dinner and dreams

I once went to dinner at the basement apartment of a beautiful young woman whom i/d met recently , doing blow backs in the bathroom of the east London pub I was working in at the time. ½ weegee and ½ Nigerian, she is to this day, the most exotically stunning i/ve ever been with. A real fucking knockout. 6 foot plus, sloe eyed , caramel skinned, doc adorned get away sticks for days and ass lengthed dreads- her beauty and aura were beguiling. I took the 253 bus from my place in hackney to Camden town- from crustie ville to rock and roll paradise. That bus, if you could stay awake and not find yourself at 5am face down on the floor in some London transit garage, was a meditative delight, as the sights of north London flew by. It was a quick jaunt down Camden high street to her shared basement flat. Electricity and running water- statistical anomalies in my life at the time. I brought the booze- Bulgarian red , irish black and irish brown-the social equalizers of 1989. We listened to tapes on a little boombox, workld party and the water boys, as she struggled in the kitchen with the meal and the permaspliff on her lips. ‘ need any help there? ‘ , yep, skin up , she says. Oh dear. I was very intimidated by her beauty and confidence, and the hash was not helping. We were in super model territory in my eyes, and I was some underfed oversped slob decked out in a dust bins best. As tins were opened and food fell over the floor, the spliff never left her lips , until she began to speak of her two older brothers and the damage that they would do to her for shagging a white boy. Shagging? Well at least the cards were on . the table, and I was scared as hell, especially as she described what they would do to me after they were done terrorizing her. Fortunately we were 400 miles from Glasgow and hogmany was 6 months away. I would roll the dice , however pot paranoid I became. The booze was not helping the evening, as it normally did. The joints were too savory and the food was shit. Cooking was clearly not her strong suit. It was a shambles of tin peaches, tescos peas, and small curd cottage cheese. Admirable ingredients on their own, but god awful as a culinary pre coital combination. We were two post adolescence feeling each other out before feeling each other up. North London was rapidly dissipating in reality one fork or toke at a time. I am too high and not drunk enough. The spotted dick was not gonna involve clotted cream, it was her way of dragging me to bed, but the tales of castrating brothers and the taste of tinned peaches and morrocan hash were killing the mood no altogether, no matter how many Glaswegian was whispered in my ear. I wanted to see a drag show at the black cap , I wanted her to have finals in the morning, I wanted her flat mate to come home and send us out for last orders. Anything to waylay the inevitable awkward coupling that was approaching more quickly with the removal of each article of clothing. The closeness of our skin, the electric buzz of touch, the soft Scottish whispers about tomorrow and next year where fighting with the uneasiness of acclimation, and the cold spoon of the reality of being profoundly outclassed. I was nervous and lost, naked and trembling side by side, speaking of hopes and fears. ‘this’, she said, ‘is as far as it goes today’. I tried to hide the exhalation of the pending fear of failure I was experiencing , the profound dissolution of the pending disappoint we averted. We embraced , holding each other tightly , til she tells me to get my skates on, that her flat mate was soon home, that she has to study, that I can get the last bus home if I hurry. Relieved, I dress, we kiss , deeply, goodbye and see yis soon. I run towards the last bus, and miss it and proceed to drink my way from the black cap to the Dublin castle to the good mixer to a long stumble up the chjalk farm road, busting for a piss towards the marathon kebab shop , home of post gig rock and roll revelry with overpriced can and the promise of soakage in kebab form. Somewhere between the sausage machine and falcon crowd, there is the potential for late night anonymous sexual redemption with legging and combat clad rock and roller. I awoke in the wee hours, dying to piss and not prepared to brave the rickety ladder from my basement room to the next floor in barefeet and underpants. I shutter awkwardly to the hermetically sealed French door and remove the waist high piece of cardboard covering the broken pane specifically in place of the late night leak. Turning around, momentarily confused, I realize that I am indeed home at my basement squat in Clapton, I fall back into bed next to a warm body snoring lightly, spiky short black hair on the pillow, mascara run on the sheets. There is a pile of interchangeable boots and clothes piled next to the futon on the floor. As I light a cigarette to kick start the day, I vaguely remember meeting at last call at some stoke Newington karaoke joint. It all comes flooding back with the inhalation of a strong irish cigarette and the dawn of the day, one drunkenly spliced frame at a time. One last broken karaoke warrior, one atonal song at a time. One more chance to take back the night.