve had some sort of special event, one in particular completely transformed the place for a night, The Goldman Sachs annual whatever. Massive red curtains covered every wall, chocolate fountains in the VIP, arcade machinery covering the floor in one, cigar bar in three, fire show in two, and what was most amazing of it all; besides the millionaire production and attendees, it was the night in Fabric when the worst people, and their shit ass music, have ever filled the place up. They all got drunk dumbly rapid, just like that bitch lawyer, and then acted like monkeys really; fucking disgusting. –“And they’re the ones with the money.”- All of us rats seemed to say, to them, knowing ourselves smarter in more sensitive facets; more human, and they complied with their uncontrollably rolling eyeballs and drawling snouts; we could see they envied something in us, but then couldn’t understand it and rather forgot about it; numbed it out with another cocktail. One sad night in Fabric; that was a first.

Once the last record had spin, and we were done with whatever it was we had to do, besides taking tons of rubbish out, we would’ve always crowded the chill out, Fabric on mute, all of us bar, floor staff and the rest, convolved, in the same way that a freak show does after function, and felt part of something, belonging, to a movement of underground résistance against systematic destruction of the free mind. 

Thursdays were all about exercise since a punctual trolley would’ve parked outside so it was my job and that of a rotten eggplant scented Check veggie, to painfully sluggish empty all of it down into a trolley and to the storage rooms; lots of spirits I’ve carried.

Considering college courses, the only time I had spare were Wednesdays’ afternoons that I spent in Camden, bought skunk out of any store pretending to sell something else, and, after one or two down the lock, hit the record joints; countless hours, in front of a set of decks, pile of records, headpieces, filtrating; pretty much all a DJ can do really. 

I moved to the north after our flat fell apart for real; every time anyone had a shower the heavy Nigerian lady from downstairs jab and crossed our door: -“You’re fucking flooding my kitchen! You’re fucking flooding my kitchen!”-

Something like seven South Africans, actually only three, where that, the other four were Afrikaans, made sure to make that clear, and didn’t like each other, a pair of Australians, an Irish, a Yugoslavian, an Israeli, blokes, and me, lived in that soon to be destroyed house up in Woodgreen. We had our fun, party every day, and I had a room all to me with a table made out of scraps from Fabric holding my brand new turntables right up to the belly button.

Pretty soon I quit my job though, all that fell apart like the Putney flat; the whole situation with the boss’s new girl and the fact that he gave some Brazilian that did a shit rat job the next available bartender position instead of me, therefore teaching me that sometimes you have to do a bad job, when it’s shit, in order to get a better one, the unfair fact that rats didn’t get a cut from the tips, even had to pay for our batteries, and the Polish chick starting to go a bit crazy on my ass, made my stay feel unwanted; I left, after all, I was an alien without an NIN, an unwanted; a wetback, for the first time, but not the last.

I got a piercing on my left eyebrow, hurt it somehow and got infected, washed it with soap, it was herbal; allergically reacted, half my face was that of a Basset Hound; things were starting to go a bit on the dark side; it’s no fun being dead poor in London. We got evicted from the house after tearing it apart, and the neighbors’ eardrums. I sold everything I had, but my breakbeat records, and took a plane to France and to a girl I’d only met.

-“Chocolate, thank you”-

-“No silly, smell it.”-

-“Dear lord”-

-“Welcome to Nice”-

We sat on a beach that instead of sand had what looked like oversized river rocks, that was a first one to me. I did a couple of Thai brews, another one of pure copper blazed Moroccan’s, stared at the line over the Mediterranean, and felt good, again, like that other time with the coffee; like watching a whale.

I met her mother, and give it a few weeks, I grabbed her buns; felt someone standing next to me so I went for it, I knew instantly that I’d fucked up, it’s not that it wasn’t a good one, actually, it was pretty tight for a woman that age, but it wasn’t Nat’s, so I let go and slowly turned to find her mum staring sternly back at me; that was a laugh, there were a lot of laughs in Nice. A friend of hers had a restaurant, a proud addiction to hookers, and a Japanese girlfriend that once karate struck him right on the face after he had told her that she was a rug with an arse, Nat’s translation; fucking hilarious. Also met her sister, pretty fit she is, Nat wouldn’t let me had a try, wouldn’t have had me anyway; she’s into vegetables.

I met her grandfather too. –“Qu'est ce que tu dis?”- He asked me once, alarmed. Almost completely deaf and knew little English, but when I drunkly praised Italian wines, that, he heard. Reminded me of my grandfather, gentle and refined; made me feel very welcome.

I got an Aztec duality inked on my left wrist; a voluntary scar. I have others, scars, which remind me of some unintentional event that marked me, a tattoo, instead, is a reminder of something that I wanted to happen, and remember. That day was the feeling of everything still possible, hang the gloves and start over, on whatever it is I was or am doing, and remain amongst the best, no matter what, no matter when, passionately.

We flew back together and spent the night on her Stoke flat. Some Manu Chao DVD was playing as I smoked one after the other, looking out the window, not wanting to let go, ever.

Behind an empty police wagon parked outside of Gatwick, or was it Stansted, I stood and lit the last one of that journey, can of lager in the other hand, not being bothered; tightly how everything started. I had grown so very much in that praised city that I was beholding and called mine by then, simple curious lad that I still was. All of that storming information, I was going to miss, the statues that stood hi and the bums that laid low, the black man that sang One Love in Old Street Station, guitar and mini amplifier, got arrested and looked at me like saying: -“Tell my story.”-, now I have, and that Stella I shared with my flat-mate El Niño down in some benches of Putney Bridge, once that we seemed to have all of the Thames to ourselves, and he told me, lager leakage down his chin: -“You know what mate? What I’m thinking right now is so complicated but true, that it would take like three or four of your lifetimes to even begin to understand it.”-, truly amused I laughed and replied: -“Mate, I feel you and know exactly what you’re talking about.”-, and the girl that thought that I was famous and took a picture in King’s Cross, and the time I kissed Zoe right there, and the squatter psy parties on the outskirts, with that blonde Rasta girl that I told was so beautiful and she said you too, and that time Jesse the aussie and I took mushrooms in Hyde Park, then protested for peace, and finally watched Finding Nemo with a bunch of fit Kenyan girls, Sara gave me her number, I never called. All the things that I did, would’ve done, and will do to you, my old shivering city. I’ll be back, with better arguments, my gray haired lover. Please do mind the fucking gap.