Young, lean, boy comes through the doors of pub, they are frontandback, inandout, of living bodel, place of home. In the corner comes coffee hot, and thick, from pulsing squat tomb of water and pipes, and jumps down throat with scolding hotness. In the back room have the boys been staying up and playing pool and doing line after never ending line of coke, in toilets, off lapshades, snorted like some braying laughter between the leaves of books, and they are still awake even now, chemically numbed from sleep, and in some different world of sense, and yet attempt to cross into young, lean, Jim’s. “and have you to go now? That’s fucking tight bruv” say they, oh so sincere but really not feeling that at all, not that at all, for they are jittery, and their jaws aquiver while they say it. Only coffee for Jim, and a brief, curt nod, and “hard night boys?” and out into the snow. And it is hard, oh so hard, sitting at that bench and his steed (hah! Steed!) next to him in the snow, and gloves with no finger-cover with ends of digits emerging, like small, alien nipples and that filum with the three tits. And then thoughts about whether that would really be erotic, and then ‘we have two hands though, so that’s enough’, and on to ponderous coldcold, seeping into fabrics overbottom, and in through shoes, and mittens. And the bike still rested there. Then the crackle of the radio, and up, swing leg over, click in place, grab the frozen bars and out into the traffic. After haze of chill on eyes and tips of lips and fingers, emerge, blinking, in the light, a cold coming he had of it. The faceless front of buildings, on into the bowls, to that desk where the young pretty faces of the company sit and guard the inner sanctum from the likes of us. And ‘no you want round the back’, said without a smile, or sincerity, or even sympathy. Out after this exchange, again into cold dank air, bike unlocked and pushed round back in haste to goodsentrance, more his type of people there, there were, and again the surly and the list to sign, and the heavy package slung into cavernous bag hoisted onto back and clip and peddle off.
Updownupdown went legs of furious spindling joy to pump up blood to surface, capture heat and makesweat to warm up bodious being with bag on back. Through narrow streets, the men in suits muttering, as they nearly are collided with and all the while him thinking thoughts that are not thoughts really, more feelings that the hands should go this way and the legs should pumppump and upanddown, and cause self to move through traffic at the pace that only he was capable. All this took place in time, and so the day was growing onward, and the destination hazy, unfixed in mind, yet general scheme of things was represented to his being. Then, when approaching near to drop out comes the trusty AZ and, thumbed in his hands, reveals its hard material secrets. Hop on again, and zingzing through the cavalcade that aims to kill and maim, and out the other side of streets which aren’t meant to be gone down that way, then the policeman’s ‘oioioioioi’ which is ignored, with no fear of reprisal because he is just too slow, and just too slow, even in a car he has no chance, and the odd policebikeman you get is just as bad and easily avoided.
And then there, with scratching signature signalling both delivery and ownership, he pants and curses and stamps his feet to keep that blood flowing round as it should and dwells and waits for second job. Oh-oh-oh and the cold seeps in from all sides as he tramps about and wonders whether to buy that food and drink, overpriced victuals from the heart of cursed London. To occupy his thinking then along comes thoughts of ‘itals’ and whether they’re etymologically related to ‘victuals’ and so is spent for sometime minutes of passing timestuff on these thoughts. If now we look at where he’s got to it is slightly down the road were people pass and fade into the darkened lights around, and it is nearly 10 and one job (that’s £3.30 to him, and us) and horrors grip him.
Relax on solid bench roughling powderous snow which lives on it at this time of year but is becoming melt, halfway between the slush that it will be and the flaky goodness it so nearly is. Brush away with palm in hand and setdown heavily with heap of sadness, frustration, cool and firm and dripping down the neck. Next to him sits other vessels of melancholy, moaning, smelling gently in the stiff swamping air, they politely moan and stamp their tired feet after nights of tramping, and are ignored. Out comes a book, and the paper, and it is read to take the mind from where it is again, and the inside of the lip is chewed, a small flake of scum bitten off and spat out. In the square, which is at the centre of the known universe for these two, there comes small groups of altered peoples, old peoples, homes away, and two policemen (fear not, they are not those of before, and do not recognise our hero) who walk abroad, oblivious. The methman comes and natters to jim’s neighbour, and his teeth have fallen out like targets at the fair under fire from some accomplished shot, he takes a swig and begins to talk about his ohsoholy shoe and book, his two vaguely becketian possessions. The noose hangs hard and cold around his neck, and within minutes will pull upward, yank and hard, cutting it in two, severing life from being. But all this while jim is in his book, or paper, and is smoking on a cigarette clamped firmly in his gob. And in his paper what things are going on? Oh who can tell, for why do they go on but to end up in his little head, to flit around till finding some resting place they curl up and fall asleep.
wakened from his slumber with cracklecrackle on the radio and up, legover, clip, grip pedalo.
Up through one way streets, round the end of the place one should not go, right at corner, towards centre-point up towards then left. Through lights, and shouts and curses all float off the back like so much water and are left behind. Roadworks here cause difficulty and squeeze traffic between the Scylla on the pavement and the charybdis to the right, but through at last and freed from that damnable island in the cars which will cause strike of pedals without warning. Many a red light came, oh yes, and went again behind, causing little strife to the slow-witted, hazeliving pedestrians (tourists mainly) who aimed to cross and move between two sides of the great gyratory path of movement. Slipslop, through and through, passed those strange shops which populate the road (those ones which only seem to sell the hats with flags on them, and the tshirts that declare themselves to be lousy, and still? And how they pay the rent?) and then up, through, onward up and through, toward that great circus, emblem of the carnival, with its strange unruly lights. Those lights are cursed. Then over, over just the pther side till “vision Express” is reached, optical oasis in the mire, the lenses strapped and packed, signed for and released into the cavernous bag.
Leg, over, clip, in, up, down, away. Which way? The first fears till route is realised, and truth and quickness come floating into his mind. Right again at the circus toward that symbol of modernity, the BBC, where Eric Gill stood naked from below as he carved his intricate scene, in monks habbit. Past, onwards, upwards ever more, on and up, toward the centre of his world, delivery, hand momentary on the hat to keep it on and, (have I mentioned this?) no breaks, nor any other way to slow the move of bike on road save feet ill designed for feat.
Time was passing now and so he thought of lunch, for more drops (not described here) had been and gone, and food was evertemptinghungryboy, who burned the stuff of movement by the hour. Pumping onward everup and now slow, (for the morning rush had passed), sculling in the lazy shallows off the main flow of the moving cars and traffics, skulking also, back streets, looking for free-food to steal and eat, or coffee from the man who didn’t like to serve the smelly courier, for some quiet stoop on which to roll that little piece of stultifying greenness between thinger and fumb till all was stilled for some 20 minutes. Sit, strap, lick, place, spark, flame, toke, breathe. Ahhh mememe. Yes all is fine now, all is fine. Tired legs are eased and mind numbed, and (perhaps) slightly dulled, though it doesn’t feel like that from the inside thought he, nonono not from inside does it not oh no. and so young, lean, jim sits smoking and thinking of the rest of days.