Technicolor Pulp (16 page)

“That would be great, thanks,” I say.

The waiter starts walking back towards the kitchen through the aisle and Harry, the inside man, pushes out his chair… Just
as it looks like he’ll disappear into the kitchen, he stops and talks to his other table. Harry jerks back and the waiter
turns his head our way. There’s a frozen moment… Where it’s like… We don’t know if he’s hip to what we’re doing… Or if he’s
just looking back ‘cause he heard a noise… My heart skips and butterflies rush into my stomach and start churning around the
salmon and pasta I’ve just inhaled… The waiter then looks back at the table, continues talking, and then walks into the back.
The cook is sitting at the last table near the kitchen but it’s now or never.

“Hit it, Harry!” I say, and jump up from my
chair. Harry’s already five steps ahead of me. I kick it out like I haven’t done since my teenage vandal days. It’s all I
can do to keep up with Harry as he dives into the swirl of the Champs Élysées… I hear a few yells and turn my head… The waiter
and the cook are at the front door of the restaurant but I look so quick that I can’t even tell if they’re chasing us or not…
It hits me that I don’t even have Harry’s phone number… I never got it from him… So not only do I need to get out of the restaurant…
But if I lose the guy… I don’t know where I’m sleeping tonight… Or ever again, for that matter… I could be lost for days!
I’m a radar… I follow Harry through the crowd with tunnel vision… Bumping into people… People I don’t even see… I can’t lose
him… Christ… The guy won’t let up… It goes on for what seems like a mile, until finally he ducks into an alley and I catch
up.

“Are they after us?”

“I only turned around once, man… They were at the door… But I never heard or saw them after that.”

“Jimi, I think that shit’s all coming up… That meal was so heavy… That run just killed me!” he says, bent over with his hands
on his knees, panting. I’m breathing hard and I can taste my meal again too. I haven’t really had time to think about it until
now, but Harry’s right. It wouldn’t be hard to puke at all. I put my hands down on my knees and start to take deep, long,
controlled breaths, trying
with all my might to hold down my meal. Harry starts puking. Ravioli, still intact, hits the pavement and slides across the
alley. Big, long bursts shoot out from Harry’s mouth. TECHNICOLOR YAWN. I struggle. Part of me wants to turn away, but the
other part of me… Makes me watch. It’s all I can do to enjoy the show and hold back my own feast.

I wake up clinging to the dusty tapestry like we’re old lovers. No sooner do I cover my face with a pillow to shield me from
the treacherous daylight, when it hits me that I gotta catch a plane at 8 in the morning. Panic riddles my body as the reality
strikes. I run into Harry’s room to look for his watch. Harry’s dead to the world. I grab his arm and twist it around so I
can get a look at the time. It’s 6:33. I drop Harry’s arm back onto the bed. Harry hasn’t so much as flinched up to this point.
To tell you the truth, I’m glad. You see, somewhere in the middle of my parisian binge, Harry had expressed a desire to come
back with me to London. At the time, I’d been like, “Oh yeah… That’d be awesome,” because I figured it would keep the party
rolling and Harry’s wallet open. But now, facing the actual prospect of going back to London to a house that I’m not so sure
still loves me quite as much as I’d like to believe, it’s a different game. Especially since I sorta blew Doobe off when I
hooked up with Harry and was sick of Jane. Yeah… All things considered… With just a few days left in London… I think it’d
be better to go back without Harry and keep a low profile until my jumbo heads back stateside. The question is now… How do
I get outta here without Harry feeling slighted.

I take a look at him. He looks beat. His skin’s pale and he’s got creases under his eyes. Maybe if I just get all ready to
go, and then wake him up at the last minute, he’ll be too rushed and he won’t be able to rally?… If not… I guess I just have
to tell him the truth… Oouch.

I run back to my room and throw my things into my knapsack: two shirts and my other jeans. I splash some cold water on my
face and take a squirt of toothpaste to rub on my teeth with my index finger. The hair looks good with yesterday’s grease
still in it. I pull a quick comb through it and give a final adjustment with my hands. Fine.

“Harry… Harry…” I shake him. “Harry man… You gotta get up if you wanna go… You gotta get up RIGHT NOW!” I give him another
good shake and his eyes squint. “Fuck… Jimi… What time is it?”

“I don’t know, man, you got the watch… I think it’s gettin’ late.” He looks.

“Man… It’s almost a quarter to seven… What time does your plane leave?”

“Eight o’clock man… We gotta hurry.”

Harry gets up in bed. I can see he’s surveying the situation in his mind. I push again.

“Harry, we gotta go… Don’t ya think… How far away is that airport… Can we make it, even?” I barrage him with panicky questions,
everything I can think of that’ll make him NOT want to come back with me. I watch his eyes, weighing, debating whether or
not he should get out of bed.

“Jimi… I don’t know man… I don’t think I can make this flight… Maybe I oughta stay here and get my shit together for my classes?”

“You’re gonna blow off London ‘cause you got homework? Is that what you tellin’ me?” I got him going right where I want him.
It’s a good time to turn it around and make it look like HE’S ABANDONING ME! “Well… Alright man… I can’t MAKE you go I guess.”

“I’m sorry, Jimi… I know I told you I’d go with you but I’m fuckin’ exhausted and I gotta make sure I don’t flunk outta school
over here or my free ride’s over.”

“Fair enough, Buddy… Well this is it then… Thanks for everything,” I say and with a quick hug I’m out the door ‘cause I REALLY
DON’T have much time to spare.

My last task is to score a pair of socks. There’s a relatively clean pair lying next to Harry’s dresser and I swoop them up
on my way out the door. I throw
them on in the foyer, taking off the pair I got at Jane’s house. THEY STINK. I don’t even wanna put them in my knapsack! What
to do… What to do… Even in the garbage they’ll ruin Harry’s apartment. I turn around and spot a little fridge on a table next
to the window. I open it. It’s got a moldy half-lemon and a Styrofoam take-out container, open, with a rock-hard baguette
and some cheese inside it. I throw the socks inside the fridge and shut it back up, he doesn’t use the thing anyways, and
head out the door.

My only real problem at this point is that I have no idea how to get to the airport. Harry had said something about a bus
that comes in front of his building every fifteen minutes, but I don’t see a bus-stop sign anywhere. There’s gotta be some
kind of fucking
L’Autobus
sign or something, because in front of his building is one of those huge piazza-type things. I mean huge, like I don’t think
I can just stand in the middle and wait for the thing! I gotta pick my spot! I see a bum lying on a bench off to the side
of the building and I figure the guy’s bound to know. He probably fuckin’ lives here. I walk over to him.

“Hey man… How ya doin’… Can you tell me where the bus stops that goes to the airport?”

The bum looks up at me and scratches his matted hair with a black-caked hand—the kind of filth that takes months, maybe years,
to acquire.

“Je… Ah… Dui dui… Ah… Jenai… Adui…”

“Look man… I don’t speak french… Ah… L’Autobus… Ah… Charles De Gaulle… I think… Je pense… Port de Aero… You know what I mean?”
I gesture madly with my hands. He looks up at me and then looks back off to the side.

“Ah no we… Adey… New… La…”

“Look… Man… I told you I don’t fuckin’ speak the tongue… Port de Aero… Port de Aero…” I say and stick my arms out like they’re
wings. I start to circle the guy, saying, “Port de Aero… Port de Aero!” But to no avail. I get to thinking the guy’s jerking
me around. I look at him. He’s smart. I’ll bet he knows exactly what I’m asking, the motherfucker! I grab him. “Come on, you
little lying bum motherfucker.” I shake him back and forth, his eyes rolling in his head with every jolt, “Come on you fucker!
What… Huh… You think you’re not gonna tell me ‘cause I’m american! I’ll wring your fucking neck!” Right as I’m out of things
to say… And basically, out of things to do… I mean, what am I gonna do, beat the guy up for not talking to me? I hear the
sound of a large diesel engine across the way.

There it is! I drop the bum and grab my knapsack. I start running to the other side of the piazza,
screaming, holding my arms up in the air. The bus driver sees me and holds. I run to the door, it opens and I bound up the
stairs, give him my last francs that I got from Harry and sit down behind him. The bus driver counts the money and gives me
a franc back, closes the door and pulls away from the curb. I look into the rearview mirror of the bus. Sweat’s pouring down
my forehead and everyone on the bus’s looking at me like I’m some mad wino or something. I pull out a dirty T-shirt, mop up
the face, and settle back into my seat.

“So what you’re saying is that you’re an American who came here with no money, went to Paris with no money, and now you’ve
come back to London with no money?”

“Exactly, Officer….”

Back in the Customs Office, with my pants down at my ankles, giving the abbreviated version of my life story to a coupla cardigan
sweater-heads. They’re not buying it. As far as I know, I don’t have any drugs on me, so I don’t care. The only thing they
can hold me for is being poor. I’m not sure, but I don’t think they still have debtor’s prison in London. They’ll probably
just make me go live in the streets and throw rotten vegetables at me. I got
a tag team working on me—a real carbon copy of Laurel and Hardy. The fat one’s in control, of course. He circles me, talking,
while Skinny smooths my thighs and checks the soles of my boots. I’m a little shaken from my run-in with the wino in Paris.
Between the wino and the cat at Flavio’s, I almost feel like I still got a bicep. Any-ways, now it’s different, and I’m back
at the mercy of these two bobby-school dropouts.

“Tell me… Mr… Banks… What would you have done without your ‘friends’ in Paris and London? How would you have gotten home?”
says the fat guy.

“I don’t know… I probably would’ve gone somewhere else where I had other ‘friends.’”

“I see…” he says, unsatisfied with my calm and candor.

“‘E looks alright… ‘E doesn’t have anything on ‘im,” the skinny one says as he finishes checking my heels for secret compartments.

“Well… If I was one of your mates… I’d hate to put you up knowing you were bloody broke… Enjoy your stay in London… You’re
free to go,” and the fat guy leaves, followed by his emaciated sidekick. I’m left alone in the stale neon office, feeling
violated, to stuff my jeans back into my knapsack. I almost wanna piss on their grey carpet so the next guy can smell the
customs boys for what they really are… SEWAGE. Chalk it all up as the downside of being a primarily law-abiding citizen.

The train back to Doobe’s is almost empty. When
I get back to the flat, no one is home and I gotta sneak in through the side window. I make a pot of tea and with the luck
of stoned Jesus, I find a stray piece of black hashish—oh, the beauty of shag carpeting. I pour myself a cup with honey and
milk, cook up a bowl, turn on the tube, and fall into the glee of fuzzymentalstupidrevelry.

He gave me this armband. It’s made of silver but it’s real cheap. I love it though… It’s part of my tribal vision of myself.
I already had one armband, but then he, Rosie that is, gave me this one. At Doobe’s restaurant there’s a whole flock of queens
who don’t use boy-names. I think his “real” name is Richard but I only know him as Rosie. He’s half and half, italian and
scottish, and I’m half loaded.

“You’re 24… You’re young… You’ve got all the time in the world to do whatever you want… Stay here and live with me mum and
I… Please stay in London… Don’t break ma heart!”

“You know, Rosie,… I just don’t know about me, you, and your MUM… It might be a little too weird… All of us together… Probably
be cramped too.”

“We’ll get our own place then… I’ll do whatever, to make you happy!”

There it is, and I never even knew the bitch had a thing for me. How am I supposed to know? Who knew? In the midst of this
Dickensian oblivion, a queen has fallen in love with me. Rosie wants me all to himself. It’s an awkward situation, because
every day, when Doobe goes in to work, I sit at that same pub next door, Gilbert and Sullivan, and mooch drinks off all the
friends I’ve made who work with Doobe. Rosie’s just gotten off his shift and he’s got a purse full of pounds. All I can think
of is how this guy could take me out on the town and we could rage until dawn. Dinner?… Drinks?… Dancing?… And then at dawn,
he’d want to take me home and suck my dick. Or worse, he’d want ME to SUCK HIS DICK! What to do? Do I do it? Do I let this
guy ride me like a pony for a few hours and let it all be just some groovy experience that I once had? Maybe I’ll love it
and become the biggest queen in England? Let this guy call me a bitch, grab me by my hair, and treat me like a tramp? Or maybe
it’ll be worse, and he’ll sit there and caress me and tell me that he loves me and it’ll have to be this beautiful thing?
All just for a night out on the town?

Every time I get up from the table, he stares at me like I’m corn-fed veal. I have visions of myself being one of those wonderful
high school sluts I grew up with, with the purple eye shit and the frosted hair. I’m the hunted. The ball is not in my court.
I’m a
slave to my excesses and yet, it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s Rosie.

A night of bourbon and all his tip money for the privilege of my company. Money for the powder room, for all you Holly Golightly
fans out there.

“I’m serious, Jimi… I want you to stay with me!” he says with tones of urgency. The puppy-dog eyes, the soft stray touches,
and then the best part, he sings me his favorite Janet Jackson song, putting me in the lyrics: “… Miss you, Jimi… I said I’ll
miss you much…” Over and over again, sadder and sadder with every sip of his drink. He’s got that scottish brogue, so when
he says “much,” he says it like “muuuch,” with an “ew” instead of an “ah.” I can’t take it, but I WILL take it as long as
he doesn’t start grabbing my crotch TOO INTENTIONALLY. I’ll take every last drink and morsel of food that the queen’ll splurge
for! I’m not proud and if I am… Then I just won’t tell!