Last India Overland

by Craig Grant

  Pete dropped us off at the Parthenon, or is it the Acropolis? Dave says it’s both. The Parthenon is part of the Acropolis. Okay, fine. And then Pete took off to get our mail at some kind of club.

  The Parthenon was okay, though I’ve never ever been too turned on by big slabs of rock. Actually, it was kind of sad in a way. There was garbage all over the place, and scaffolding and sawhorses and more Japanese tourists than you can shake a Nikon at. There was this thick smog in the air. And all the noise of Athens’s traffic blared up at us. Somehow when you look at the Parthenon in books it looks so quiet.

  Patrick was in a pissed-off mood, I could tell, because he didn’t have a camera. Rockstar offered him his Polaroid but Patrick refused to take it. Maybe because Rockstar hung him over that wall. Or maybe because Polaroids were beneath him. Maybe a little of both.

  But Rockstar took a lot of pictures and he labelled all of them. He took a picture of Tim and Teach, without their permission, and labelled that one “Marriage on the Rocks,” which goes to show you that Rockstar did have a sense of humour of some sort.

  Not that Tim and Teach’s marriage was on the rocks or anything. At least it didn’t seem to be, last time I saw them.

  Pete got back with the mail about the time that the sun was going down, and I wasn’t too surprised that there wasn’t a letter for me. Everybody else, though, got tons of letters, except for Rockstar, but even he got one. It was from one of his roadie buddies. He showed me the picture that came with the letter. It was a corpse lying on a bed between two smashed guitars. There was a needle sticking out of one arm.

  “That’s Charlie Putrid,” said Rockstar, “after someone killed him.”

  Someone. I liked that. Dave told me Rockstar killed him. But I kept my mouth shut about it. All I said was, “Well, why would anyone send a picture like that to you, Rockstar?” “Bloody Eddie is trying to blackmail me,” said Rockstar. “And here I thought he was a friend of mine.” Rockstar laughed. “Pretty stupid, huh, Muckle? Ain’t nobody got any friends in this world, huh? Everyone’s out to screw you, that’s how it works, ain’t it, Muckle?”

  I said, “Well, not necessarily, Rockstar. I mean, you can’t go through life with that kind of attitude, it ain’t healthy.” Rockstar looked at me, “You mean I should change my attitude, Muckle?”

  I said, “Well, maybe. I mean, it’s your life, you can do with it what you want to. And I know that sometimes all you’re left with is your sense of humour, when you’re down for the count in the fifteenth round and half your blood’s on the floor. But there’s always the chance the other guy might slip on your blood and break his nose, and that’d be good for a laugh.” Rockstar laughed at that and then he took a picture of me with a sawhorse and a slab of rock and the bus as a backdrop, and when it slid out, he labelled it, “Mick the Philosofer.”

  (postcard, with a picture of the Parthenon on the front)

  Athens, Oct. 24

  Dear Dex, congratulations! At last, The Atlantic. After how many submissions? No, let’s not think about that, sorry. I’m a bit out of it lately. We’ve been travelling down roads that shouldn’t be travelled. I’m going to buy a bottle of retsina wine & drink a toast to “An Acceptable Level of Violence.” Buy lots of issues, I’ll want to mail some to people. We’re in Athens. Parthenon country. Wonderful slab of rock. If you like slabs of rock. Athens is a nice quiet city like N.Y. I’m sorry but have I read that story? Or is it old wine with a new label?* Take care, K.

  Mick

  The next morning after breakfast Pete came up to me and told me he was making a trip to the hospital that afternoon. I told him it was kind of short notice but I’d do my best to find him a sympathy card. He ignored that. He told me to be at the American Express office at one o’clock and he’d consider giving me a ride there so I could get my smallpox shot taken care of.** I told him I’d think about it.

  It was a sunny day, for a change, and that little invitation didn’t make it any sunnier. Like I maybe said before, I hate needles. I’d make a lousy junkie.

  It was one of our so-called free days. Pete drove us downtown and dropped us off next to the American Express office and we were all on our own in Athens.

  Everybody except me and Jenkins went shopping.

  And since Jenkins was kind of down in the dumps, we found a nice little souvlaki bistro that sold shots of ouzo for something like twenty drachma, which worked out to about two bits and we settled in at the bar and had a little heart-to-heart, and basically what it came down to was the fact that Jenkins was so nuts about Charole that he just couldn’t see his way to seeing her point of view on things, though he tried to.

  “Well, what you need to do, Jenkins,” I said, “is maybe go after somebody who might appreciate you and how you feel, know what I mean?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, there’s lots of those around.”

  “Well, why don’t you go after Dana?” I said. “I hear Pete’s about to dump her. She might be open to offers.”

  “I don’t think she’s my type,” said Jenkins.

  “You never know until you give it the good ol’ college try,” I told him. “Besides,” I said. “I’ve seen her give you the eye a couple times. Like I don’t know how to break this to you, Jenkins, but you’re not exactly ugly. Actually, you’ve got one of those sweet and smarmy faces that women go for these days. Take advantage of the fashion while it’s there, Jenkins. Go for it.”

  He looked at me. “Smarmy?” he said. Just a little hurt.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t take it serious. I mean it in the best possible sense.”

  Jenkins chewed on that while I asked the bartender if he knew anybody who made a really good cheap guitar.

  He said yeah, his uncle made a really good cheap guitar.

  I said well, where does he live, and the guy wrote down an address, and so I asked Jenkins if he was up for looking at guitars, and he said, sure, why not, so we caught a cab that took us into the slums, and when I got there, I realized that the cabbie’s meter hadn’t been working. He said it just got broke that morning. So he skinned us for a few drachma, and when I asked him if he’d mind waiting around, he just laughed.

  When we got out of the cab, he burnt rubber taking off.

  We were standing in front of this old brownstone that reminded me of the joint in that Polanski flick, The Tenant. There were a couple old whores standing around in front and a few snotty-nosed kids playing marbles on the broken-down sidewalk.

  One of the whores spoke enough English that I was able to find out where the guitar maker lived. Third floor, she said, second door. We walk inside and up some broken stairs. The walls were gouged and full of graffiti. There was the smell of frying onions and rotten tomatoes and old dogshit and new semen in the air and it sounded like some kid was being murdered behind one of the doors. We had to step over a

  couple passed-out junkies on the second-floor landing.

  When I found the right door I knocked and when a voice inside said who’s there in Greek, I said, “The Rolling Stones. We’re looking for a guitar.”

  The door swung open and there was an old man standing there with a pistol in his hand. I waved some drachma at him. “Wanna buy a guitar,” I told him.

  He was skinny as a snake and just as bald but he had these clear blue eyes that were really intelligent. He told us to come in in that clipped English Greek waiters tend to use. “Comb-in, pleeze,” he said.

  So we did. The place was small and neat. There was a thin mattress in one corner and a threadbare Persian rug on the floor. There was a lot of sunlight in the room. And there were about ten guitars leaning against one wall, as well as an unstrung one lying on the floor.

  “Nice place,” I said to the old man.

  He smiled and nodded his head.

  Dave told me later that the only reason he lived there was because one of the whores was a daughter of his.

  He let me try out all the guitars but there was one I had my eye on right from the start. A cur
vy little blonde beauty. The old man said she was made from French poplar. “Burr-vect cozz-tix,” he said.

  Well, they might not have been perfect but they weren’t bad. She had a nice rich sound. I tiptoed her through the intro to “Stairway to Heaven” and banged off a few riffs from “Smoke on the Water” and “Jumping Jack Flash.”

  “Hey,” said Jenkins. “You can play.”

  “Do you really think so?” I said.

  “Not that I’m an expert,” he said.

  Jenkins was such a sensitive guy. Even the mildest sarcasm ruffled his feathers.

  I said to the old man, “How many drachma you want for this sweetheart?”

  He held up three fingers. “Tree tousand drachma cheap,” he said.

  I asked Jenkins how much that was in American and he said around about eighty bucks, and I said to the old man, “No way, this piece of garbage ain’t worth more than twenty bucks American tops,” and so we haggled for about half an hour, and I had to count out the American dollars and lay them on the floor for him before he finally went for thirty bucks American, and he didn’t seem too unhappy about the deal. I know I wasn’t.

  On the way down the stairs, past those doors ajar and the kids fighting, I played “Honky Tonk Women.”

  One of the whores was nice enough to call us a cab.

  Strummed blues tunes all the way back downtown, had the cab driver slapping his wheel in time to the beat, and I asked Jenkins, between notes, if he had to go to the hospital and he said nope, didn’t think so.

  And he didn’t. But he should’ve. Pete slipped up. I should write a letter to Taurus Tours. Tell ’em how Pete slipped up and what it meant in the long run. But it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Pete’s not going to be driving a tour bus again anyhow.

  When we got down to the American Express office I just stood around on the sidewalk for a while, singing tunes. Had Jenkins’ cap on the sidewalk. I’d always had this romantic idea of being a busker in Europe, footloose and fancy-free, and here I was, a dream come true. I even collected some change.

  Then Kelly and Patrick showed up, twirling worry beads.

  “What have we here?” said Patrick. “A wandering minstrel or a meandering wastrel?”

  Cute.

  But Kelly was just a tad nonchalant about the guitar for my tastes. All she asked, while she twirled those beads, nice wooden ones, was, “So what are you going to call her?”

  I liked that. Her.

  But it hadn’t really occurred to me that I had to name her something. “I don’t know,” I said. “Lucille maybe.” It was the only name that occurred to me. I’ve always been a big

  B.B. King fan.

  “Not too original,” said Kelly, “but it suits her.”

  “Well, Kelly,” I said, “I’m not too original myself you see.”

  She said, “Yes you are, Mick. You’re an original if I’ve ever seen one.”

  I took it as a compliment.

  Then Dana and Charole showed up. Dana looked anxious about something. She said, “Well, it’s one o’clock.” She was twirling worry beads too.

  “So it is,” said Charole. Pete was waiting for us in the bus and when I got on board, he glanced at Lucille but he didn’t say anything about her.

  Then we took off. Left Jenkins and Kelly behind, sipping chai in a Greek cantina.

  from Kelly’s diary

  Oct. 24

  We’re in Athens. A good mail drop. Letters from mom (laying the old guilt trip on me) & Dex (he got a story accepted by The Atlantic) & J & B (they’ve already had their 1st fall of snow). The Parthenon was a disappointment. Pat. finally badgered me into doing a complete tarot reading for him. Sounds like he’s contemplating murder. I asked him about it later. He said no, contemplating a quick trip to Lesbos is all. But he can’t really go. “A slight medical problem has cropped up.” Then he said something strange about how he has always had a fascination with the idea of “a romantic dalliance with a voodoo lady.” I think he was making a pass. I let it pass. This after we’d gone shopping for worry beads together this morning with D & F. Pat. bought a beautiful set containing various gems. Highly impractical for get-down worrying. I bought a sturdy wooden set. Everyone’s gone to the hospital except me & F. He’s putting my beads to immediate use & mooning over C. & a cup of chai. He wanted a tarot reading too. It looked worse than Mick’s. Even the Death card came up, in the 12th house. Gave him the old line about a sudden change but he wasn’t mollified. 3 of swords in the 5th house kind of spoke for itself. I’m in the mood to throw the cards away. At least I’m going to say as much, the next time someone asks.

  Mick

  The hospital was a grey slab of concrete that looked like it should’ve been a prison. We all followed Pete inside and down a long corridor, into a room that had a desk in it and a gurney

  and a movable screen. A fat black nurse sitting at the desk was cleaning a syringe. She wasn’t a beauty. She had a pockmarked face and a mole on her nose that sprouted hairs. The nose itself would’ve looked right at home on a vulture.

  “Who’s first?” she said.

  Nobody said anything until finally Charole asked her if she could get her cast taken off. The nurse wanted to know when it was put on.

  Charole said, “Sixteen days ago.”

  “Complete break?” said the nurse.

  Charole said she forgot to ask.*

  “Bone won’t be knitted yet,” said the nurse.

  “Well, can you do anything for the itch then?” She said it in a whiny voice that didn’t go with her looks at all. Good-looking women should really make an effort not to whine. “I can’t get to sleep at night because of it.”

  The nurse wasn’t too sympathetic. All she said was no.

  Then Pete said, “Don’t forget the shots,” and Charole took out her medical book and said she needed some shots. The nurse looked at her medical book.

  “You already have shots,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Charole in this voice that was starting to sound irritated. “But they were too close together. They need to be ten days apart instead of seven days apart.”

  “You already have shots,” said the nurse and she handed the book back to her.

  Charole looked at Pete.

  He looked irritated too. “We’ll try to get them some place else,” he said.

  The nurse was looking at me.

  “Somebody else can go,” I said. “I’m in no hurry.”

  “What do you want?” she said.

  “I guess I need a smallpox shot,” I said.

  She looked at my medical book and then told me to roll up my sleeve and she filled up her syringe and dabbed on some alcohol. Two seconds later, jab. Hurt like hell. She could’ve been just a tad gender. It wouldn’t have cost her a damn thing.

  Then it was Patrick’s turn.

  *Kelly said to me in an aerogramme it was a fracture. — D. W.

  123

  “What you like?” she said.

  “Well, actually it’s all rather private,” he said.

  She asked him again what he would like.

  Patrick let out a long sigh and rolled up his eyes.

  “I’m afraid I have a venereal infection.”

  Well, that was a surprise. Patrick had the dose. Raised more than just my eyebrows. Charole and Dana glanced at each other. Pete had a little laugh to himself, shook his head. And the first thing I thought of was Dave telling me that Patrick had boffed Suzie that night after the visit to Hider’s pub. And I put that together with the fact that Rockstar had that little therapy session with Suzie. But then it occurred to me, hey, maybe Patrick got it from Suzie, and I thought back to the first night of the trip. How Dave had told me I’d eventually find out what went down that night. All of which was definitely something to mull over.

  “You mean disease,” the nurse said to Patrick. She said it with a look of disgust.

  “If you insist,” said Patrick.

  She took him behind the screen and tol
d him to take down his pants. We heard his zipper get unzipped and we heard the nurse say to him, “You make lots of girls happy with this, don’t you,” and we heard Patrick hem and haw and almost laugh and then we heard a little yelp.

  He looked a little pale when he came back out from behind the screen.

  Then it was Dana’s turn.

  She said, “I’d like the rabbit test.”

  I looked at Pete. His jaw was hanging down past his belt buckle. It was one of those days chock-full of surprises.

  The nurse said, “What?”

  “I think I’m pregnant,” said Dana. Just a little

  belligerently.

  I looked back at Pete. I’m sure he turned a whiter shade

  of pale than even Patrick had. And then his expression changed

  and it seemed to say, Christ, what did I do to deserve this?

  Of course, if he was worried it was his, all he had to do was a little math and he could’ve figured out it wasn’t.

  As for the nurse, she had a big grin on her face. She must’ve been Catholic down to her little black toenails. “Very good to be pregnant,” she said.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” said Dana.

  Which wiped the grin off the nurse’s face. “You not married?” she said.

  Dana thought about that for a second. “Not yet,” she said.

  And then she did something that raised some more eyebrows. She took me by the hand and gave me a kiss on my cheek. “All we have to do is set the date,” she said to the nurse.

  I almost fell over. Nice move, though. Nothing like being quick on your feet, like the old man used to say, when the buffalo are charging.

  The grin squeezed itself back onto the nurse’s flabby lips and she gave it to me. “Do test right away,” she said.

  Pete said to Dana, “We’ll wait for you on the bus.”

  He didn’t catch Dana’s eyes when he said it. He caught mine. And he beat them over the head with a canoe paddle, and had them skinned and sold before I had a chance to look away.