The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (34 page)

People get up and spin out the usual hard-luck stories, which I find hard to follow due to a thickness in my ears, although I hear this girl hiss the occasional ‘bullshit’ or ‘get real’ under her breath. Being a Leith boy and raised by a punk rock mother, I’m inordinately impressed by that kind of behaviour. During
the coffee break, I note that she’s alone so I approach her. — You don’t seem too impressed by this, I smile.

She looks at me for a bit, raises her coffee to her lips and shrugs. — It’s cheaper than rehab, that’s all you can say, but you have to put up with all the fundamentalist bullshit.

— What do you mean?

— This holy stuff, but also this life abstinence shit. I mean, yeah, well, I admit things got out of hand drinkwise with me. But I will drink again at some point, once I get it under control. One drink is not a matter of life and death.

— Aye it is, I tell her.

— Oh that is so gross, she says, and I can see that she has a slightly square but pleasing face, and I like her green eyes and tight slash of a mouth.— You really fucking want Jesus in your life that much?

I have a vision of Kibby on the cross. Then I think about that porn video of Traynor’s,
The Second Coming of Christ
, probably because this lassie looks a bit like the bird that played Mary Magdalene’s mate in thon threesome scene and I involuntarily giggle a bit. — I want alcohol out my life, I explain, straightening up.

— Well, just watch that you don’t get Jesus in the package: that’s the way it is with those freaks. Substitute one dependency for another.

Aye, they fair got Jesus right in the poor bastard’s package in that flick. That was where one of the crucifixion bolts went through! Sair yin! I pucker my lips and blow out air at the thought. — That would never do, I tell her.

— You gotta watch, she says, looking shiftily around.

I’m thinking that I need friends over here, and sober and female fits the bill nicely. — Listen; speaking of dependencies, I shake the styrofoam cup, — this coffee is garbage. How do you fancy going for a proper one somewhere when the show is over?

She raises her eyebrows and looks challengingly at me. — Are you hitting on me?

— Eh, I’m from Scotland. We don’t really do that there . . . I mean, members of the opposite sex can get on socially in my culture without any other agenda, I lie.

She contemplates this bullshit for a moment and says, — Okay, that would be cool. She smiles and I get a wee flutter in my stomach. Ya beauty! — Your accent is pretty neat. I’ve never been to Skatlin, she tells me.

— Beautiful country, well worth a visit, I contend in a smug flush of patriotic pride, as the meeting resumes. — I’m Danny, by the way.

— Dorothy, she says, as we take our seats for round two.

The stories still seem as disturbing, but Dorothy and I make faces at each other occasionally, usually in response to some of the more banal comments coming from the floor. I’m only vaguely aware of what’s going on in the rest of room until there’s a pop in my ear, followed by a warm and wet sensation, like I’m bleeding. When my hand goes to the source I feel a hot gunk leaking on to my fingers. My heart rattles in my chest in panic, as I fear that my brains are melting, but it’s only earwax. I rub it surreptitiously under the chair. Excusing myself, I go to the toilet where I wash my ear and the side of my face till the waxy smell is gone. I take a piss and it’s the same colour and consistency as the wax.

Meltdown!

Disturbed, I go back inside, but at least I can now hear what’s going on. Then, after the serenity prayer, we head outside together. It looks like I’ve a new friend, which is fine by me!

— Do you have a car? she asks.

— No, I just got here yesterday. I’m staying at a divey hotel on 6th Street, I tell her, possibly unwisely.

— God, that is as divey as it gets, she says, lighting a cigarette. — I’m just over here, she points across the street towards a smart, white convertible. — Let’s get out of this neighbourhood.

We climb into the motor and set off, Dorothy’s hooked nose
poking out in profile from that shaggy mass of black hair.

I clock all these bars on 16th Street as we head into the Mission district. Every one of them seems to beckon a warm invite. Thank fuck I have another recovering alcoholic on-side. — Parking in this town is crazy, she says, with an air of intense concentration and she’s into this space as soon as somebody pulls out. I’ve never seen a bird reverse like that before.

As we get out the car we’re stopped by Socialist Workers Party people protesting about the war in Iraq. I didn’t even know that they had revolutionary socialists in America. — Bush is the axis of evil, a small, thin girl wails at us. A guy by her side earnestly thrusts a leaflet into my hand.

— I like Bush, I tell them, waiting for their faces to pucker in distaste before hitting them with the punchline, — it’s just that cunt in the White House I can’t stand.

Dorothy shakes her head and pulls me away from the bemused paper sellers. — You can’t say that here, she says as we head down the street.

— Aye I can. I know San Francisco is a liberal town but there must still be some people who like Bush. I mean, I don’t, I hate all politicians. They’re aw cunts.

— No . . . you used
that
word again.

Apparently it seems to be more offensive to use that word over here than it is to buy a handgun. I decide that I’ve committed enough faux pas for one day and will try and keep my fucking big gob shut.

We go into the coffee shop. It’s dark, with big hardwood floors and is finished with a collection of easy chairs and low tables, giving it a ramshackle but slightly decadent aspect. — Nice place, I say.

— Yeah, Gavin and I . . . my ex, used to come here when we stayed in this neighbourhood.

I thought I could smell rebound. No doubt I’m giving off the same whiff myself. Well, not quite with Kay cause at least me and Shannon used each other as buffers. In fact, I’ve got
through quite a few buffers lately. I’m looking at Dorothy thinking that it seems so strange just sitting drinking coffee with somebody. With a lassie. Outside of work! Impossible to contemplate in Edinburgh, at least at this stage of the relationship. The coffee has a pleasing aroma and a strong, bitter taste.

Later, we go for something to eat, in a Mexican restaurant on Valencia called Puerto Allegrie. It’s very busy and the food is great. Dorothy tells me that her surname is Cominsky and that she’s Polish on her father’s side and Guatemalan on her mother’s. — What about you?

— Eh, as far as I know it’s bog-standard Scottish. If there’s anything else in there it’s probably nothing more exotic than Irish or English. We don’t really bother about ethnic backgrounds in Scotland. Our own, anyway. Incomers, like asylum seekers, we tend to give a hard time for being different.

I think of Kibby, and people like him. We do give them a hard time for being different; especially if we’re depressive, alcoholic, self-loathing bullies. But the crucial point is that we’re other things as well. We can be better.

God, it is so fucking weird sitting with a girl and no drink or drugs to disinhibit. Dorothy and I are at angles to each other in these seats, no table between us. But it also feels good to have a clear head. And how long has it been since I’ve not had that streak of rancid alcohol fire inside, searing me from gullet to gut?

—
You look thoughtful, she says.

— So do you.

— I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you do the same first.

— Okay, I say, reasoning that I know where this is going, — I was thinking that if we had been in a bar and had had a couple of drinks to unwind then I probably would have tried to kiss you.

— That’s nice, she says, and leans slightly into me. I don’t need any more of an invitation and close the rest of the gap as we snog for a while. I’m thinking, fuck me, that was easy.
All the times that I’ve had to get half pished and shell out for about six Bacardis to get to this stage! What a fuckin waste. When we come up for air I ask, — What were you thinking about?

She smiles, and there’s a cool, evaluating edge in her gaze. — I was thinking that it would be cool to make out.

Dorothy drives us over the Golden Gate Bridge to a place called Sausalito. We pull into a lay-by and watch the sun go down. I soon learn that ‘making out’ is a generic term that covers snogging but stops short of shagging, though for a minute I thought that I was in as it was easy to get each tit, braless as they were. I’m in no hurry though, quite content to play the long ball game. A gentleman should never try to get his hole on the first date. (Unless he plans that there won’t be a second.) That’s got to be a universal cultural rule.

It’s only when she drops me off at my hotel that I sense my luck has definitely changed for the better. As a couple of jakeys tap persistently on the window of the car and a woman with balloon-like legs pushes a shopping cart past us with her worldly goods in it, Dorothy turns to me and says, — Jesus, you can’t stay here.

— I should try and find somewhere else tomorrow, it’s just that I was jet-lagged and wasnae thinking straight. I’ll be okay tonight, I tell her.

— No fucking way. Dorothy shakes her head and pulls away from the kerb as one of the jakeys shouts something about Vietnam and yuppie bitches and she gives him the finger back. — Fucking asshole. It’s not like I asked him to fight in any goddam war, she scowls, and then she takes me back to her pad up in Haight-Ashbury.

The building reminds me of where my ma’s best mate Trina comes from, that part of Pilton they called the Swedish hooses. They’re constructed from the same width of timber and it’s even painted the same grey as thon Pilton gaffs used to be. Works a fuckload better in sunny California than it did back
home. Fortunately some brainbox in the local authority cottoned on to the fact that painting every dwelling in a Scottish housing scheme grey may not be the best way of boosting local morale and I think they’re all done in bright colours now. Inside, Dorothy’s gaff is amazing: the rooms have high ceilings and are painted in bold, strong tones, although I only really get to see the bedroom with the impressive wooden-vented built-in cupboards as she takes me straight there and fucks my brains out.

Normally after a good shag I’m right off into nodland, I’ve never been one for post-coital inquests, but with the jet lag, excitement and a heavy chicken burrito in my guts, sleep just isn’t happening. I can’t help thinking, as I watch her in a deep slumber, that this is one hell of a result for Mr Daniel Skinner, native of the port of Leith and former Principal Officer of Edinburgh Council.

I look out from the window of her pad on Upper Haight, over to Castro and Twin Peaks. Then I get up for a bit, watch some television, marvelling at how there can be so many channels, all with pure shite on them. I soon feel the tug of sleep and get back into bed with Dorothy. She stirs and I kiss her, then I feel her wrapping herself around me. I get a feeling that she doesn’t want me to go anywhere fast, and I must say, I’m in no hurry.

In the morning we have breakfast, then Dorothy goes off into her work downtown. She runs a software consultancy service, Dot Com Solutions. I’ve already decided that I like her very much. She has a very American kind of confidence and way of addressing the world that appeals: not as narky and sarky or just plain depressed as many British women, but she won’t stand for any crap either. I like that style: confrontational, but diagnostic, rather than aggressive. In Britain we tend to disrespect the other person in the transaction when we get into the ascendancy. Can’t fucking well help but sing when we’re winning when a wee bit of decency and humility might –

Fucker.

Now I’m hoping that Brian Kibby is singing like a lark. Mindful of the time difference, I head out and buy an international phonecard, thinking it would be a bit of a liberty to use Dorothy’s blower. It takes yonks; you have to dial about nine hundred digits. Eventually, I get through to the office in Edinburgh and ask for Shannon’s extension. — Shan, Danny.

— Danny! How’s California?

— Great. I’m having an excellent time. How’s Brian? Any news?

— As far as I know he’s just going under the knife now.

As I hear her words I feel a tearing pain across my back. My head swoons, my stomach is nauseous and the receiver I’m holding is sliding out of my sweating hands. — Shan . . . running out of credits . . . I’ll email you . . . bye . . . bye . . .

I hear her concerned goodbyes as I slump down on to the pavement, my body heavy and head spinning. I lie groaning for a while, unable to speak, nobody stopping to help. I’m totally immobilized; all I can do is squint up at the warm California sun in my face and try to breathe slowly.

I close my eyes and seem to be falling into nothingness.

It’s so cold and I’m quivering in these robes on the gurney as they wheel me into the ante-room of the operating theatre. The anaesthetist tells me to count backwards from ten. But it feels like this stuff has no effect on me: I’m shaking with nerves, even through the pre-med, which is meant to relax me! And it doesn’t look like him! It doesn’t look like Dr Boyce under that mask! — Doctor . . .

— It’s okay, he goes. — Just count. Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Fi –

I’m outside my house in Featherhall, passing the park, then about to go into my stair when I see Angela Henderson looking at me. She looks like she’s been crying. — I thought we were pals, she says to me.

You’re not a nice girl you’re a bad girl and I was told to keep away from the likes of you.

But she seems nice sometimes.

Angela is sobbing and she turns and walks away from me. I can see her head bent and her blue cardigan and her checked skirt and tights with the patterns up the outside leg.

I try to go after her but I hear a voice and I stumble and fall.

YOU’RE NOTHING, KIBBY.

I’m not nothing . . .

I’m no . . .

I’m no . . .

But I’m falling fast into a void of nothingness . . . I don’t know where I am now. It’s not home, it’s just nothing and I’m still falling . . .