Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  A youth, in a full Buddhist saffron coloured robe, still smiling, said, “Fluctuating Agnostic? Wonderful. I must remember that.”

  As I was a novice to their group, they only questioned me intermittently. After the hour had passed, the session broke up. Unanimously they all hoped that they would see me again. “Sally,” said old Merlin, “you must tell him when we have our next meeting – if you’re free, that is.” I nodded.

  When Sally came back into the kitchen, I thanked her for a wonderful and informative time.

  “When we next meet, I’ll give your door a tap and, if you’re in, come join us in the kitchen.”

  “I will” and I did.

  There were many happy hours which we all spent talking about an enormous range of beliefs. I mostly listened. These meetings fuelled me with a grounding for another fascination I’ve had throughout my life – other people’s faiths. The only problem I had was when Sally brought down her Bible for Paul and me to peruse. I have no idea if this was the standard issue Mormon edition or her own personal bible but I couldn’t take it seriously. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not knocking any of the text, it was the illustrations that got me. By now, through many of my clients and Art School, I had some idea of art and what it was about and what it was trying to say. The pictures I saw in that book were, to me, an hilarious joke. Cheap sentiment was reinforced by bright, unrealistic colours and the faces and poses... Disney had nothing on it.

  Directly above us lived a man who could have been anything from twenty five to forty five years old. Peter was great company and a real eccentric. He was a freelance writer of features that were published in various magazines throughout the United Kingdom. His dry wit and satirical observations were hilarious. We could never work out his sexuality as, in his little room into which no one was ever invited, he lived like a hermit. He never had any visitors, never gave any indication of having a love life – or, indeed, anything that might give a clue as to his orientation. We concluded that he was probably asexual.

  In the Kitchen there were individual cupboards for each of the rooms in which our respective food stocks could be stored. Apart from a single side plate, Peter’s was permanently empty as he always went out to eat. There was one exception to this. He had a passion for cheese and not just any old cheese but the smelliest variety he could find. His habit was to buy the foul stuff, bring it home, unwrap it, place the lump on his single plate then slide it, respectfully, into his cupboard. Luckily, the cupboards were fairly well sealed so there was only the faintest whiff. There it stayed for days. Every so often he would reveal his treasure and the kitchen would promptly clear. One evening I summoned up some foolish courage and waited to watch him make his inspection. The cupboard was opened and when the stink finally insinuated itself across the kitchen, I gagged. Peter took out the plate and gave a deep sniff of the evil mess. “Yes, another couple of days I think!” He then returned the plate to its shelf and left with his face wreathed in smiles of anticipation.

  I went back into our room and Paul yelped, “Has that bastard been at it with the cheese again? Close the door. Quick!”

  Eventually we persuaded Peter to give us a warning before he foraged in his store so we could evacuate the area and then he was able to excavate to his heart’s content. Thankfully, he always ate the disgusting slop in his room so we were spared that particular ordeal.

  One weekend he had the idea of inviting his two Welsh cousins to spend the weekend with him. I don’t remember either of the girls’ names.

  “We didn’t know you were Welsh.”

  “I’m not,” he replied

  “Where are they going to sleep?”

  “They’ll stay here. I shall grace an hotel for the night. They’re really nice.”

  “When did you last see them?”

  “Never. It’s their first time away from their village and I’ve never visited it.”

  Foolishly he tried to pair us off with them. Why he did this, I’ll never know because, although it was never actually clarified, Peter must have twigged that we were gay. Did he think his young guests would cure us? As Paul had a weekend off from the pub and we had nothing planned for those few days, for a laugh, we decided to go along with it and agreed to the date.

  When we were alone, Paul surmised that Peter must be a pimp.

  “Don’t be daft.”

  We didn’t see them arrive on the Friday evening for, after their long journey, Peter took them out for something to eat and then they had an early night. The next day Peter took them sightseeing – all day, so it wasn’t until about eight o’clock on the Saturday evening that we finally met.

  The two were definitely not on the attractive side. Both were about sixteen, exceedingly plain, short, over weight and frighteningly naïve. I have no idea where they shopped for their clothes but their selection made both appear rather frumpy and old fashioned. To add to this rather unpleasant image, they must have applied their gaudy makeup with a trowel and possessed voices which were both irritatingly loud and abrasive.

  Paul and I left them in our room for a moment and went out into the kitchen, ostensibly to make coffee.

  “Glamorous, aren’t they?” Paul mocked.

  I gave him a friendly nudge. “We said we’d date them so, let’s give them a holiday romance they can boast of when they get home.”

  “Have I the stomach for it?” he pondered.

  “Just let them think that we are expecting sex – and let their imaginations do the rest.”

  “Which one do you want?”

  I thought for a moment. “I don’t think it matters. We’ll see which of us they go for.”

  It was a deceptively long evening. Whilst they were in our flat, and were receiving a passionless kissing session from us, they kept calling across to one other to make sure they were still intact and weren’t being seduced. They should be so lucky! After they left, Paul and I couldn’t stop laughing.

  “Weren’t we being a bit unkind?” I mused.

  “Not at all. As you said; we’ve shown them a slice of life and they’ll dine out on this for months – years.”

  Sunday, the girls were out and about again with Peter and, in the evening, Paul and I had arranged to meet up with friends so we were not there to have a lovers’ parting.

  On the Monday, when Peter asked us how it went, we tried to be tactful but instantly he saw through it. “They really liked you two and they’re sorry they couldn’t say good bye.”

  “So are we,” came our somewhat ironic reply.

  They were certainly keener on us then we could possibly have been on them. Eventually, we convinced him that we didn’t have a disease – they simply weren’t our type – girls.

  One day Peter came back with the news that he’d been for a job interview. The application form demanded that it be returned with a personal photograph attached.

  He filled in the form and added a note at the bottom; ‘Sorry, I don’t have a photograph of myself but if it helps, I look a bit like Doris Day.’ When he entered the room to be grilled by the interview panel he actually heard them whispering, “It’s Doris Day.”

  “Did they offer you the job?” Paul asked.

  “They said they’d write.”

  “Did they say anything about your note?”

  “Not a word. If they found it funny, fine. If not, I wouldn’t want to work for them anyway.”

  After a short interval, he was offered the job but by then Peter had changed his mind and turned it down.

  The fourth and last room in the house was taken up by a man. That’s about all I can say of him. He was always referred to as ‘The Mystery Man’. Living in the room next to Peter, even he had never managed to clap eyes on him. From what Peter said, we don’t think he stayed there very often but when in residence, the man was heard constantly moving furniture around. The room he occupied must have been fairly small so one wonders why his few bits and pieces needed to be constantly altered. No one ever saw him either arrive or l
eave.

  The only tenant to catch a glimpse of him was our Mormon. From Sally’s one viewing of ‘The Mystery Man’, she described him as middle aged and rather plain. She had greeted him with a ‘good day’ and received a similar response which was fired at her curtly. He then hastily beetled off into his room.

  As you may have gathered, the kitchen was featuring more and more in our socialising. Our friends now began to use us as a drop in centre. There were many evenings when Paul and I thought we’d stay in and enjoy a quiet time alone when the phone would ring and friends told us that they would be popping around for a quick visit (Quick? Huh!) – often, they’d arrive with others they’d met up with on the way. Not wishing to cause us extra expense, they customarily came, armed with plastic bags brimming with their own beer, wine, coffee, milk, sugar, cakes etcetera to help the impromptu party along. The atmosphere, though often hilarious, didn’t help our unpredictable and erratic sleep patterns. Even my boss at work began making remarks that I always looked exhausted – and I was.

  On one of his few visits, Adam arrived in a state of heightened excitement. He was embracing an armful of egg cartons. He told us that he’d noticed that, a little way down the road from our domicile, the local shop had installed an egg dispenser outside on the pavement. It was a massive machine that, for the handsome sum of half a crown, dished out boxes of half a dozen chicken fruit. Sadly, it had one major fault and it didn’t take long for Adam to discover it. As soon as he saw the monster, he had decided to bring us a gift of half a dozen eggs. Okay, we would have preferred booze, but the thought was there. He put his money into the slot, the machine whirled and regurgitated the eggs into a drawer ready for removal and he gratefully fished out his purchase. Unfortunately, he was a little slow in fully closing the drawer and, before it was completely shut, another box of eggs plopped into position for the next customer. Tentatively, he opened the drawer and found he was now the proud possessor of yet another half dozen eggs. He removed it and tried the same routine again. It worked. He tried again – and again. Each time the same thing happened. The only reason he stopped playing this bountiful game was that he couldn’t juggle any more cartons. The plunder in his arms bore witness to the truth of this claim. With all these eggs, Adam took down an enormous frying pan which, as far as I know, had never been used, and set about creating a massive twenty egg omelette in a giant frying pan for everyone to dip into and demolish.

  I am ashamed to say that, very occasionally so as not to arouse too much suspicion, Paul and I managed to utilise the machine’s fault to augment our rations. After a few months of this periodic draining, not surprisingly, the machine was removed never to reappear.

  There was one particular event which nearly caused my cover to be blown at work. One evening, after getting out of the shower with a guy who I had picked up at the nearby laundrette, we were lounging around on the bed and about to begin some serious sexual exploration when the phone rang. It was the gorgeous Paula from work. She’d had a row with her boyfriend and wanted to talk. In work, it was general knowledge that I was now away from my mother’s place and living in a flat. I think she was hoping that I would invite her over. I tried to hold a calm, serious conversation with her but I didn’t reckon on my pick–up. He decided he couldn’t wait any longer for the fun to begin so, after some half hearted resistance from me he teased out my cock and started on a blow–job. He was almost as good as Ian, the suck–off king himself. All my efforts to bat away the owner of the invading mouth proved impossible. He was determined to make mischief and torment me. As I was having great difficulties in talking on the phone, Paula suspected there was something going on.

  “Is there someone with you?” asked Paula.

  “Er, yes.” My pick up was now well into his stride. “Stop it!” dropped involuntarily from my mouth.

  “Sorry?” came the metallic response.

  “No, Paula, not you.”

  “I won’t ask what she’s doing.”

  The conversation didn’t last much longer and it was lucky that she had automatically assumed that I was romping around with a girl. Thank God in those days, there were no video phones. Now off the mechanical blower, I gave my personal one a playful slap on his backside which seemed to please him and I, not too seriously, told him off – which appeared to have much the same effect.

  The next day at work my name was mud. Before I arrived, Paula had done the rounds of the office and most of my colleagues now knew about my evening’s adventures. When I entered the office, the love–bites on my neck bore witness to my supposed licentiousness. I think the reason she dropped me in it was she knew I liked her. Although she had a boyfriend she resented the fact that I was seeing someone else and not spending all my time chasing her. Although she began to suspect that I was having sex with other people and not just going out with them. The regular profusion of ‘love–bites’ on my neck didn’t help. I became the big bad boy of the office and yet my reputation and popularity seemed to grow. Why is a cad so attractive? I really don’t understand. And the fact that the sex I was having was with males, didn’t seem to occur to them so I did everything to encourage my renown.

  From her informed position, Sheba viewed the office politics and gossip with a detached air and thought the whole thing hysterical “Be sure the truth will out, one of these days.”

  “I bloody hope not.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Lorna would have loved this. You really must meet her.”

  I was getting really tired of both hearing about Lorna and Sheba’s now constant picking at my scab of determination not to meet her.

  Even with all the fun and games that were being enjoyed at the flat, sad to say it didn’t take too long for us to realise that Paul and I were not going to have the ideal relationship. To be perfectly frank, most of the time, it was a total disaster. We couldn’t get on as well as we thought. The major stumbling block was that we were both a couple of slags and not yet ready for any long term commitment. Also with so much mad entertaining, we never had the chance to establish and develop our personal relationship.

  Perhaps, if I hadn’t been so eager to escape out into the world on my own it might have gone better. If we had simply remained casual friends and not lived together, maybe it could have worked. Even so, I could easily envisage that we would have ended up sharing and these same problems we now faced would have still been there.

  For a while we carried on, trying to make a go of it and if it hadn’t been for the relentless socialising we enjoyed, realistically, I would have given it three weeks.

  From out of the blue came a phone call from Matthew. I had neither seen nor heard from him since the months surrounding our ridiculous knife fight. How did he get my number? Marti had it, though she never called as she respected the fact that I had my own life to lead. Maybe she gave it to him. “I suppose someone had to tell you.”

  My mind imploded, “Matthew, my dear boy, what a pleasant surprise and how delightful it is to hear from you.”

  “Alright, you can cut the sarcasm,” he snapped. “Marti’s gone into labour. I thought you had the right to know.” Before he would elaborate, his receiver went down.

  My mind instantly went into a panicked overdrive. I tried to think – some hope. I was alone in the house so there was no prospect of either advice or anyone to simply calm me down. What to do? How near was she? Was anyone with her? Where was she? Hospital, that’s it.

  Grabbing the first coat within easy reach, I rushed, on foot, to the local hospital as quickly as I could. On the way I had another horrified yet wholly laughable thought. I didn’t have any cigars to pass around. What the hell was the matter with me? I was definitely going out of my mind. I hated cigars and, anyway, who was there to give them to? I even managed to find a smile from within my tempest torn brain at such a dopey idea.

  Another battering ram hit my already wrecked emotions when I found out that she wasn’t at the hospital nor was even booked in. Whoever it was who manned the enq
uiry desk that day deserves some sort of an award. Seeing the quivering and wild eyed creature that now trembled before her, she took it upon herself to call some of the other hospitals on my behalf. There was no sign of her.

  “She might be having a home birth. Have you tried there?” Finally, I had something concrete to go on.

  “Thank you so much, you have been...”

  “Just get a move on,” she smiled.

  “Yes, um...” and off I dashed.

  Outside was a taxi rank for the convenience of both patients and visitors alike. I thought, ‘Sod the expense, I’ll get a taxi.’ I could afford one but, at the time, I considered taking a taxi was one of the heights of decadence.

  I told the driver to get a move on and when I explained the reason why, he burst out laughing. “Is this your first, then?” He then took a closer look at me. “I suppose it must be. Wait until it’s your third or fourth, then you’ll get better used to it. My word, you’ve started young though, haven’t you?”

  “Never mind about all that, please, just keep your eyes on the road – and hurry!” We drove to Marti’s flat at high speed. I’m sure he broke many speeding laws but he appeared to be enjoying the emergency. Even though he told me the cost of the journey, I didn’t take it in and I merely thrust a handful of cash into his hands saying, “I hope that’s enough.” I didn’t hear if he answered because I was off, careering and stumbling up the stairs to Marti’s flat as fast as I could.

  Breathless, I arrived and was let in by a girl I’d never seen before. She told me that Marti wanted to deliver the baby in her own bed.

  “That sounds like Marti.”

  I tried to go in and see her but a midwife bluntly pushed the door shut almost before I could open it. This particular midwife was obviously overpoweringly efficient at and well versed in dealing with deliriously flustered fathers.

  I really can’t remember too much about the wait during Marti’s labour. I know my unknown companion, in measured tones, tried to keep me calm. Goodness knows what she said but I managed to sit down now and then. After what seemed an insultingly short period of time, I heard a sound which I never, ever, in a million years thought would grace my ears. It was the sound of a baby crying – our baby – my baby.