Pisspot to Pimlico

A short story

It's 1981, I am laying flat on my back in the middle of the runway looking up at a dazzling white sky, except the light directly overhead which creates a black spot in my eye – the sun. A high pitched hissing whine fills my ears and there's a metallic taste in my mouth. I look up and back to see the perfect oval tip of a Boeing 747 slowly rolling toward me. A banging noise and a loud, yet muffled, voice shouting over a Spandau Ballet tune:

“Are you alright in there?” … what was going on?

The last thing I remember, I was talking to a stranger from Liverpool with a Harpo perm, at a party in Pimlico. We were discussing the peculiarities of scouse pronunciation,  “Mersey Docks and Harbour Board” the keyphrase apparently, that one must master to be initiated into the lingo. Coupled with the verbal paradox of “Dat geell wit d’ fair coat an d’ fur hur” which still to this day makes me wonder why?

So there I was, standing in the middle of the room, dressed sharp as a razor. Looking for someone to cut. Tommy, a gormless, six foot plus, Texan oil millionaire’s wayward son, looked across the room at me. He was not unlike a cross between Shane McGowan and John Wayne to look at, although what at first sight appeared to be a deep and meaningful 1000 yard stare was just his inability to focus on anything beyond the end of the ridiculous spliff that he chuffed on, held at an acute, proud angle between his lips.

He was beckoning me into the hall of his sumptious St Georges Square apartment, I complied. Away from the sound of the total piss up carrying on in the living room, Tommy put his arm around my back and in a conspirational pose and low voice, said: 

“I want you to take care of her for me Vince” (refering to his wild girlfriend Juani, who at that very moment was out on the balcony showing her black silk stockinged and suspendered pins to whoever), I smiled.

“No Vince, I’m not being funny, I’m going back home in two weeks time and I don’t think I’ll be back, not if my old man has anything to do with it.” 

I had never met Tommy’s dad, but felt like I knew the ten-galloned bear of a man in the framed picture on the baby grand, shaking hands with another important looking fat texan, captioned “Big John Hanks CEO of Totum Oil at the Lazy L Club with Ernest J Freith”.

“And anyway she’ll forget me the moment I walk through departures, I know that much, no, you son, will see her through whatever mad shit she tries to pull after I’m gone. Anyway she likes you and I do too hombre”

“But Tommy,” I said “you can’t just hand over a girl like a baton in a fucking relay race, she’s going to do what she wants, you know that.”

“Vincent, I’m asking you as a favour to me personally, to look out for her, take her out, keep her amused, I know her, she’ll go off on one if someone doesn’t watch over her.” He pleaded.

“It’s a strange request Tom, I can’t promise anything but I’ll try to keep close”

I said in a tone that indicated the end of the exchange.  Slipping out from under his headlock-heavy caress - those Texans have no problem with personal space invasion it must be something to do with coming from a place with such wide horizons and so much physical space to go round.

The young Texan returned to his next line of vim, whizz or whatever, while I sauntered out onto the balcony to assess (and perhaps gloat a little if I’m honest) the potential of the deal that I thought I had just had foisted upon me, in the hall. Juani was there leg up on the ledge, the pointed toe of her naughty shoes wedged into a small curl of wrought iron, cigarette in hand, drink in the other, lipstick and mascara on china doll face under a bewitching mane of thick dark hair. She was something. (Yes, Vince she was Tommy’s at least for the next fourteen days). How shallow can a man be, this shallow obviously –at least, this man.

“Vincent you muppet, why are you looking at me with a smirk on your face?”. Oh God, I panicked, I’m that transparent. 

“Get me another drink, anything so long as its clear, my teeth stain with red wine” She fired her best wicked full set smile at me and I nearly fell over the threshold of the french window as I retreated, her glass in my hand, backward into the mayhem.

I passed the a brandy and white wine – her usual - back through the curtain without setting foot back out onto the balcony, Juani took it with one hand and grabbed me by the forearm with her other, yanking me back out into the balmy night air.

“Well, what was the look for?” She hissed. 

“Can’t you tell when someone has the hots for you as obviously as I do” I said wrecklessly, 

“Well of course I can silly” she replied giving better than she got, as always.

“I’d be nooo good for you, you know that don’t you. You deserve better, you are a starchild…”  

“Stop bullshitting Juani, you can’t make me feel differently so just leave it out”  I interrupted.

“But Vinnie you are lucky, you have a small but orderly queue of women who would like to get to know you, they all, without exception, think that you are at least Second division hunk material…” again I interrupted, 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean. Leave it Juani, get pissed or whatever, just leave it” 

“Grow up Vinnie, grovelling doesn’t sit well with you” she replied.

“I’m going back in, can I have my arm back sweetheart,” I said, assertively.

“Has Tommy asked you to do anything for him” Juani sung as a parting shot. 

“Yeah, push you over the ledge” I said, punctuating it with a cheeky grin, all at once pulling free of her too-tight grip and leaping back through the curtain into New Romantic purgatory.

The evening proceeded the way of these things, generally downward, everybody was too far gone to expect any mercy from the first light of dawn and so consequently carried on.

Oh the The 747? well the loud banging and distressed voices, I was starting to hear clearly now,

“Vinnie! Are you OK in there? The door's locked, open the door!”

I had regained conciousness or woken up not sure which, laying the length of the bathroom floor my head beneath the overhang of the big white toilet bowl, and a huge split bump like a cat's eye, on my forehead. 

Somewhere in another room ‘To Cut a Long Story Short’ was playing far too loudly for 8.15 on a Sunday morning.