Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  In the interim, I didn’t go down to the city centre. Not only did I think that my presence might provoke the already fuming Matthew but I didn’t want to bump into my friends so that they could have found the courage and opportunity to ask for background details of the row and forthcoming fight.

  When the fateful day came, I turned up alone, found the appointed street and groaned in utter disbelief. A sudden, dramatic summer storm broke over the place. Lightning began an intermittent flickering and deep, penetrating thunder started to grumble. Rain drenched the whole street. I ran under a shop awning to wait for it to pass over or, at least, ease off a little. ‘Is someone writing a film script for this?’ I thought. I couldn’t believe the coincidence. This cloud burst was like some cliché out of a dire third rate thriller.

  Matthew was true to his word and appeared from around a corner. He had actually decided to turn up with a ‘Second’ along with a small entourage of his friends who appeared to be there to act as spectators, or, at least, some sort of witness to the impending combat. I suddenly felt very isolated.

  Once more, I made a futile attempt at reconciling things with Matthew but he was having none of it. All I received was a snarled, “Shut your face and let’s get on with it.” He even called me a coward for appearing to want to quit the fight. His group of cheer leaders whooped and jeered. I ignored the taunts and persisted in trying to get through to Matthew but nothing was working. Matthew showed that he was eager to push things on by being handed a knife by his Second. So, there would be no way out. I had no choice but to face him and go through this ridiculous charade. From my back pocket I produce my knife and flicked open the blade. Was I imagining it or was that a look on his face which gave away that he was impressed?

  Carefully and fully alert, we circled one another. Isn’t it weird, the bizarre things which hammer into your mind in times of crisis or stress? All I could think about was what my mother would say if I were killed. The whole situation would leave her utterly bewildered. And, if the full story came out, she would quickly realise how much she didn’t know about her son.

  Of the actual fight, I must confess, I can remember very little. Everything appeared to be acted out in slow motion but with the added feeling that I was experiencing it as in a dream and, like a dream, many of the actual details seemed to have passed from my memory. I do seem to recollect lots of verbal bravado coming from Matthew without any actual contact being made. I remember my fear and the watchers who, for some reason, remained silent and sinister. Our audience had grown slightly as casual passers–by stopped to watch the would–be young gladiators go through their paces.

  Perhaps naively, I had assumed that there was a tacit agreement between Matthew and myself that we would keep our altercation from Marti. Regrettably, she must have found out about it. Matthew betrayed my supposed unspoken pact and had made sure that he conveyed the information to one of their mutual friends who, naturally, told her everything. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of her as she fast approached our supreme act of utter lunacy. Without waiting for any warning to be shouted, she rushed at us to try and put a stop to it all. Without so much as a glance at her, Matthew lashed out with his arm and hit her, sending her sprawling onto the floor. I think, with hindsight, it was an accident, but at the time, I saw red and pounced. After she had recovered from the blow Marti struggled to her feet just as Matthew was about to lunge at me with his knife. Marti shouted and threw herself between us and received a stab wound in her side. Her physical intervention caused both Matthew and I to regain our sanity and terminate all this foolishness.

  I can only suppose that some neighbour must have seen our pugilistic attempts and called the police because I caught the sound of a distant but fast approaching alarm bell. Matthew uttered an expletive, dropped his knife and took off like the wind. He was joined by some of the crowd who had been watching. Judging by the shouts from Matthew’s pursuers, they weren’t trying to congratulate him. Though quick, he was quicker and they didn’t catch him. To me, it didn’t matter. All that concerned me was the condition of Marti and the child. What, in God’s name, had we been fighting over? What had he fought for – me or Marti? I felt a warm wet sensation on my arm, I looked down and realised I’d also received a knife thrust from Matthew. It had gashed my arm and to this day I still bear the scar. After getting the wounded Marti into a nearby house owned by a sympathetic stranger and hid whilst we waited for the police to come and began their investigatory duties. We were shown a back way out and I took Marti to the local hospital. There was a slight hiatus with the staff of the Emergency Room as to how this charming young lady had received her laceration but, somehow, we managed to satisfy their questions. I was worried about the unborn child, but it was fine and so was Marti.

  I presume through guilt, Matthew backed off from the scene and was never to interfere in my relationship with Marti ever again. If ever I came across him in a club or pub, we never acknowledged one another but either he or I took the tactful line and left.

  Paolo began to notice this, “What is it with you two?”

  “Personality clash.”

  “You as well?”

  A not too serious thought occurred to me. Although I was continuing my life on the racks, I began to speculate on the idea that I might be turning straight. I add hastily that the thought was no more than an amusing by–way. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t true.

  A Pastoral Interlude

  It was about this time that another alien thought began to seep into my dull brain. I was actually beginning to enjoy sex where simple affection was involved. This difference was thrown into sharp focus when I was out cruising for either new or more established clients. My attention would be diverted by some youth or other who would manage to instil feelings of emotional as opposed to monetary desires.

  I remember the very first occasion when all thoughts of charging for my body went flowing out of the window and I indulged myself with no thought of sleazily earned cash entering into the equation. This particular event concerned a cute lad who I met in the street near to where I lived. We were walking towards one another and exchanged one of those looks. What caught my emotions was his shy but knowing expression. His light brown hair bobbed and he didn’t so much walk as flow along the pavement. His slim figure had a willowy gait to it and his whole demeanour seemed to cry out, ‘I’m available!’ We passed one another and, as casually as I could, I stopped to turn around to stare for a second time – he had done the same. Seeing what had happened, we both giggled and brimming with confidence, he immediately walked up to me. His name was Graham and we stood talking for a few minutes before he suggested we went for a coffee. I knew that there was no such thing to be enjoyed anywhere in the vicinity but I said, “Fine by me.” Naturally, I thought that we would head off to his place for something hot which didn’t involve beverages. He took the lead and headed towards a nearby small park. Puppy–like, I followed.

  “Do you really want a coffee?” he asked.

  “No.” I couldn’t understand why my brain was refusing to work. I couldn’t stop staring at him. His direct but somewhat apologetic look held my thoughts so completely that anything vaguely resembling an intelligent contribution to a conversation utterly deserted me.

  Sitting on an old, dilapidated bench that threatened to annihilate itself at any moment, we passed a delightful hour in getting to know one another. He spoke with ease although he had to drag any information out of me. Whilst thoughts of sex did drop into my mind, I felt something else – something I was to feel more and more as time went on. Being with him seemed so right and I was happy to simply to sit and talk. I actually wanted to know more about him and less about his body. Not that the desire for him had diminished – far from it – but it had become secondary to getting to know him. What did he think? What did he feel? What were his hopes and dreams? For his part, I realised that he was probably hoping for a one off encounter but I determined that there would be more – a future together.
What on earth was the matter with me? As he had to be somewhere, our talk was curtailed but an arrangement was made for the following Saturday. Bewitched, I watched him leave. I was left elated but extremely confused.

  So far in my brief life I’d had many experiences with lads who I fancied rotten but the emotions they stirred were always on a fairly superficial level. What I was currently experiencing was deeper and new.

  We met on that fateful Saturday and went back to his small bed–sit where, for me, the affection and closeness of the meeting was far more important than the actual act of sex. When it came for me to leave, he said in a friendly but rather offhanded way, “Maybe I’ll see you around some time.”

  “How about getting together during next week?” I almost pleaded.

  “Can’t, sorry.” My face must have betrayed my utter disappointment so he smiled and added, “You never know, we might bump into each other in the street again and – well, who knows?” He delivered another smile to reassure me but I wasn’t convinced. I had the feeling that I would never see him again – and I was right.

  Being a well informed rent boy it was unthinkable that, once the rendezvous was over, I should ever call on him at his room but, for a while, I made frequent detours to walk by his house in the hope of catching him as he was either leaving or arriving at his front door. I tried not to think of what I would have done or what would have happened to my emotions if I saw him returning to his home with another lad. The thought tore me apart so, after a week or so, I avoided his street.

  To seek some sort of solace from this minor earthquake in my emotional life, I decided to return to that little wooded copse which was so familiar in my late childhood because of the first encounter which signposted the path on which I was now treading relentlessly.

  My long absence was allowing me an antithetic perspective on the place. For a start, the largish wood of my childhood now appeared tiny and almost claustrophobic. The clearing with its fallen log was now verging on the minute. The log itself had been subjected to many other visitors’ attention with either knives for carving or attempted demolition by fire. My return was not a happy one and, after a short tour, I left – never to return.

  In another attempt to come to terms with my flowering emotions, I took myself off to a more recent scene and sought out my friends in the town centre – big mistake!

  Paolo’s advice was, “Love? Bollocks! Sweetness, listen, it’s all about sex and that’s it. I’ll tell you what I love – to be at home and having a good, massive shit. Now that’s much better than a quick fuck.”

  Ian’s idea was far more savoury but equally unhelpful. “Oh, we’ve all been in love, my dear. I fall about three times a day – if I’m lucky.”

  Andy simply burst out laughing and departed promptly with a trick. Well, thanks a lot, mate!

  Jacko’s thoughts on the subject set me thinking. “I’ll tell you what I love; watching my supervisor stretch to restock the top shelves with Cornflakes. What an arse!”

  “You work in a Supermarket?”

  “Yep. I thought you knew!”

  “I’d no idea. I didn’t even realise you had an ordinary job.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? A Trainee Manageress, that’s me.”

  Jacko’s brief comment disturbed me. I suddenly realised that I knew precious little about any of the gangs’ lives away from the racks. How many of them were, like me, toiling respectfully with colleagues who knew nothing of their darker side? A few of them knew I had a proper job but, apart from Andy, the manner of my earnings was not discussed. Most of the rents knew I had a modest talent for drawing but no one realised that I took actual classes.

  I managed to while away half an hour speculating, often naughtily, on the gangs’ disparate career moves. I then reversed the situation and spent another period of time wondering what the rents thought I did. Naturally, it would have been unethical to ask any of my colleagues whether my speculations were correct. It simply wasn’t done. Only volunteered information was accepted and it was considered improper to enquire any further. Privacy was sacrosanct.

  Later, this desire to continue seeing one of these unpaid pickups became more frequent but nothing serious or more permanent ever came out of it.

  Pop Goes My Weasel

  One day, when some rents and I were feeling extremely silly, we decided to forsake our itinerant sex shops and go into ‘The Clipper’ to relax. On the way I bumped into Sandy and a couple of others I scarcely knew. They, too, were off to ‘The Clipper’ for a meal and I was invited to join them. We were having a jolly time, indulging in some spirited gossip when Sandy, who through an ingrained habit had been scanning the customers, abruptly squealed. He leaned forward and whispered something so excitedly and at such a high pitch, it was utterly incoherent except, perhaps, to dolphins, dogs or bats. Finally, we managed to calm him and discovered the cause of his animated agitation. A lone young man had parked himself at the bar and was calmly sipping a beer. Thoroughly confused, I could see no reason for Sandy’s monumental fuss. The man, though well groomed, appeared rather an ordinary looking stranger who was quietly minding his own business. The rest of our companions also showed some surprise and delight at seeing him. They went into a huddle and giggled, pointed and cast unsubtle glances at the man. They made such a good job of hiding their excitement, it took the stranger about two seconds to realise and delight in the fact that he was the target of their concentrated attention and admiring sighs. I was the only goon at our table who sat totally enveloped in the thick fog of ignorance. Seeing me coping with a total lack of knowledge on the subject, my comrades enlightened me. Apparently, our solo imbiber was an up and coming British pop singer of the day. The table was totally enamoured, but I couldn’t understand the fascination as he didn’t seem that especially attractive. I quickly learned the power which fame brought with it – I was currently observing this particular phenomenon.

  Sandy said, “I’d heard this place was used by pop–singers, but I thought it was a load of doggy doo–doo but, shit, it looks like I was wrong.”

  During their subsequent animated conversation, I found out that ‘The Clipper’ was reputed to be quite a favourite haunt of and used by many visiting vocalists and bands in the pop industry. In the days before the over commercialisation of celebrities, it was still possible to bump into reasonably famous people in the street or a shop, whilst they were simply out and about, getting on with the business of living. There was little need for body–guards or police escorts. Things had not got quite so out of hand as it is today.

  Although I didn’t recognise this particular singer, there was the odd member of that mysterious world I would have known. Whilst I was steeped in classical music and knew virtually nothing about the ‘pop’ scene, I did happen to work with a load of teenage girls who exuberantly fantasized a great deal. Being a hot and randy lot, in their own way, they were regular purchasers of the few teen magazines which were then around. Inevitably, I saw many pictures of their young heroes, and like them, tacitly desired some of them. Because Sheba and I could now speak more openly about my secret life, I could ask her about them and confide in her my secret lusts. She even went as far as convincing me that I might like some of the music and loaned a few records (given in a plain brown envelope) for me to hear alone and in the privacy of my own room. My mother, hearing pop music resounding from my room, must have thought I had taken a secret walking holiday to Damascus. I became fascinated with pop singers (but still not all their music) and wondered where I could see them in the flesh, so to speak. It was a chance meeting with Skip and Fallon which gave me the information I sought.

  I bumped into them whilst making my way to the ‘Green Goddess’ to meet up with some of my friends. As expected and true to form, Skip was staring languidly at the tedious landscape whilst an animated Fallon did most of the talking. If anyone knew how I could gate–crash this illusive world of ‘pop’, it would be these two. Clumsily, I broached the subject. Both Skip and Fallon sneere
d in disdain. Yes, they sighed, they knew the scene well from the many personal introductions from their bulging list of influential clients. Owing to these contacts, they didn’t have to bother with clubs or pubs “and all that squalid sort of thing” to find the rich and/or famous. Fallon, with an offhand, impish delight, began to name names. The list of famous people who were, apparently, amenable to being approached was a mind blowing catalogue. I must confess that most of the names were unknown to me. “And,” he confidently assured me, “this is only a small number of the total singers and group members we’ve been introduced to. Naturally, we never bother with the likes of them. Small fry, that’s all they are – worms!”

  Skip turned a sidelong glance in my direction and actually deigned to speak at me. “I hope you’re not angling to get any special privileges from us. There are oh so many poofs who want us to get them into the company of pop stars. We get tired of telling them that that sort of thing is not our sort of thing. We don’t do introductions.” I could hear the yawn in his voice. “It really is quite a bore.” It seems that they believed that all these famous people were their own personal property.

  The names they had named left me reeling. Some of the people, quite frankly, I found hard to believe.

  “What him? Never! He’s going to be married soon... isn’t he?”

  They both tinkled with laughter. “So? Would they be so popular if their fans thought they were queer? It’s all a game they have to play – a masquerade.”

  I was still in so many ways, naïve. Although many of my clients were married and needed to hide their sexual desires, I didn’t realise that people in the public eye also found it necessary to be ultra–normal to hide their true selves.