Diary of a Drunk Fiend II (desparate for pancakes)

Circa 2004


I didn't so much open my eyes as they pulled themselves open of their own accord. I could see a glum wall, and some sort of semi-shininess protruding from underneath me....what the hell?

I lifted myself from my prone position. A hard, coldness was under me. As my senses returned to their regular places, I looked about and realised I was in....a jail cell.

"No!" I told myself, "This can't be! Not me! I'm untouchable!"

But I looked around myself and saw the jail cell plain and true.

"Think, " I told myself, "How did you get here?"

And I vaguely recalled a ton of beer, and a bottle of vodka afterward. Oh yes, I had drunk myself into oblivion, and then, on the cusp of the blackout I had made a telephone call...but to whom?

Maybe I'd made two calls. I vaguely remembered two names....Vanessa and Monica..which one had convinced me to take the trip to see them, I wondered?

All the same, there I was. In this cell, without sunlight, without window, without a clock, without anything to determine the time of day at all. There were carvings and markings all along the bulletproof walls. I decided to make one of my own. I thought of the cutest girl I'd ever seen, and I carved the fact that she was the sexiest upon the fiberglass barrier between me and the bars.

A storm-trooper strode past, and I shouted at him. Demanded my phone call. He calmly went about his business, and then he stood before my cell, regarding me in a way I'd never been regarded before...as an animal, a criminal, and he asked me, "You haven't made your phone call?"

"No", I told him, and I was sure it was true.

As though it was a commonplace thing, the storm-trooper turned aside and pulled a phone from the wall and handed it to me before I knew what was happening. I couldn't think of anyone to call. I fell back on old premise, and called a good friend....I got his voice-mail.

"He's not there!", I said.

"Well, that was your call," The storm-trooper said evenly, and was gone.

Hours passed. I started to remember old accounts I had read of men in prison. And so I started to do push-ups in the hope of tiring myself out, that I might get back to sleep. I saw several men being released from my cell-block, and I shouted out to the guards to let me try to reach someone again.
They ignored me.

I sank back upon my metal bench to consider the situation. Obviously, they'd have to let me out sooner or later. The trouble was, I couldn't tell if it was day or night. No matter. I set to more push-ups, hoping with all my might to tire myself out so I could sleep until something really happened. I only felt stronger. I must have still been a bit drunk, for I was truly examining my cell and thinking of ways I could pull it apart and escape.

No chance.

Eventually, thankfully, after about 80 hours, another storm-trooper appeared and told me I had an appointment with a particular Officer. They kept me chained the entire time, either to a bench, or to a pole, but eventually I saw an old man who wanted to be there even less than myself.

"Do you have someone who can come and get you?", he asked me.

"Yes," I said, thinking only of family. I was ready to call my cousin out of Florida!

"Well, we're ready to release you if someone will come and get you." He said, never looking at me.

I didn't want to give away any personal numbers, but they were the ones making the phone calls (as I had already used mine), so I gave them the number of a family member who did actually come and get me. It was horribly embarrasing, as they had me chained to the ground like an animal in the waiting room. Finally, one of the Troopers stepped toward me and unlocked my shackles. I stepped into the Sunlight gracious of it as never before.

 

Circa 1995.

I was a drunk, even back then. No matter. I had arrived in England with a pretty bank, but I'd squandered it all in the name of fun in a very short while. So, I was forced to look for work.

London in 1995 was a pretty open, fun-loving time. It didn't take long before I was hired to sell Doc Martens at Camden Town, mostly because the Iranian owner thought that I would do well selling the shoes to the American clients; and that I did.

I sold almost 2000 quid a day worth of boots for him....but he, in his miserly ways, insisted upon paying me but 15 or 20 quid a day for my efforts. O, well, I was young and adventurous!

I met many a girl on that job, thank God! Otherwise, it would have been a miserable time. Eventually, though, this wierd Iranian boss hired a cute Hungarian girl. I'm sure he hired her because she was very nice to look at....he must have wanted to look at her himself.

Anyhow...as days went on, and weeks, and we were working for the same guy, we eventually became a bit friendly. Never too friendly, though, just crossing paths.

But, finally, they made a schedulling mistake, and put us both on in the same place to run the shoe-shops without anyone else. Of course we did the usual flirty-stuff for the entire 8 hours. Never getting too crazy.

But then, in the end, she pushed her number and her address into my hand, saying

"Come to see me, if you are desparate for pancakes"....

So I kept her number.

It wasn't a couple days before I was desparate for pancakes. I finished work and bought myself some beer and some hashish. And then I used them both, and started to look for her place.

I think I was too high to find it. I never did find her place, and I never saw her again....I remember crouching in an English garden rolling a spliff and thinking, "She would understand"......but it didn't turn out that way....

I never saw her again. Here ends chapter Two.