CHAPTER FIVE

Around me in the cafe, people are sitting reading the papers. And the scene is the same as everywhere else in the world. They are turned to the sports pages, checking to see how their boys have done.

Another cigarette. Having another cigarette wasn’t so much a decision as a move designed to put off having to make a decision because you know any other decision will probably be wrong and definitely not really worth the effort.

Last night. About last night. There was an acronym - A.C.E. – we used which made us laugh anyway. We’re going to have an ace night. A night out with acid, cocaine and ecstasy. Ace. Last night was supposed to be ace. But then every night is supposed to be ace. It got blown out of the water when Mark came in with some smack. That added an ‘H’. We should have known then. That made it an ache. But, it’s getting better.

More coffee arrives. People carrying umbrellas walk past. I’m wearing a pink sweatshirt cut off just above the elbow. It is emblazoned with the legend “Chanel - Paris” but no one can see it because it’s inside out. On my legs are a pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers held up by a brown leather belt. My shoes are local specialities called Jika Tabi - black canvas boots which fasten at the back with maybe 15 hook and eye things and which the big toe separated like a foot mitten. They are very comfortable and, to your eyes, a little eccentric. The whole ensemble is what you might call ‘witty’. Last night was still here...

..." "Don't let me stop you." So I wrote "... waiting for another coffee" and put my pen down again. You know where you stand with creativity.

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About last night. I remember the way I used to go out. Say, for example, I was supposed to go out at 10. I’d have a bath at 6, a long bath, wash my hair and spend the next two hours poodling around doing my hair and sorting out which clothes to wear.

Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night? A job? A serious friend? A serious job? I had a suit for each and knew exactly which one would do for each need. The fact that they were all black and baggy and double breasted and made by the same geezer mattered not a jot to anyone but me. I knew and I felt right in each one in a different way. That took me up to about 8ish. Then I’d spend some time on the phone, checking out what the score really was and then I’d spend the next 30 or 40 minutes changing the suit to meet the new requirement. Five minutes before leaving the house, I’d change back to the suit that I always wore. The black baggy one. Dependable and comfortable. Sometimes I’d lay three or four out on my bed, each with a tie and compare and go through different combinations.

Here, things are a bit different. No, maybe that’s misleading. They’re not really different. There isn’t the clothing dilemma, largely because there are no clothes to speak of. How can you deliberate about which suit to wear when you’ve only got one suit? So what do you do? You end up trying to change your inside because you can’t change your outside. Drugs is the new deal. The questions are the old questions. Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night, a job, a serious friend? A tab of acid? Maybe a speed cap and half a tab? And a line of coke. A little bit of ketamine. Take half a tab now and half when you get there. And more speed. What the point? The result was always the same - to fuck up your mind. What do you want to do? Become someone else? Altered states. Jump around like a monkey. More or less the same as altered suits. More or less.