Martin, despite being thoroughly committed to trying to feel so, was no different to anybody else, least of all when being gently assaulted by the ‘bestest’ smile in the world, so he attempted to smile back. His face suddenly seemed to be made of elastic as it melted into something appropriating a grin as he then inadvertently dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He quickly wiped his hand across his face, the muscles of which were finally collapsing after almost 24 hours supporting the sucking in of his cheeks and constant grinding of his teeth as he’d shaken and shimmied his way through various clothes shops, coffee bars, the all-nighter at The Scene Club and the isolating echoes of the early morning pavements of Soho, until finally ‘arriving’ through the doors of the pub.
He was here NOW, the rest of the world still in his wake, although it was currently catching up with him fast.
He needed a drink to hopefully reduce his heartbeat to something apposite for a human being rather than its current impression of an out of control locomotive, he also clearly needed some sleep but he still had some pills stashed in the ticket pocket of his suit and he wanted to say hello to Victoria, Lola’s mum.
Everybody wanted to say hello to Lola’s mum, apart from Lola’s dad now that he’d become a famous pop star and had shacked up with some teenage dolly bird in Muswell Hill leaving Victoria to run the boozer and look after Lola on her own.
He ordered a large whiskey and a pint, both of which were gone by the time Victoria had been to the till and back to get him his change,
“Same again please Vic luv and one for yourself, keep the change, get Lola some sweets or something eh?”
Martin couldn’t decide if he hated or admired Lola’s dad, right now he also couldn’t decide whether he hated or admired himself, so he threw a couple more purple hearts into his mouth, washed them down with his pint and waited for them to kick in and so delay this decision a while longer.
“You’re funny and so is your scooter bike”
Lola got down off her bar stool and trotted back up the stairs to her bedroom.
Facial muscles apparently now working, Martin decided it was time for him to try and get home and stare at the ceiling of his bedroom for a few hours before the speed wore off and he’d finally sleep. Sleep was generally to be avoided over the weekend, but just like the regular internal battle concerning whether he loved or hated himself, sooner or later it too, would be unavoidable. Several familiar cavernously lonely hours and a few aborted attempts to wank himself off later, there was insufficient levels of amphetamine left in his bloodstream to keep him conscious any longer. His last shattered thought before he collapsed into a dismantled, restless slumber, was that he probably loved and despised himself in equal measure. He regularly hated the part of his personality that liked what remained and this was a relationship that was beginning to wear itself out. As he drifted off, Martin concluded he probably wanted to die before he got much older, his 21st birthday was only a few months away, and there didn’t seem much point carrying on after that, unless something significant happened. What exactly that ‘something’ was however, was unclear beyond the notion that he wanted to be someone else. Sleep came like a drug, but not the sort of drugs Martin enjoyed avoiding reality with so there was no respite here either, as Morpheus taunted, rather than seduced, criticized rather than cosseted.
“Fuck off”
Was Martins parting shot towards the vapour trail of the departing weekend; at least he thought it was he that muttered it aloud as he finally succumbed to the inevitable blackness.
Simon Mason 