Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  “No!” was the energetic response.

  George persisted, “If no one wants to eat the biscuit, I will.” He received another yell of discouragement.

  I was neither the first to finish nor the last; that honour went to Spotty Oliver. To this day I am still convinced that he could have achieved a better placing but deliberately delayed his final explosion so as to win the prize. The way he relished his garnished snack betrayed somewhat his ulterior motive.

  ‡‡‡

  On the bus, one morning, whilst I was going to work, I had my nose buried in a book. I always tried to sit at the back on the bus’ upper deck. At the time all the local omnibuses had open platforms at the rear and stairs to the upper level arced up from the abode of the bus conductor. As my mother lived at the beginning of the bus route, I was nearly always able to get the seat of my choice. When we stopped at one of the many bus stops I cast a casual look out of the window and I was smitten by a vision from on high. There, about to get on the bus, was a young man who was dazzlingly good looking. His bright eyes, full mouth and boyish demeanour commanded attention. He came up the stairs and passed down to the front. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He had, what is now called a bubble butt which his trousers clung to provocatively. I continued to read my book but I kept looking up to see the back of his distant head. I alighted at the town centre and as I stood – so did he. I deliberately delayed moving from my seat so I could follow him down the stairs – if for nothing else, I could get another eyeful of that glorious firm and shapely bum. As he passed, our eyes met. Instead of my hoped for ‘eye–lock’, I received a filthy and hostile glare. ‘Shit! Oh well,’ I thought, ‘can’t win them all.’ Even so, I followed him just to watch him walk along as he was so graceful. And that beautiful backside! Neither before nor since have I ever seen such an alluring rear end. Over the next few months I caught the same bus at the same time so I could look at him. I surveyed him covertly so I didn’t receive any more killer glances.

  One evening, when I was walking along with Lorna, I happened to look behind me and saw the young man walking towards us. I put out my arm to slow Lorna down so the young man could pass and I could watch him once again and eye up his fantastic bottom. Lorna looked puzzled. I was about to tell her of the object of my desire when he passed us and she spoke.

  “Hello, Terry.”

  I was amazed. He looked over his shoulder, “Hello, Lorna.” And, after giving the briefest of smiles, and the briefest flicker of recognition of me, he moved on.

  I stopped in my tracks and held Lorna back. “You actually know him?”

  “Terry? Yep. Who doesn’t?”

  I was stunned. “Is he gay?” I’m not sure I wanted to hear her reply.

  “Carl, my poor little sweetie, he’s one of the biggest Queens in town. He’s bounced on more beds than all the kangaroos in Australia.”

  “How come I’ve never seen him before?”

  “How the hell should I know?” She smirked. “Want to meet him?”

  “Do I?” I thought I was dreaming. “Oh, fuck, do I?”

  By now he had disappeared. “It can easily be arranged.” It wasn’t and it was a long time before Terry and I crossed paths again.

  Part Six – Aged 18-19 years

  Shattering My Chains

  My eighteenth birthday arrived and I was comforted to know that now, being of a legal age, I could indulge in some things that I’d been enjoying for many years. I was still illegally gay but I could now enter pubs and clubs without any trouble. At my mother’s place, my birthday came and went with hardly an acknowledgement that anything had actually happened. I was gifted with a sweater, a card and a perfunctory birthday greeting and that was it. With Mickey it was a different story. He insisted on taking me out for a drink followed by a meal in a posh restaurant. I didn’t mention that I had dined there on numerous occasions with clients. My secret was almost leaked out when one of the waiters went to greet me familiarly but I shook my head and he switched to a more formal mode. I don’t think Mickey noticed. When we were seated he gave me my gifts. A few were quite valuable and he also gave me a couple of joke ones. All these, I knew, I would have to hide from my ever prying and suspicious mother.

  My home life was continuing to deteriorate so much so that it was getting to the stage where we could barely inhabit the same room. It was both oppressive and unbearable. Heated rows were coming fast, thick and furious. Well, she rowed; I merely took it and tried, in vain, to get my points across. At eighteen, it was beginning to sink into her mind that I was no longer the child she’d always sought to control. I no longer needed her. I think she also frantically resented the fact that I was out and about having a good time and living life whilst she stayed in her palace, doing nothing. It is likely that her ever vigilant intuition caused her to suspect there was another break on the horizon but she never mentioned it. If I was right then her suspicions were correct. I was determined to not only break my chains for a second and, hopefully, last time but I was resolute in shattering them as quickly as was humanly possible. I knew that, this time, it would have to be for good. Mother would never allow me to find my own feet by letting me experiment at living away from home for a few more times before permanently leaving the nest. I concluded that once I made this second move, it would have to be for good. Desperation caused my logical mind to kick in. First, I needed to find an actual place to which I could flee. Once found, I could then sort out the move in my own time – subject to the availability of my new home. I began secret preparations for this move. My first effort was to put out feelers at work, art school, on the racks and anywhere else I thought my salvation might lie. My workplace and art colleagues didn’t seem to take my requests seriously and merely shrugged off my enquiries but the rents took a different line and crowded to my aid. I first mentioned my predicament to Andy who took it upon himself to spread the word amongst the rest. Various offers were made and I was dragged along to view the prospective abodes. All were either in dubious neighbourhoods or were totally unsuitable as they were either too small or insecure. Jacko and Ian, who, by now, had now become the best of mates, worked overtime to help but all their efforts produced places which could have been suitable for members of the ‘Village of the Damned’ than any normal person. I refrained from telling them as they were so happy to think that they were helping. Zenda and Paolo were both a little more half hearted in their commitment to help but Zenda did come up with a couple of places which were definitely contenders. Sadly, every ‘would be home’ came with a problem. Either the place wouldn’t be available for a couple of months or there were strange restrictions which were totally unacceptable to my life style.

  The one person I couldn’t face telling about my plans was Mickey. My difficulty was over what I had subsequently learned from my previous exodus, I was unsure of his reaction. Who might I end up sharing with that might cause Mickey to jump to the wrong conclusion. If he was as interested in me as he professed, would he think I was ditching him for someone else? The last thing I wanted was to lose his friendship and love. Yes, love – and, I think I was falling into that state as well. I decided to write to him to tentatively tell of my programme and give vent to my home life problems. Naturally, he knew about some of these problems but I had never offloaded a whole lot of my frustrations onto him. In an exceptionally long letter, I now let him have it with both barrels. Towards the end of the rambling dispatch, I dropped in casually yet ambiguously as I could, the vague idea that we might move in together. I wrote the suggestion as if it was a thought that had suddenly occurred to me and I managed to throw it into the mix of text almost as a joke. As he seemed comfortable to stay with his family at home I felt certain that my little aside would fall on stony ground but I still cast my line in the hope that he might bite.

  My one real beacon of hope was lit by Sheba. All unbeknownst to me, she happened to mention my plight to Lorna. Even though we now saw one another on a regular basis and had become friends, I hadn’t
even thought of Lorna as a possible saviour. It was fortunate that Sheba did for Lorna had recently been very ill and the modest trickle of money she normally earned from prostitution had almost completely dried up. She was worried about finding her next month’s rent.

  The moment Sheba told me about Lorna’s problem and the chance that she might welcome the help with the rent I took her advice and went around to see her. I had the feeling that Sheba had already mooted the idea to Lorna of acquiring a room–mate but wouldn’t tell me in case Lorna might have second thoughts or my interview didn’t go as well as she hoped.

  Our pow–wow was swift and to the point. Lorna was the type of person who found talking about money to be tedious and a distraction from the more fascinating things which life had to offer.

  Without much hesitation, Lorna and I dealt with the sordid nuts and bolts of the arrangement and we reached, what was for me, a delightful conclusion. I really think that Lorna had already made up her mind that we should share and just wanted to sort everything out as quickly as possible. So, it suited us both to move in together. That bit of my jigsaw had fitted perfectly.

  Naturally, there had to be a bloody great fly in the ointment. Lorna’s landlord, who lived with his wife in the basement, had, that very morning, to remove himself from the town and he wouldn’t be returning for a fortnight. Immediately, I was worried. Was this a case of déjà vu? It was my moving in with Paul all over again. Seeing my disappointment, Lorna hastened to assure me that there wouldn’t be a problem as she was certain that she could persuade him – I didn’t ask how this would be achieved. So I had two weeks to wait, during which time I was determined to tell my mother.

  From Mickey I received a concisely written reply to my previously rambling epistle. He asked for us to meet up and, as ever, wanted to meet and talk. It was becoming ever clearer that he hated writing letters.

  So, two evenings later I found myself sitting opposite Mickey in a quiet coffee bar and waiting for his answer to my rather obtusely written suggestion that we’d share rooms.

  “Yeh, I’d like that.” I was so thrilled that I could have kissed him but I didn’t think the other patrons of the café would have appreciated such an open show of affection. “Where’re we gonna go?” My little scheme was working out rather well.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea but we’ll find somewhere. Any ideas? We could start looking tomorrow.”

  “’ang on a mo’.” I didn’t like the sound of this. “I’d love to move in straight away but I can’t.” Was he trying to let me down lightly? “I have things to sort. Things. Are you okay to wait a bit?”

  “Why?” Was my jigsaw about to be dropped and the disparate pieces scattered by fate to the four cold winds?

  “Don’t be worried,” he smiled. “I just have some things to get right then I’ll be free – and so will you.” This sweet comment almost drew tears.

  “Our separate homes will be as united one.” Even as the words left my lips, I cringed at their cloying sentimentality. Mickey smiled. I was delighted that my future was still bright. When we parted company Mickey, once again, comforted me with an assurance that all would be well and we would be together very soon. I thought about how far Mickey and I had come since those early, tentative encounters in Adam’s flat.

  There was still one immovable wall against upon which I had to bash out my brains – telling my not so doting mother. I couldn’t summon up the courage to tell her of my intention directly besides, I was determined to first sort out all the details of my move before presenting her with a fait accompli.

  To prepare her for this, I thought I’d invite Lorna over to where I lived for a meal. I wasn’t sure what this would prove but thought it was a step in the right direction as it would give my mother a chance to meet my prospective flat mate before I eventually broke the news.

  Lorna understood completely what I was trying to do and was happy to go along with the visit and to do what she could to save me.

  Whilst I went over to collect Lorna from her flat my mother threw together a ‘tea’. Mother, naturally, assumed she was about to meet with my latest girlfriend. Our guest was to going to have to suffer an indifferent salad with unadorned tinned meats though she did put in a bit of effort and baked a sponge cake.

  When I arrived at her place, a considerably nervous Lorna was ready and waiting patiently. Bless her heart, she had made an enormous effort. She knew how important this meeting was to me. With the little money she’d saved, she had bought a new dress for the occasion and, although I offered to reimburse her, she wouldn’t hear of it. Using all her skills as a woman of the night, she’d done herself up to the nines – actually, it was more to the ninety–nines. Despite all her care and attention to detail, the effort and preparation was somewhat wasted as, somehow, she still managed to look like a tart. However, because she looked so pleased with the result, I couldn’t complain. I had to respect the effort she’d made. I was not being sexist; I merely knew how my mother would receive her and, possibly, cause Lorna unnecessary embarrassment. As far as I was concerned, she could have worn sack cloth and ashes had she so decided. It was a joy to see her so radiantly happy. She looked years younger, almost like a little girl dressed up in grown–up’s clothes. All the assumed maturity had slipped away. I gave her a hug.

  “Do I look all right?” She was genuinely asking for my approval.

  “You look fabulous. Perfect!” and I meant it.

  When we arrived and my mother clapped eyes on the courteous Lorna, for a moment she was caught totally off guard and her eyes widened in undisguised horror. Quickly, she adjusted her face into an icy, fixed smile. I nearly sniggered. Thank goodness I hadn’t tried to persuade Lorna to change her clothes. It was worth it to see that look on my mother’s face. She must have wondered what the hell I was going out with. Lorna either didn’t notice, or chose not to show it. Mother went out of her way to make her welcome and to disparage visually everything about her. Lorna tried every technique in her book to charm the Harpy but mother was determined to let Lorna’s first impression remain upper most in her opinion. Apart from mother’s sarcastic over–politeness, the meal went reasonably well although, when I returned from escorting Lorna home, my mother refused to acknowledge that we’d even had a visitor.

  Lorna’s landlord finally returned from his Mancunian retreat and we went to see him in his basement. There were no problems. Sadly, and for us inconveniently, he would be unable to supply an extra bed but did offer to let us have a mattress for the floor. We were reasonably happy with this especially as this lack of amenity allowed the rent to be increased only by a small amount. Besides, I was so desperate to get out of my concentration camp; I accepted this with open arms.

  Now that the major barrier for my escape was out of the way, I promptly panicked. I had to find a way to cross another of my Rubicons. I was to meet my Waterloo. To put it simply, how was I going to tell mother? The answer came on the following week–end.

  Before this, however, I met up with Mickey to update him on developments. He looked a little grim but soon realised that it was all a means to an end and that if we were going to be together, he would have to like and lump it.

  On the following Saturday night I was walking home. Genuinely, I had missed the last bus and I was a little apprehensive over the reception I would receive when I arrived as I had missed my curfew. I was about ten minutes away from my mother’s when a car pulled up at the kerb beside me and the occupant leaned over to open the passenger door.

  ‘God,’ I thought, ‘I can’t even walk home without potential clients assuming I’m touting for business.’ Because of my impending domestic problem, I was in a bad mood and I made myself ready to give my kerb crawler a piece of my mind. (Certainly not my body!)

  “Hey, Carl, want a lift?” Wrong footed, I peered into the gloom of the car. It was Colin, the chap with the double jockey problem.

  “Oh, hi!”

  “Want a lift home?”

  Althoug
h it wasn’t far, I was grateful for a comfortable end to my journey. After a few moments of heading in the direction of my place, I had an idea. I had just thought of a way of provoking my mother into a terminal dispute. If it worked, my idea would give me the perfect excuse to get out. I would shatter the rule whereby I couldn’t stay out all night.

  I didn’t tell him of my plan – after all, it was nothing to do with him. “I don’t feel like going home at the moment.”

  “As you wish, young man.” Smoothly, he made a u–turn and started driving back in the opposite direction to which we had been heading and aimed us back towards the town centre.

  “And are you still seeing your pair jockeys?”

  He’d ditched them as they were too much for him. “They would be probably too much for anyone but Superman and even he would have all his powers drained from him. Kryptonite had nothing on those two.” He’d managed to farm them off onto a kind friend who would look after them and, as he was about their age, the beneficiary might be more able to cope with their high octane enthusiasm.

  I stayed the night with him. Nothing happened – I wouldn’t let it.

  “Sorry, but I’m dog tired. All I want to do is sleep.”

  “No problem” And off we drifted.

  The next day I awoke to find myself alone. After a few moments, Colin arrived with a tray. “Ah, so the Sleeping Beauty has awaked.” I sat up and, whilst Colin had a bath I ate a hearty breakfast. Was this to be my last meal before my execution? Colin had turned on the radio and I wallowed in Mahler’s “Das Lied von der Erde” with Bruno Walter and the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. Ever since, that recording has always had a special place in my life. After eating, I lay back and luxuriated in Colin’s scarlet silk sheets.

  As soon as I was ready to leave, Colin offered me a lift home. I accepted. The journey in the tumbrel was made easier as Colin’s easy humour allowed me briefly to take my mind off things.