“Well, I don’t think they would have murdered you both outright,” Melissa said. “I was being facetious. Except, of course, that it’s true. The Plod killed a Nigerian man by kicking him in the head and strangling him in a choke hold. It was ruled an unlawful death, but no one was ever prosecuted. A Chinese woman died in custody in Stoke Newington. It helps to be nonwhite.”
“That’s like the States. Everyone knows you can get in trouble driving while black. Or even reaching for your wallet while black. And don’t get me started on voting while black. Let’s just say our current president is unelected.”
“Hackney cops shot a man walking home from the pub carrying a table leg in a plastic bag. They decided it was an assault rifle. It was Arthur Fowler shot dead leaving the Queen Vic.” Arthur was a popular, kindly character on EastEnders.
“That’s mad,” I said, loving her accent and trying to sound like her.
“We have these special armed-response units now to cope with the rise in gun violence. The problem is they haven’t got enough training. They go straight from pepper spray to guns. They haven’t got intermediate weapons for mid-range violence. A mate of mine, Ivan, is a photographer. He rode with the Stokie armed-response unit and said it was terrifying, like riding with teenage boys who were all going, ‘Ooh, look at us! We’ve got guns and a really fast car!’ Whenever they get called out, they’re going to shoot something.”
I thought about police saving my life when the Nazis showed up at our gay-pride march in Huddersfield in 1981, at the end of my last term in England. It was the first time the gay-pride march was held so far north. The Dibble—that’s the police—had to call in reinforcements from all over northern England to protect us from the National Front skinheads who descended on us from every part of Britain. Like hairless, pale ghosts they came for us singing, “You’re gonna get yer fuckin’ head kicked in.” It was the first time I’d ever heard that song, and like a complete prat I turned to a woman next to me and said, “Oh, isn’t it lovely? They’re serenading us.” They surged forward, and I remember people gobbing on us and the cops holding them back. Nobody carried guns then, not even the criminals, but I have no doubt I’d be dead today if it weren’t for police intervention.
“I want to show you something,” Melissa said, getting up and leading me past the room where Nick was sleeping. At the end of the hall, canvases and easels leaned against a door to the back garden, and I could see there was another room there off to the right.
“Do you paint?” I asked. “Can I see your work?”
“Sometime.” Melissa led me into the back lounge. It had a comfortable vibe, just like the rest of her flat. There was a white carpet with colorful mod circles, pale lavender walls, a computer, shelves full of books and CDs and a nice flat-screen telly. I went directly to the CDs.
“Wire, Pink Flag. Eddie and the Hot Rods. Generation X. The 101ers, Elgin Avenue Breakdown.” That was Joe Strummer’s band before the Clash. Their best-known song was “Keys to Your Heart.” It was anthologized on a lot of punk compilations and I was fortunate enough to have the original vinyl. I looked at the neon colors of the X-Ray Spex Germfree Adolescents CD then said, “You’ve got a CD of Jeopardy?”
“You know the Sound? I didn’t think Americans knew the Sound.”
“I have the LP from 1980. I didn’t know there was a CD version.”
“An online place called Renascent is reissuing everything. Now that Adrian Borland is dead.” Unfortunately he had hung himself.
“‘You’ve gotta believe in a heartland,’” I quoted from my favorite Sound song. “You’ve got the Equals,” I said, more to myself than to her, “the Chords, and the Jolt. And you’ve got the Records. Shit, you’ve got a ton of Ruts I’ve never even seen.” I picked up a CD of the first 999 album reissued by Captain Oi!. “Nick Cash tried to fuck me once between sets in 1979, but I refused.”
“How could you resist a genuine punk star?”
“It was difficult.”
“Come on, five minutes out of your life. Surely you could have accommodated him.”
“Yes,” I said sarcastically, “a line from a virtual stranger like ‘let’s fuck’ always turns me on.”
I flipped through some homemade CD-Rs, concerts by the Clash, the Jam, the Pretenders with the original lineup and Patti Smith. I wondered idly if Melissa had ever listened to Patti Smith at the same time I’d been listening to her, and if that’s how our thoughts got entangled so I could hear her inside my head. “Oh my God,” I said.
“That’s all Nick Cash wanted to hear,” Melissa said.
“No, Melissa. Heart. You’ve got live Heart.” I held out a concert from Boston in 1979. Something else caught my attention. “Bootlegs from Ann and Nancy Wilson’s solo tour? Are you fucking kidding me? I saw them twice on that tour. It was like going to heaven. Where’d you get them? I can’t believe it.” I flung myself ecstatically onto the plush, green settee.
“I downloaded them off the Internet. I belong to several online music communities. I’ve always kept a spot for them in my heart. It’s so liberating to be able to admit that to another old punk.”
“And here I thought I was the only one. I’m a Heartmonger,” I confessed. “It’s the only fan club I ever joined. I can’t believe we’re talking openly about this. I’m so glad to have met you.”
Melissa laughed. “I’m chuffed to have met you, too.”
“I have one more secret. I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this when I’ve only just met you. I listen to Oasis.”
Melissa made a face. “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a bit dodgy.”
“I know they’re wankers but I love their sound. Admit it. Their sound is fab.”
“Liam up-his-own-arsehole Gallagher?”
“His voice. And I love the way Noel plays guitar. Come on.”
Melissa said, “I think you should have waited until we were further along in our new friendship to tell me.”
“Who loves Heart?” I reminded her, and we both laughed. “Now, Jesus Christ, tell me about those Ann and Nancy solo-tour bootlegs, mate.”
“My computer has a CD and DVD burner. You can make copies of anything you like. And I’m taking you to Camden Lock this weekend for bootlegs.”
“Only one of my favorite activities ever. Can I use your computer sometime to send emails to my family?” I’d been using Internet cafés, but they cost money.
“Sure,” Melissa said in a fake American accent. “Sorry, that just slipped out. I didn’t mean to mock you. You can’t help sounding only halfway British.”
“Yet,” I insisted with confidence. “That’s alright. My mates at university didn’t like Americans either.” I’d told her I had studied at Exeter. “But by the end of first term, no one could tell I was a Yank. I’m always at the wrong place in the wrong body.” I thought about my black twin from the hospital where I was born. But through the joy I felt at being in Melissa’s company, my head started to bother me again. I felt blurry, like my brain was full of lint.
I asked Melissa to play an Ann and Nancy concert and closed my eyes to listen. Nancy played her unreleased song, “The Dragon.”
“I love the guitar on that,” I said. “That tour was brilliant. Just Ann and Nancy on stage with tons of instruments. They’re not corporate rock anymore. They played all the instruments themselves and split the lead vocals pretty much fifty-fifty. Nancy sounds great. And Ann. Well, you know our Ann.” I squinted up at Melissa. “Her voice breaks my heart.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be alright in a second.”
“Do you feel ill?” Melissa sat next to me on the couch.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I stood up shakily. “I ought to be getting back to mine.” I hesitated because I didn’t want to leave the scene of the Ann and Nancy bootlegs.
Melissa grabbed my arm and p
ulled me back down on the couch.
“Really, Melissa,” I protested, “I’m alright.”
“Tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“I’m having the worst headache of my young life.” I tried getting up again.
“Hang on. Did you hurt your head?”
“Kind of,” I said reluctantly. “When I tangled with that Nazi. I fell on my bread.”
“You what?”
“Cockney rhyming slang.” I was surprised she didn’t know it. My head throbbed and I put my arm across my face. “Come on, you’re the expert. Piece of bread, that’s your head. China plate, that’s me mate.” I tried to sound more Cockney. “Plates of meat, that’s your feet. Apples and pears, that’s the stairs,” I recited all the rhyming slang I was sure of except for “taking a butcher’s,” which I’d learned on EastEnders. Butcher’s hook, take a look.
“Loaf.” Melissa sounded exasperated. “Your head is your loaf. Loaf of bread, that’s your head. I’d be having a bubble at your expense, mate, if you weren’t hurt. Will you please tell me what happened?”
“Bubble bath, that’s a laugh,” I said slowly, figuring out the rhyme. I told Melissa how I’d landed on my head.
Melissa sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
“I forgot. Or maybe I had amnesia due to a head injury?” I suggested weakly, trying to joke her out of her sudden seriousness.
“How do you feel now?”
“Dizzy.”
She left and returned with her medical bag.
“I’m alright. Really I am.” I squirmed and started playing that Nick Lowe song “American Squirm” inside my mind.
“Stay still.” Melissa sat next to me, holding me down. Her arms were strong and reassuring. “You’ve got a bloody great nasty bump on your head.” She felt my head all around. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know, or you wouldn’t notice?” Melissa asked. Then she lowered her voice and changed her tone. “You know, an assault of any kind can be quite traumatic. And not just for the intended victim.” She opened up her medical kit and pulled out one of her flashlights.
“What is that thing called?” I asked to cover my embarrassment at being examined by her.
“It’s called an otoscope. It’s for looking in your ears. Now, hush.” She shined the light into my ear.
“What are you looking for?” I wanted to seem interested and intelligent instead of in pain, which I imagined would be boring to a medical doctor.
“Bleeding behind your eardrum. You’ve got to be careful with a head injury.” She looked into my throat to check for bleeding there as well. She turned off the lamp and sat next to me in the dark. “Look here.” She held up a finger and shined a bright light into my eyes. “This is an ophthalmoscope,” she said before I could ask. “I’m looking to see if there are any blood vessels broken and examining your pupils. Your pupils open wide in the dark then narrow in reaction to light. If I shine a light in your eyes and your pupils don’t move, that’s bad. But you’re fine.” She turned the lamp back on and gently manipulated my neck with her cool hands. The pounding in my head got worse. I didn’t know how I was going to make it back to Hackney by myself. Melissa made me lie down on the settee and I told myself I should go home to be sick in private. “Grip both of my hands and squeeze as hard as you can,” Melissa said, and I was happy to do that. “Good.” She brushed her finger across my palms. “Does the sensation feel the same on each hand?” She pulled off my shoes and did the same thing to my feet. Then she propped me up and tested the reflexes in my knees with a meat tenderizer. Later I found out it’s more properly called a tendon hammer. “Have you got any nausea?” Melissa asked.
“I feel nauseous right now.”
“Have you thrown up at all?”
“No. Can I go home?”
“Do you have someone to stay with you?”
“No.”
“Shit. I want you to stay here tonight so I can keep an eye on you.”
I was horrified at the thought of putting her out further. Also I needed to get back to the bedsit to take my nightly antidepressant and anti-OCD medication. If I missed a dose, I’d feel sick and achy for days afterward like I had the flu.
Melissa said, “I think you’re alright but someone needs to watch you in case you start vomiting in the night or become unresponsive.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you don’t have a slow blood leak into your brain,” Melissa said, giving me a nudge. “Satisfied?”
“Very,” I said, “but I have got to go home.”
“Why?”
I paused. She’s a doctor, I thought. I could tell her about my medication. She would know what to do. She could even write me out a prescription. But I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t want her to know that about me yet. I wanted to know her better before I told her I was crazy. I decided I would either make it back to my bedsit or suffer the consequences in silence.
“You must tell me if the nausea or dizziness gets any worse,” Melissa continued. “If I’m asleep, don’t be afraid to knock me up.”
I asked in alarm, “Knock you up how?”
“Wake me up,” Melissa clarified.
“That’s right,” I moaned. “My head must really be bad for me to forget that expression.”
“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything strong enough for the pain. I have to be able to tell if you’re unresponsive and confused instead of just zonked.”
I struggled to get up.
“Don’t be daft, mate.” Melissa pushed me back into the cushions and covered me with a duvet. I closed my eyes because the pain in my head demanded it. I felt something soothing and cool. Melissa was sitting next to me, holding a wet towel on my forehead. “Relax,” she said softly. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re quite nice for a septic. Septic tank, that’s a Yank.”
TRACK 18 Fight the Fright
Melissa got me up once in the middle of the night to check on me. She was wearing a paint-spattered Buzzcocks T-shirt that said “Orgasm Addict” for pajamas. “Listen,” she said, “when you wake up, I probably won’t be here but Nick will be. I want you to take it slow the next couple of days. Rest. And if anything changes, call me immediately and we’ll get you in for a CT scan.”
I already knew I’d give anything to be her friend. I didn’t go back to sleep right away. I was wondering if Melissa was now my doctor and worried that, since she’d taken care of me, she considered me a patient and not a potential new best mate.
In the morning, there was a cup of tea on the floor near my head. Melissa had left, and Nick was in the front room. She looked like she hadn’t slept. She asked if I wanted to watch a video. I thought if I ran home and took last night’s medication immediately, perhaps I’d get away with having skipped a dose. But I couldn’t make myself leave. We sat on the settee where I’d slept and watched a bootleg video of Nirvana in Tijuana in 1989. Kurt was in torn jeans and flannel shirt and fell frenetically on the floor every chance he got, spinning himself in a circle with his feet galloping like a wild horse. Afterward Nick said she had to go down to the job center to sign on so she’d receive her weekly giro.
“Job center? Giro?” I asked.
“I’m on the dole. Except now they call it ‘job seeker’s allowance.’ I go down to the job center to show I’m actively looking for work, and the government sends me a cheque. If I do find anything, it’s usually temporary or part time. It’s hard to find anything with meaning when you don’t have a career.”
I thought about the Clash song “Career Opportunities” and said, “It’s hard to find anything with meaning under capitalism. Ever think of taking up the bass?”
Nick smiled wanly. “Actually, I played a wee bit of bass when I was sixteen. Doubt I can remember any of it
.”
Interesting, I thought, storing that information for later.
Nick noticed me eyeing the blue-and-black badge on the lapel of her leather jacket that read “The Despair Faction,” AFI’s fan club, and said, “I was thinking I should get a lip ring like Davey Havok’s now that my lip’s swelled up anyway.” He was the lead singer.
“Maybe Dr. Jones can do it. That medical degree must be good for something.”
“Oh, come on. I’m the most easily intimidated person in the world, but even I don’t call her that,” Nick teased me.
“Are you sure you feel well enough to go out?”
“I’ve got to face the world sometime.”
I wanted to go with her but felt really ill. When she left, I told myself, now, go. I was weak, and my head rang. But before I left, I looked for paper and a pen to write a thank-you note to Melissa. I didn’t even know what to call her now that she was probably my doctor. Dear Dr. Babe Gorgeous, I thought and laughed. There’s a good start. That would be funny if I were leaving the country tomorrow forever. Dear Dr. Melissa. I can’t call her that. Dear Melissa, I am desperate for your friendship and would do anything to get it. When you go to work in the morning, I’ll be sitting outside your surgery. When you leave to go home, I’ll be sitting in the same spot like a potted plant. I wondered if I’d have to fall on my head again to get her attention. I tried to think of reasons being my friend would be good for her. Dear Melissa, I am of above-average intelligence and have fairly good hygiene. In the end, I scribbled, “Dear Melissa, thank you for everything. You are an extremely kind person.” I left the note in the kitchen with my telephone number. I went home with a heavy heart, thinking I’d never see her again and that all her friendliness had been neutralized by my stupid head injury. I wondered what would happen if I showed up at her surgery and asked her to pierce something.
Melissa rang me that evening to see how I was feeling. I felt queasy and flu-like, but I knew that was the result of not taking my medication properly. She told me if I felt better by the weekend, she’d take me to Camden Lock. My stomach muscles finally took a break from strangling me from inside. While I rested, I listened to Nirvana concerts that included the song “Rape Me.” I played one in particular, from the Catalyst in Santa Cruz, California, June 18, 1991, because Kurt just screams and screams. It was the first time “Rape Me” was performed live. There’s a lot of emotion in it.
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