Love Lucky

by Van Quattro

I find a booze stop and grab a pint of whisky, which turns my infatuation back to love again. The lights everywhere draw me to the night. I just sit watching the people, sipping and studying the life I have craved so long.

  I find a hostel through a telephone directory, it’s a ten-minute red double decker bus ride from Piccadilly. I sit on top of course. The joint costs me five pounds for the night. Fair enough. It has a huge day room with fifty or so beds in it, all of them are occupied. There are howls, farts, belches, and snorts that could suck up a car. They leave the lights on all night. I can’t sleep. I lie here with one hand on my suitcase and listen to my Walkman with, Sandinista playing full blast and plan out my next possible move. I need to search out a better living situation, for sure, this place is like homeless juvy. I’ll call Charles to say hello and just hang on the line until he invites me back to his world.

  Morning is bright again and most of the beds are empty. After coffee I find my way to London Bridge. It’s wildly cool. It’s very old and there’s a lot of creep factor, something about people being locked up in the towers for years. I think a baby had his dad locked up there so he could be king, or maybe a prince poisoned his uncle because the uncle was going to kill his brother and lay with his wife, or it could be where the woman let her hair down so the prince could climb it. I don’t know which. So many stories come out of England, unlike Glendale where a glimpse in to the past is looking at pictures of the old Hertz truck that used to deliver donuts door to door.

  I call Charles.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi Charles, this is Van from the United States. I met you at Ava’s couple of nights ago.”

  “Ah hello Vern, how are you.”

  “I am pretty good. Just walking around looking at stuff.”

  “Yes, so much to see here, yes?”

  “Oh yes. I just went to the tower of London. So much history.”

  “Yes too much, it makes me want a drink. How about you? Does it make you want a drink?”

  “Uh, yeah most things make me want a drink.”

  “Well why don’t you come around later and join me.”

  “Okay, sure, when?”

  “Let’s say eight, yes?”

  “Yes, I’ll see you then.”

  “Yes then, see you then.” Fucking a, who gives a shit about where they sleep as long as they get to party with famous English actors.

  I walk the river for a few miles and decide British Marlboro’s do taste different from American ones; they burn faster and have less of a punch. I need something stronger.

  I walk and walk just to look at things. The river is very large with boats on it; the buildings are so interesting. Westminster Abbey is a massive structure that looks like it was built with pomp, beauty, and function in mind; that’s the way I want to be built. You can really believe some really important shit goes on in there. I feel inspired and stimulated and because I don’t really do anything when I get inspired, being inspired usually inspires me to get high, searching for more inspiration. Then I’ll get even higher to forget the fact that I don’t have anything to use my inspiration for; all the while I gaze, honor and praise everything I deem great, I die a bit inside.

  Bells ring out, cars buzz along going the wrong way and my head swivels in every direction.

  Buckingham Palace is so huge. I mean, how many people are in that family? Goofy ass people walk up to the guards and try to get them to move or giggle and then they take pictures with them. Not me I stare at the funky-capped dudes around ten feet or so away and wonder what the hell they think of all day long. I mean what if they’re going through a breakup or something. I look in their eyes searching for traces of life, but I can’t see a damn thing, not a kink in their armor. Maybe they have no problems, just an unflinching desire in life to be stoic. I would need some Quaaludes to stand that long. London rocks.

  I’m hardly taking any drugs these days. I’ve kicked my bad drug habit for booze. Booze is more grown up and legal. I’ll do drugs occasionally but not like before.

  I look in the phone books again for a new place to sleep. I call a joint in Bayswater. They say they have rooms with three per and that sounds much better than the body dump I slept in last night.

  I take the tube to Bayswater. The names of some of the stops crack my ass up. I mean there is actually a place called Shepherds Bush…really. I keep checking the map for places like Bakers hair-pie, or Queens fuzzy. I saw a pub with the name of Cock and Bull. I almost didn’t go in but I needed a drink, bad. It seemed fine once I went in, I’ve no idea what it’s supposed to mean. Cock and Bull…what the hell?

  I want to get my sleep situation settled before I go to Charles’s. I’m sick of lugging my suitcase around and I plan on getting pretty drunk later.

  My new home place isn’t too bad. I take a chance and hide my bag under my bed. The only real important thing is my Walkman and I take that with me everywhere I go, I don’t give too many fucks if someone takes my dirty clothes. The Clash is now my new soundtrack. The song, ‘If Music Could Talk,’ is exactly what I would sound like if I could play music then write a song about what it would sound like if music could talk. I grab a quick shower and set out. I ride the bus to Kensington Gardens where Charles and Ava live. I’m a bit torn as to whether I should grab a bottle and get a buzz going before I get there, or save my money and fake being social till I can get loose with his booze. I go straight there and put on my greeting face. I must be growing up because I am making some pretty good decisions these days. And it pays off, I hiccup relief when he pours me a strong one as soon as I enter.

  “So, here you are.”

  “Uh, yeah.” I gulp half of my drink down.

  “Well, then.”

  “Yeah.” I finish my drink and he fills it immediately, we’re soul mates in needing sensation, one purpose, one strong drink at a time, and that’s fine with me, let’s get straight to it, mainline the sauce.

  He goes to the couch and I to the armchair. I’m not worried but I still don’t want to give him the wrong impression. We talk, my words are shaky but I get them out. This is like I have always wanted to talk to people, especially people I respect. I tell him I want to be an actor and I have done some theater in L.A. He listens patiently and replies in short quips like “Yes.” “Good,” and the more expressive, “Yes it would seem so.”

  My sleeves are drenched with the blood from my exposed heart. I wring them out and continue talking. He listens still, like he cares. He asks if I’m going to do any acting while I’m here in London. My first thought is: I don’t know how to act, what the fuck, it’ll never happen especially here, I might be able to fool those idiots in L.A. but this is England. But I say I don’t know how long I will be staying.

  “Well if you decide to stay I’ll have to show you to some people.”

  “Oh, okay that would be great.” So okay maybe something could happen. He knows talent; fuck I don’t know, things change in my head like the tide on amphetamines. Now I feel fuzzy good and make a bold move to the bar. He doesn’t flinch. Trust, he trusts me. I have a resting place. The phone rings and it’s Ava. He tells her he’s having a drink with the good-looking American boy. He listens to her and says “Yes dear,” then hangs up.

  “Ava’s stopping by if that’s okay with you?”

  “Yeah, uh sure.” ‘They say that true talent will always emerge in time, when lightening hits small wonder…’ That’s a line from the Clash song, ‘Hitsville in UK.’ Those lyrics are buried deep in my heart, I cling to them dearly, like a sponge in a rowboat during a hurricane. See, I do have a tiny and faint belief that I will do unusual and wondrous things in my life. YAY! I have survived many foes to be here with Ava; maybe this is where it starts. Maybe it will begin here and I can say things and people will listen and understand who and what I really am. I will be washed clean from my brain disease and it will never return. I think I am about love, and helping, about dancing and laughing, and caring, and music and movies, about understanding, and
water, but most of all, being loved. I think you probably have to be a little smarter than the people I have known to see this. Maybe this is my tribe?

  There is an Ava knock at the door, slight but full of presence. She comes in, stands still, runs her hand through her hair, looks directly at me and says,

  “Hey baby.” Charles immediately makes her a drink. Turns out Ava can drink as much as Charles and I. I slow my pace in order to not pass out.

  Charles puts on some music it’s older, like Billy Holiday and stuff. We talk, them mostly, they speak about how beautiful the singers voice is, and how Frank loved her sound. Ava excitedly tells us how badly she wanted to be a big band singer more than anything.

  “More than acting?” I have just enough courage for a one or two-word question among these giants of life and art.

  “Yes more than anything, Baby.” She shakes her head as if a self-affirming mechanism had kicks in. “The only thing that comes close is having a family.”

  “Why didn’t you?” My voice squeaks and has more air than sound to it.

  “Just never met the right situation.” She says. What the hell, she was with Frank Sinatra, Howard Hughes, Hemmingway and a bunch of other really famous people and she could never find the right one. That’s weird, if she couldn’t find the right situation, what chance do I have? I’m fucked.

  There is a part of her that looks so sad, I wonder how deeply she regrets this stuff? She has everything. I mean some say she and Lana Turner even had a love affair. Holy ma-loly, can you imagine that? I can and I can’t because all of a sudden I love her and it makes me jealous.

  I watch them, we drink more; I think they share some kind of agreement having to do with the amount of outside life they’ll allow in to their world from here on out. I want in but I feel there’s something very final about their pact. It doesn’t seem right to me, I just arrived. I want all of them. I keep up with them drink for drink and smile with real astonishment hearing their stories. I long for them to slice their hearts open but I don’t have the knife.

  Ava starts yawning and I sense the night is done. I feel cheated. I want their guts. I can hardly fucking walk. Ava’s not much better, she leans low and whips her head like an antenna to navigate to the door. When Charles is drunk he doesn’t change much from when he’s sober, his face seems redder and longer, and his body becomes all gangly. I sway out the door and grab the outside railing. I’m seeing spirals going down the stairs. I hope I don’t hurl. I have a lot to stay upright for. I’m going to walk Ava to her place, like a gentleman. She wobbles but with much more experience than me, she has class even drunk. I’m random, like I’m trying to avoid alligators and stay upright with every step.

  “I’m fine honey, you don’t need to come with me it’s just up the walk. Thank you.”

  “No I want to walk you home to make sure something don’t happen.”

  “No you just go on your way now. This is Knightsbridge, I’m fine.”

  “Uh okay, I’ll watch you for a bit just in case.”

  “That’s sweet, bye now.” I want to say something that will guarantee another visit but I just mumble and drip saliva on myself. When she gets to her door she yells.

  “Baby, I need my kitchen ceiling painted. You’re a painter aren’t you? Didn’t Bappie say that? Or was it someone else? Are you a painter?”

  “No it’s me, but I’m an actor too.”

  “Okay then you give me a ring soon and we will set it up.”

  “Okay, good, thanks, I will, bye, I love y...” I catch myself just in time. I don’t know if I am in love with her but I am in love with something right now. So much so that it’s keeps me from falling down and passing out right here on the spot. I start to sing the Beatles ‘Don’t let me down,’ as best I can and wander through Hyde Park to find my bed. I look on the ground for something sharp so I can carve my arm to remind myself to call Ava. I don’t want to write out the whole message so I scratch an A on myself a few times with a rock.

  In the morning I roll out to the streets. Last night comes at me in bits and pieces. What the fuck did I do to my arm? It’s scratched up in a weird formation, looks like an alien fucking branded me or something. I’m still a bit sauced, but that’s okay, I prefer that to waking up tired. I wonder what Tess is doing but I really don’t give a shit, kinda, I would if she wanted me.

  I find a small café and order bangers and mash, turns out it’s sausage with mashed potatoes and it’s excellent. I’m going to have it everyday till I die. I want to tell Whammy I ate ‘Bangers and Mash.’ Ha.

  At a newsstand I pick up a map with special places and stuff. I see there’s a place called Trafalgar Square that looks like a lot of people go to so I decide to head over there. I walk as much as I can because I want to see everything. There are shops and stops; everything seems so cozy and well placed here. I have a new wind in my soul. With every breath I feel charged. I find Trafalgar Square. It’s pretty cool in a way that every fucking thing over here is cool only there aren’t any like hip people hanging out. It’s a stately sort of place. So I decide to get a bus to the big clock and check that out. It’s huge, yep.

  I need a drink so I pop in to a pub. It occurs to me I’m getting very short of money so I buy a couple of pints, what they call beers, to take my mind off of it so I won’t have to stress about it. I mean I’m really short of dough. I have twenty quid left (a term for money). I’m bumming out, beer and all. I buy one more beer and feel a little better.

  I want to see Abbey Road but not while I am feeling crappy. I figure I’ll make my way over to Piccadilly Circus again and just hang on some steps or something. At least I know Ava and Charles, not many people can say that, right?

  In Piccadilly I am another youngerish person being a bum, and that’s fine. At least it’s more awesome than any place I’ve bummed in the states. Man I love seeing all the different people from so many places around the world. See people can get along. My eyes water for a second, once in a while I love people. I sit here for hours wondering what the fuck I’m going to do to live.

  Stoners recognize stoners, it doesn’t take much. It’s the way we count money, nervously hoping there is enough; it’s the jittery looks at people while waiting to identify the dope person, it’s the look on our faces when we finally score. All over the world we can be seen. MY SENSORS spot some ragged behavior lingering nearby. I walk slowly to the chap, bloke, dude, who stands alone with his hands in his pockets and on the lookout. I lean on the flipside of his lamppost.

  “Looking for something mate?”

  “Yeah, what do you have?”

  “Oh, I have got the best.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh yeah mate.”

  “How much quid’s?”

  “You got ten quid on you mate?”

  “Yeah, I think so. So this is really good shit?”

  “Oh fuck yeah, not like these other wankers have.”

  “Okay I’ll take ten worth.”

  “You sure? I can really do you good for twenty.”

  “Nah, that’s cool. I don’t have that much money. What’s a wanker?”

  “It’s a tossbag. Here give me the money.” I have no idea what a toss bag is but I say, “oh” to indicate I do. Now I love this land and every toss bag on it, but I won’t fall for any more tricks from these pranksters so I demand the shit first. We do a one two three swap and walk off in different directions. I’m so excited because I got the good shit, he said. I duck into an alley way and carefully unwrap the little piece of paper folded like a tiny envelope. I see some brown powder, and I’m thinking this is the pure brown shit and England is way closer to where the pure brown shit comes from than the USA is. Just another level where my self worth goes up a notch. There’s something awesome about being closer to the brown shit. I’m not quite sure what to do with this stuff though, I mean I don’t have a needle and a spoon to cook or inject with. I could try snorting it. Thank
God they have McDonalds in England now, I run into the one across the street and grab a straw. The ones in the states stopped giving straws away without the purchase of drinks to thwart the cokeheads. I pop a toot in each nostril and wait for the hills to turn golden but my nose just burns like hell. I think my heart jumps a tad. Maybe this stuff is so pure it takes more to get kicked off. I double up the dosage and snort with great suction so it will have a direct line to my brain, nothing but sinus sizzle. This stuff looks grainier than powder and has no taste, or effect for that matter. I snort the last of it like a silly monkey. I suck so hard I almost pass out. I get woozy but not sure from what. I make myself walk funny just in case I’m stoned and don’t know it. I also slow down my thinking because if I’m stoned I don’t want to miss it. Maybe this shit is so good and pure you don’t feel it. Anyway I wander around feeling stoned, I guess.

  I need a drink, but I’m afraid to buy one because of my money situation. My arm itches from the strange Martian scratch on it. It looks like an upside down v with a weak line through it, where the fuck did I get branded? Holy shit, I could have been abducted for all the fuck I know. Anyway I’m wondering if I should tell Ava and Charles about having to leave England because of being broke? Its not like I’m leaving right this minute, but I like to manipulate my miracles as soon as possible. I’m not sure what I mean by that except a sad sack story can get results some times if seasoned the right way. I hope I didn’t piss them off in any way last night. I have to do something. I’ve run out of options and things to get high on. I go to a phone booth and call Charles; I am a little afraid to call Ava. I get more nervous around her.

  “Hello.” Charles’s voice, long and drawn out after it reaches me, met itself back at his flat. I just happen to be in the loop to hear it.

  “Hi Charles, its Van.”

  “Is it Van or Vern?”

  “Uh, its Van.”

  “Oh…I thought it was Vern…how are you?”

  “Oh good, I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Hello…”