by Terry Taylor
“But what’s he for? What use is he?” asked I.
She seemed to be losing her patience. “He’s my guinea pig. Any time I have any new tablets to try out that someone turns me on to, I try them on Weep first. If he doesn’t get ill or die, I take them myself. That’s what guinea pigs are for, aren’t they?”
When the girls had gone out of the room to the carzy or somewhere, Dusty reminded me that I mustn’t forget the Romeo act with Miss Roach, as planned. He gave me a long spiel with instructions all about the noble art of making a girl, and I thought he was going to draw diagrams as well.
“It’s up to you,” he told me. “Don’t forget we’ll need to come around practically every day, so we don’t want to get her suspicious. Play up to her, marry her if you like, but don’t let us down, we’ve too much at stake.”
“But she’s bound to know I’m pushing, sooner or later,” I argued with him.
“That’s all the more reason for her to sus something. I tell you, it’s the only way.”
“Where does our dark friend’s party hang out?” Miss Roach asked me, coming through the door.
“Not far from here. We’ll be there in about ten minutes,” I answered, looking out of the window to see if the rain had stopped. It had.
“I hope they’re not all Spades there,” Ruby said, admiring herself in the mirror. “Spades are great in their mannish way, but they’re not neurotic enough to get high with for me. The British ones, that is. The Yankee ones are too neurotic.”
Miss Roach followed up with, “I know what you mean, but it’s only the way they look upon this Charge thing. It’s not a kick and something that’s very naughty to them. They’re used to it, it’s sort of natural to them, something they take for granted, a part of them. That’s why they take it so cool.”
We finished off the milk bottle which did wonders, really, because there wasn’t much of it left and I already had a buzz on from it, and after last minute touches to the girls’ make-up, we were away.
When we arrived at Ayo’s pad I found a much different set-up to the one other Spade party I’d been to. I took it for granted there’d be a sea of black faces, all sitting around very quietly and coolly, smoking their Tampi like Woodbines, an African record on the gram full of drums and dozens of high-pitched voices in strange harmony, and a fair sprinkling of blonde chicks who’d caught the colour bug. No, it wasn’t what you could call a Spade party at all, in fact, apart from Ayo, there was only one African there, and much to my delight there were faces that I knew well.
Buttercup was busy helping everyone to drinks, pouring glasses of vintage cider from the stone kegs that lay on a wooden table, and obviously getting his kicks from making himself helpful. His should-be-white tee shirt, that badly needed the aid of one of those miracle soap powders that are advertised on the tele, showed up his once good physique that was now turning to fat. As soon as he spotted us he turned us all on with a full glass of Merrydown, sitting us on a sofa in the corner and asking us how we all were with that wonderfully pathetic look on his face.
“Giving all this up soon,” he said to me. I’d heard it scores of times before as it’s his usual greeting to you. “Going to wrestle again, man. Fifty quid a fight, that’s what I used to get. Just think of it: fifty quid a fight! Don’t you worry, I’ll soon be on my feet again. I’m giving up the scrumpy ’cause it’s doing me no good. Won’t be able to fight properly if I carry on with this stuff. Makes you lose your memory, you know. Can’t remember a thing these days.”
His dry, unemotional voice came at you with a ring of pity in it, and although he was all of seventeen stone and could more than take care of himself if he was forced into a punch-up, and wasn’t what you could rightly call handsome, you wanted to look after him somehow, because that feeling came to you that he couldn’t look after himself and everyone was taking liberties with him.
I took a quick look around to see what the evening promised, and I was pleased to observe it was plenty. Just a swift glance around told me that the party wasn’t exactly in its early stages, as everyone looked well on the way to being stoned. There were about a dozen people there, and you could tell that Ayo had gone to the bother of making sure there were an equal number of chicks, to make things even more swinging. We said hello to everyone at once, and I noticed Popper was there, so was Algernon Fliewright, a writer who could never get anything published because it was too far out, so because of this, and the fact that he chewed benzadrine tablets like sweets, he was always brought down, and never failed to tell you so. A couple of half-caste girls that had immigrated to London from Tiger Bay were jiving in the corner together. Really attractive chicks, with black straight hair flying all over the place in time to the music, and a sun tan that an English peasant woman would have to spend a bomb on abroad to pick up. They’d collected the best from both races; they knew it — and made the most of it.
We settled ourselves comfortably on the sofa preparing ourselves for the happenings. Dusty gave me a sly wink that conveyed a lot. The wink told me there were good times ahead, and for a brief period we could forget the world outside and the life that had been forced on us by the poor unfortunate cunts that were out there planning it all.
As soon as we got settled down our host did his duty by presenting us with a couple of king-size spliffs which we blew away very quickly and greedily between us. The atmosphere was marvellous. That’s the only word I can use to describe it. A sort of atmosphere that can make you high by itself. The air was filled with smoke, and the acrid smell of Hemp was everywhere, like it was in everything, making itself crawl into every little nook and corner so it was there for always, reminding you about it all the time. An atmosphere that made a noise without you having to talk or play records or anything; a silent noise that you felt in your brain telling you there were good times ahead. An atmosphere that shouted in your ear that you were going to get block-up. That whatever happened it would do its duty and send you to niceness. And if Harry the Hare, the patron saint of Charge that the Indian princess raved about was a fact, then he was most definitely here, jumping and skipping about the place, pleased that he was in the company of a few of his most sincere disciples that were glad of him; yes, worshipped him for the happiness that he brought them. Never letting you forget that it was him and him alone that was helping you on your way to contentment; so never let it go out of your mind for a second that it’s Harry, and be grateful to him, and when he’s thirsty, which he soon will be for sure, send him down some liquid refreshment, because after all, he’s been good to you, so it’s your duty to look after him.
The faces were there on the scene before you, all there, but very far away, like you were looking at them from a distance. But now and again one comes up big before you, right in front of you and you see a scar on that face that you’ve never noticed before, and you hear a voice as though it came from an echo chamber, ringing down a long funnel, telling you they’re having a good time and they haven’t seen you for ages and where have you been? Then a hand with a spliff between the fingers, offering it to you, and you see the joint burning badly because there’s too many seeds in it, and you take it and wet the side that isn’t burning right to try and get it better again, and then you smoke it as if it’s the last spliff on earth (heaven forbid!) and feel and see it going down, right down inside you as far as it can go, exploring new parts of you which it has never seen before, turning them on to the joys of the weed.
Then you survey the scene, of saucepans on gas stoves full of fish soup, with pepper so hot it burns not only your mouth but your inside, and promises to give you a reminder of it next day when you have to do the usual thing. Of mantelpieces full of photographs of grinning Spades, famous ones, great ones, ones that blow those man-made instruments that make those heaven-sent sounds. But the photo in the largest frame isn’t of anyone famous to us, only Ayo, because it’s obvious that it’s of his mum and dad back home. No smiles on their faces, but a look of inner happiness and pride. I
wonder what they’d think if they saw their son now? A lot different to the little boy they knew before he set off on his great voyage across the seas. A drug pedlar and a good time boy, that’s what he is, Mrs Ayo. Different to his many friends that came over here and studied and qualified and returned home all proud and happy and victorious.
A congo drum in the corner, the skin well worn from times that black hands had beat the hell out of it. When the drummer, accompanying a record, would convince himself that he played a damn sight better drum than the professionals on the disc, just because he’d been smoking the water pipe. As you think of that a water pipe appears before you like magic. A nice one, well made, with the mouthpiece staring out at you like a cobra ready to strike. As you suck and draw on it that lovely sound of bubbling water (in this case it was cider) fills your ears. Then you look down to the glass stem and see the thick white smoke rushing through it straight down to your lungs. Your head whirls for a second, then most of it leaves your head, but don’t despair because all is not gone, some is left to stay with you to comfort you.
You put your shades on because the bare lamp in the room is getting stronger than the sun ever could and you can’t stand this squinting because it hurts your eyes, but now it’s better. Oh yes, a vast improvement. Peaceful now, even Buttercup’s shirt doesn’t look dirty. But weirder. Can’t keep these glasses on for too long — get block-up too quick.
Popper’s in the most comfortable-looking chair, sitting a thousand miles away from everyone else, but then he’s always been the same; most junkies are. Junkies fascinated me from the start and I found out all I could about them. I wondered why he mixes with us lot instead of his horsy friends. Like most of them he’s always complaining about us; says we’re too sociable and talkative. “Relax, man, relax,” he always says. “The trouble with you lot is that you’re looking for kicks all the time.” His thing isn’t a kick, it’s a way of life. His works were neatly arranged on the card table beside him, complete with spoon and a candle stuck to a saucer to heat his jacks up with. He went through the fascinating ceremony of having his angry fix, prodding his bruised arm with the blunt point of the hypo, desperately searching for a vein to send the poison in to a mainline station to go on its journey. Not an expression on his face, forgetting the people around him, alone with himself and the thing he has with him. Has with him to his grave, yes, perhaps for always. His young face and tired eyes went through me as if I wasn’t there, and his lifeless black hair fell across his face, and with a dirty nail-bitten hand he pushed it aside, only for it to spring back again.
“What’s happening?” I shouted across to him.
His glazed eyes looked up and over to me. “Things not so good, squire. Lady Devalera, the psychiatrist that I’m under, is cutting up a bit rough. Wants to cut my prescription and send me to a nut-house for a cure. She thinks I’m selling some of my ration, the old cow. It’s all down to these kids that think they’re hooked and want to get on her books. The parasites! They spoil it for everyone.
Then he glanced away from me as if I were a stranger.
Miss Roach sat next to me working away on the pipe. How that girl can smoke! How she seems at home with it, as if it was made for her, but then I expect it was. She’s even getting admiring glances from Ayo and his countryman on the way she handles it. Sucking down the smoke until it explodes inside her, then comes rushing out of her mouth and nose all at once. Then she inhales again to try and win back some of the lost smoke. Her eyes were closing up and she looks half Chinese the way they’re just slits, with big bags at the top and bottom of them. She was with the music, swimming and splashing about, the sole thing in her mind, and now even in her body as it shook gently to the rhythm. Her neck did strange twists to the music, and now it was becoming sex-making. As she shook her shoulders, double time right on the beat, the tops of her breasts that were showing above her lowcut sweater shook too, and now and again she’d say out aloud to the musician, “Don’t do it!” or “Do it!” and it sounded as if she was saying these words to her lover, not the man that was blowing on the record. The grin on her face never altering, saying to you, “I don’t want to come down, I want to stay like this forever.” She looks as if she’s not taking any notice of the happenings, but you just try and pass the spliff so that she misses her turn. She’ll soon wake up and tell you not to be so naughty. When she gets it between her fingers, that grin breaks out to a great big smile, and she says something like, “Hello, spliff, where have you been? I’ve missed you!” and you remind yourself that here is a genuine hipster of the female variety.
Things flashed through my mind; all sorts of things, good and bad. But the bad things were bad no longer, I could see some hope or something funny in them. Even old Mr Cage; I couldn’t help smiling. But the fact remains that I’ve had enough of you, Mr Cage, all the same. You must go out of my life forever, because, let’s face it, you’re in a different world to me entirely. Although we work together side by side every day, we’re a million miles apart. You were born into slavery — I wasn’t. And in a couple of weeks I’m going to make a visit to your precious shop, my very last visit, and tell you so right to your face, and you won’t be able to threaten me then because my chains will be broken from you, and I’ll tell you exactly where to put those snap brim, homburg and bowler hats of yours, the all fur felt and velour ones as well! I’ll have a few things to say to the zombie too. I’ll tell him that the very best thing for him is to leave ‘Mummy’ double quick, and find himself a navy stoker, perhaps, then, life won’t be so mixed up for him.
I’ll study hard at my new profession. My mind’s crying out for knowledge about the art of drug peddling. It’s a complicated business, with the law as your rivals, like a fox surviving in an area where hunting is the chief pastime. Sure there’ll be difficulties and hardship and anxious moments, but there’ll be excitement as well. And if you do your job properly the rewards will come. Not only the bread and material things, but satisfaction that you’re winning a battle against one of the biggest organisations in the country, even in the world, who have on their side brains with lifetimes of experience, men who spend years learning their job, that’s just a cog in a huge machine.
But even more important, it’s a passport to freedom from plane number one in this world of ours. It reminds me of the belief of my Spiritualist friends who are convinced that there are seven different planes starting from number one, which is the earth plane, leading up to number seven which is the Christ plane, the one that’s the true heaven. Man, I’m going to aim at number seven. I’ve got a long way to go yet, but Hallelujah! I’m on my way, I’ve nearly forgotten about number one already, so look out, here I come!
Two American servicemen came into the room, coloured boys, who without wearing their uniforms told you they were Yanks, as if they’d had the stars and stripes held high above their heads. They had with them clothes that go to the cleaners every week, the confidence of a senator, the smell of Old Spice, a bottle of Southern Comfort in their hands, and a I’m-away-from-base-for-a-few-hours-so-I’m-going-to-have-a-ball look on their faces.
“Where’s the shit?” one of them asked loudly, with his eyes shooting around the place looking for a chick that took his fancy. “Let’s blow our doggone heads off! In Chicago (it’s funny how none of them ever come from the South) we smoke this stuff twenty-four hours a day. We take it seriously over there. Man, you ought to meet some of the smokers in that great little city of ours. You’d say, Glory be, that can’t be a man smoking that Pot, it must be a steam locomotive!”
“Try the pipe,” Ayo’s countryman said with a trace of sarcasm in his voice.
“Ah sure will,” he said, taking off his jacket as if he meant business.
They both had a turn on the pipe, not very expertly but well enough to do the trick. It did. They coughed and spluttered but it was too late. The Congo was upon them. As soon as they’d put the pipe down one of them asked why we didn’t have a window open to let some fresh air
in the place, and when Ayo told him we didn’t like the idea of letting all this precious smoke out of the room they looked puzzled and said they’d better be going as they had to look into another party before they returned to base. Then they swallowed it.
The eyes of the walls were studying us with amazement and ignorance. They’d seen lots of things: volumes of comedies and dramas and even pantomimes, but never this. You want to talk to these peeling, cracking walls for they seem wise to you — silent, observant, but not critical. Wise from embraces, fights, love, hate, tears and laughter — all to be lost one day when they pull this old house down, or someone drops a bomb and murders it. But that’s not yet, wall, so join with us now and make the most of it. Remember, we too have to be pulled down one day. Join us and travel the million paths of intoxication, never knowing quite where we’re going or where we shall end. Learn the art and science of getting high. Fight for your degree! It will help you to solve some of the snags in life, even all of them. Have it all in your brain, ready to be tapped when required — the complete answer to everything. But, wall, never forget we respect you, for yours is a mind of experience that we can never get. The people that you must know, as we never can — their bodies and feelings stripped naked before you. We only see ourselves that way, and then we aren’t an onlooker so how are we to know even ourselves? The sounds you must have heard, had to listen to — Bach and Brubeck, Jimmy Shand and Sonny Stitt, Word Jazz and Mrs Dale’s Diary...
I could have sworn I’d been sitting next to Miss Roach for hours, so much had happened, but nothing you could talk about. But my mind had absorbed everything, not taken it in so it could be stored away forever, but pounced on it, observed it, thought about it, then chucked it away. The clock told me another story: that I’d only been there a couple of hours. It made me think about time. That it was rationed so we mustn’t think about it lightly, but if we try and rush it and go berserk, putting all our energy into making a million things happen in an hour, then it would play funny tricks on us and disappoint us. Let it have its own way, putting the responsibility of ourselves into its hands, giving us the experiences that it wants to — one, five, or a hundred to the hour — then it won’t disappoint us, I’m sure.