wake up call in the big smoke

Gabriel woke in the corner of a room on a mattress. The taste of gin; the smell of stale human sweat. A warm body pulsed beside him. He opened his eyes to meet a ceiling he did not recognise. A bare lightbulb. Inside of him something felt like it was rotting.

‘Where is tomorrow?’ he said.

‘Waiting for you,’ a voice mumbled.

Smoke hung in the stillness of the room like the absence of thought. A crack on the ceiling reminded him of the Nile River, he didn’t know why. He sat upright cautiously as though about to be set upon by a tooled-up gang. Heat, heat, heat—his skin felt like it was burning. Wiping sweat from his brow he pressed his back against brick: a chair with three legs, a mannequin complete with top hat, clothes and ruined bedsheets spread across wooden floorboards as though confetti. Wine bottles with candles, a pile of books. On a wall was a print of a Charlie Parker vinyl record—Jean-Michel Basquiat. On another was a print of a crimson rectangle—Rothko. Light burst through the cracks of drawn curtains. Through an open window the song Everything in its Right Place, by Radiohead hummed from a distant car stereo.

‘What is time?’ a foreign voice mumbled.

‘A little early to be getting existential,’ he said.

The woman turned her back and rolled onto a shoulder. ‘I thought you might be an asshole,’ she said.

Taking a pack of smokes from a beer crate acting as a bedside table; he placed a teacup full of ash on his stomach—lit up.

‘Feels early,’ he said, blowing smoke rings to space.

The curve of her backside pressed against him.

‘I will sleep,’ she said. ‘We can have sex later.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

A plume of smoke rose above them towards the Nile River. Gabriel finished smoking and slinked onto his back.

---

A phone rang and rang and rang—Sinnerman by Nina Simone.

Stirring from sleep Gabriel felt as though he were sinking. He got up and moved towards sound. Kicking away a pair of starched out jeans, he picked up a flip phone.

‘Please answer,’ the woman in bed mumbled.

He looked over at the olive glow of her motionless body. Cool tattoo, he thought, staring at a spiral on her shoulder. Then he made his way into a cluttered hallway: two racer bikes, a rack of colourful clothes, stacks of fashion and culture magazines.

‘Word up, brother,’ he said, answering.

‘I’m in Whitechapel?’ his brother said.

‘That’s where I live.’

‘I’m guessing you’re not in Whitechapel?’

Gabriel rubbed an eye and stared at a clock on the wall with a mickey mouse at the centre of its dial.

‘I thought we were meeting at St. Pancras?’

‘It’s one o’clock and I’m standing in your bedroom, I had to wake Steve up to get off the street. Just so you know, you’ve got a dealer living next door. He was stood by a window in his underpants tossing a baggy to a guy with no shoes on his feet when I got here.’

‘I try to think of him more as an entrepreneur, takes the edge off.’

‘He asked if I needed a fix for the weekend.’

‘That would also take the edge off.’

‘Idiot.’

‘Keith’s alright, pragmatic in these challenging times.’

‘He has no teeth and sells crank.’

‘Sometimes we all fall down.’

A long pause drew attention to Gabriel’s throbbing temples.

‘You live in a really rough borough Gabriel.’

‘Life is life. I’ll make my way over there now, if Kooch is in ask him to cook you up a bacon roll, delicious.’

‘I’m not bothering anyone else in your home.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Steve said he left you in a bar last night with a beautiful Turkish woman. You were off your head on mandy I hear, still chasing the night then?’

‘That man has one critical character flaw.’

‘I’m tired of you using London as an excuse to mess yourself up.’

‘Oh, I know.’

‘Do you even know who you spend your evenings with anymore?’

Gabriel ran a hand through greased curly hair, exhaling heavily he searched his mind for memories of an evening he knew would not fully return. Absinthe, a punk band named The Libertines with cool leather jackets and a strung-out junkie for a lead singer live at the Rhythm Factory. Turkish woman with brunette hair and hourglass body—far too much consumption in such a short space of time.

‘Wait for me, I can be there in twenty.’

‘Where would I go—to hang out with Keith or no shoe man?’

‘I’m sorry, Adam.’

A heavy sigh, long pause.

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘When I’m with you I do.’

‘This smart-arse thing you have going on is getting really annoying.’

‘I’ll take you for breakfast when I get there.’

‘Try lunch, breakfast was hours ago.’

‘Lunch it is.’

‘Gabriel, we’re going to talk about this.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘And you’re going to listen this time.’

‘See you soon, my love.’

‘Idiot.’

Adam hung up. In the hallway, a slender woman dressed in bright yellow cycling clothes sprung like water from a bedroom. Smiling at his naked frame, she moved by him, arms pinned to her side.

‘Happy Saturday!’ she said, opening the front door.

Breathable clothes, he thought, should probably get some.

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Originally published on Tumbleweed Words →