Eat. Drink. Play. Drink. Sex. Work. Smoke. Love. Drink. Sleep.
XxXxX Eat. Drink. Play. Drink. Sex. Work. Smoke. Love. Drink. Sleep. XxXxX
(2983 words)
I've been where you were, Jack said putting money on the pool table, before tucking his wallet back into his suit pocket. His phone vibrated; however, seeing his sister's name flash up, he ignored it.
Connor shrugged.
Woman like that, Jack continued. They squeeze you for money.
Connor looked at the mysterious stranger he had just befriended; he had that City of London Advertising exec look; the type that held meetings at a strip club on company expense. He was a gritty thirty something year old professional who matched the darkened atmosphere of the snooker club-stroke-bar.
They were talking about a woman who was having a hilarious conversation with a guy at the bar. The person in question, Andrea, had the air of glamour about her, and she made sexy even, her German addled accent.
Jack potted a red. I was twenty once too. You did it all right. Bought her a drink; made her laugh.
How did you know I was twenty?
It's a gift, Jack replied.
Lucky guess.
Maybe, when I sat at the bar, I caught a glance of your D.O.B when you showed the bargirl your I.D.?
No. You guessed right.
Jack laughed. He extended his arm for a handshake. Jack London.
Named after the author?
No. The drink, Jack said wryly.
Connor shook his hand. The name's Daniel O'Connor. Everybody calls me Connor.
Why?
Long story.
Jack pot another red. Don't mind me saying this. But I've never met a black Irishman before.
Connor took another cursory glance at the aforementioned beauty in her lovely black dress. You want to ask whether my mum or dad is Irish right?
I presume it was your dad. Unless you took your mother's name?
Connor quaffed down his frothing pint of Guinness. Don't mind me saying this mate. You're very cocky.
Jack missed. He stood up and sharpened his cue. Sorry, he said frowning. He stepped out of the light.
Connor potted a blue. Although he didn't mention it aloud, he knew that he had stumped the oh-so-clever Jack London. After potting a second coloured ball, he felt slightly guilty at putting Jack down. Jack's apology came across sincerely. And it was this sincerity that changed the remainder of their conversation for the good.
The two philosophized through a few sessions and enjoyed each other's company so much they exchanged phone numbers to meet up for a table-tennis match. Jack had brought up squash, but Connor was having none of 'that elitist rubbish'. Connor also took home with him a few contacts that would help him chase up his career.
On his walk home, he reflected on Jack London's character. London was a better human being after he was brought down a peg or two. Misery, it seemed, brought out the best in him.
Connor wanted to be like London. He wanted to be in the money, and be able to shrug off the most beautiful woman at the bar; the humility he ended up showing was a little enchanting, as was his confidence, and Jack London was, however off putting it had been to Connor at first, intelligent and insightful.
Jack stood outside the bar and pulled a cigarette to his lip. He loosened his tie.
Can I borrow a light? Andrea asked in her German accent.
Jack cupped a flame.
Are you a faggot? she asked.
Jack breathed out lifeless smoke inches from her face. A bundle of sticks? No. But I should tell you, that that's also an abhorrent slur for someone who is gay. Please don't use it any more.
Oh a bad word? Sorry, I didn't- I have gay friends as well.
Of course you do, Jack replied wryly. But that's not why you said it. You were trying to be funny, and you were a little upset that I didn't pay you any attention all night, so, crappy sense of humour plus bitterness mixed in with quite a bit of alcohol equals, I guess: you swearing. Apart from that you speak English very well.
Andrea. Andrea offered her hand, whilst adding a more noticeable drink addled slur to her speech.
Jack puffed away. Then walked away.
Are you going to leave me standing here?
Jack paused, eyeing her up from her heels to her curls. You can walk with me if you like.
London, the metropolis, has the expected, super-city night-life; the drunken revellers passed them on either side in high spirits or low lows. The weather was good, and a high number of the young men and women in town, be they in their twenties or their fifties, had come out dressed in the latest fashion. The bright neon lights pulled in the punters on the ground-floor of London, whilst the clear dark night, with no stars or moon in sight made obvious the 747s embarking on their voyages across the Atlantic Ocean.
Jack and Andrea walked down the cobbled lanes of Covent Garden, wandering around idly gossiping. Placing a pound into a near empty bottle of whisky beside a homeless man, Andrea asked Jack what he did for a living.
Something nobody famous does, he answered.
Huh?
Which leads me to ask why that photographer has been following us?
Maybe, he is, er, stalking me?
Well then he has a Facebook group page, because there is another one down that street.
Andrea shrugged. Urgh...
Want to have a Chinese takeaway? Jack asked ushering her into a Chinese restaurant. He spoke to the manager, who pocketed a fifty pound note, and led them through the back.
You pay him to get us out of the back door?
No. I paid him for food.
Just as the clock struck three, the couple shared noodles and a couple of beers, as they sat cross-legged on the floor of a five star suite.
If you live in London, why didn't you take me home?
Because I didn't want to take you home.
You have a wife?
Jack shook his head. No girlfriend either. I have a little sister. You'd like her. Everybody does.
You just broke up with your girlfriend?
No. Why are we talking about that stuff?
I want to know about you. I think. Don't you want to know about me?
No, Jack replied as he got up and took out his phone. I didn't take you home, because I don't want your 'stalkers' to know where I live. I'll be back in a bit; I have to call my sister.
You're very smart. I didn't think of that.
Thank you, Jack replied as he left for the balcony.
Andrea reached for his pockets - as soon as he left - and took out his wallet. Jack London was the name on the Driving license. There was also a picture of what could only be his sister. She was in her graduation robes; no lover would keep that photograph of her, Andrea figured. There was a faint visual similarity too.
She walked to the glassy balcony door and pressed her ear against it.
Shit happens Eliza. You have to have enough humility to do the right thing. I know he's your ex, but if he is supposed to win, then you have to step out of the way.... but you don't know that Eliza; all you know is that he
might have used you, Eliza, don't- No. Eliza London: you hear me straight now. If he is supposed to win that contract, <on merit>, you have to do the right thing.
Convinced that the talk was about business, and not a purely private one, Andrea knocked, lit up a cancer stick and offered Jack a piece. Jack accepted and walked over to the end of the balcony to finish up his conversation.
Do you not like me because I am this famous person?
No it isn't that. And I do like you. But I don't think we can live together.
Who is talking about living together?
If you're not worth living with, why would I chase after you?
Andrea laughed. She stretched out her hands putting her self in the light. When this didn't get through, she said: Und Sex?
Classy, said Jack. I've left that all behind. It gets tiring. I haven't been to a nightclub in a long time. Its all good at night; not so good in the morning.
Why?
Truth? One day, a long time ago now, I woke up next to one of the most beautiful girls in the world. Before waking up, everything was pretty damn cool. After I woke up, I felt nothing. This girl liked me. I felt absolutely nothing for her. This girl liked me, and I liked her, before having sex with her. When it was over. It was over. And I knew, in that moment, that I didn't want to be that person.
Andrea could see that Jack was reliving the memory as he watched the cityscape laid out in front of him. Everything was dark but for the city's cat eyes, the lights here and there; they were like little candles shimmering in the dark. St Paul's Cathedral stood out with its classic dome. As did the London Eye, its modernity gracing the history of London and ushering it gently into the newer world.
What if some day, when you are fifty, sixty, or seventy, you wake up and regret that you never took advantage of the beautiful girls who threw themselves at your feet.
Are you afraid of missing out?
Yeah, I guess so, Andrea asked.
Been there, felt that.
And what is your answer?
I don't have an answer. I mean, I may not read tea leaves, but I know I took a left on this highway, because I didn't like where it was heading, so wherever it is heading, <now>, even if its hell, it's better than whatever heaven would have awaited me.
Because you <were> in heaven, and you didn't like it?
Hallelujah, Jack said softly.
They talked for a while, before they made their way to bed. They made it to the tenth minute of the made-for-tv-film before the condoms came out.
The paparazzi were waiting for Andrea when Jack dropped her off at her hotel room. Andrea smiled sheepishly as she passed them. She enjoyed the feeling of walking barefoot across the red hotel-floor carpet.
She wore Jack's blazer even though it was not particularly cold. She liked the embrace of his warm clothes. She exchanged a soft love-like tender smile, as she leant into him, her head resting on his shoulders. Don't fall for him, she warned her self. Just don't.
And yet, she was overcome with warmth. She imagined their ending scene, later that morning, at King's Cross, each going their own way, leaving two cups of undisturbed tea on a salient café table...
Do you know why I came to London all alone? she asked.
No.
You don't want to know?
Not really. If you don't want to tell me, that is fine.
But I do want to tell you. And only because you want to know.
Don't draw it out. Just tell me.
No. I'm going in. Ich bin Ihnen sehr dankbar (I'm very grateful/thankful to you). Do you know what I said?"
Danke? Thanks. You were saying goodbye?
So you can figure out what it means and implies, but you don't know the tone.
...You don't like being used. I can understand that. I apologise.
Hollow apology. And no I am not talking about that. I had a lovely time. But I have to get my beauty sleep in.
Jack was about to utter another theory, but said nothing aloud. He kissed her on each cheek, and left for home.
Andrea shut the door behind her, reflecting in the dark, the turn of events.
She took out a glass and poured wine. She stopped halfway and drank from the bottle instead. With nobody to witness her, she started crying. Then abruptly stopped. She then threw the wine glass at the wall.
Dumme kuh, she cried. Du dumme kuh.
She drank straight from the bottle again looking out the balcony as she did so. She drank again, and allowed the liquid to stain her clothes. She cried momentarily before settling on the chaise longue. In her drunken stupor, she took off her ruined clothes and eyed the pile on the floor.
Do you know why I came to London? she said in the shower. She settled on the floor and allowed the warm rain to comfort her. She sat in the shower for well over an hour.
She opened the hotel room door in her nude state and looked both ways. She couldn't remember what she was doing outside, so turned to get back in, only to see that her hotel room was locked behind her. Defeated, and out of hope, she sat on the floor.
A security guard watched her on CCTV, and so called the reception, but nobody picked up.
Jack came back into the hotel to find the front desk vacated. He looked both ways, and went behind the counter to pick up the penthouse card key. The receptionist returned that very moment, but recognised him, and instead of admonishing him, he asked Jack to return the key to the receptionist personally when they checked out. V.I.P guests were treated differently in some establishments, Jack thought. Even so, Jack made a mental note to tip the fellow and thanked him for the kindness.
He found Andrea, naked, sleeping on the floor. He imagined that he would carry her in, but as soon as he inserted the card key, she woke up.
I feel sick, she said, as bile dripped out of her lip.
You wore my blazer. My wallet... everything is there...
Andrea wasn't interested in the reason. She had a migraine, and was conscious of the fact that she was naked on the floor of a hotel walkway, and that she wanted to throw up. As they walked in, she reached for her underwear and slid into it. She looked for a suitcase and found a t-shirt. She saw Jack observe the mess of a room; particularly the wine stain on the wall and the broken glass on the floor. She was thankful that he kept his silence. He didn't seem to be judging her, nor did he leave.
I'm going to be sick, she cried. Jack helped her into the bathroom. Whilst she fell to the floor, and angled her self over the loo, she saw Jack climb into the bathtub. He was tired and wanted to go to sleep. His hand slipped and the shower switched on.
Say something, Andrea asked having cleared her stomach and flushed the half processed remnants of noodles away. Just fill the silence...
He didn't argue back or moan, nor jest. He just spoke what he thought. Do you want me to talk about the new world? The post-modern world.
As long as you don't preach.
Oh everything I say, I do myself.
Okay, Andrea said rolling onto her back. Let's hear the drunk man's thoughts.
We drink too much... he started off.
Can't deny it, Andrea said.
As a whole I mean. Society as a whole.
Well, us two for sure anyway.
We drink too much. We smoke too much. We eat too much. There is too much sex everywhere.
Yep. Too many of us smoke...
And I may not know what the answer is, but we done fucked up somewhere. Right?
Hallelujah... Hic!"
Later that morning, both were flopped fully clothed in bed.
You don't have to take the morning train, Jack said.
Andrea's eyes lifted. Her heart thumped in eagerness only to be let down again.
Trains. You miss one, another one comes soon after.
Andrea took the comment to mean more than it actually did. She thought Jack was using it as a metaphor to console her. She interpreted Jack's words like the cliché: there are plenty of fish in the sea.
Jack thought nothing like this. I can book you a ticket for the evening train.
Andrea wanted to end things on her own terms again, but Jack evaded the question, and dropped her off at the station. He kissed her on both cheeks and waved her off.
He sat down again at the table they had been sitting. Two cups of tea were on the table. One lay untouched. He picked up his phone. I need some advice, he texted.
I'll try my best, she replied. She recalled the words Jack had told his sister on the balcony the night before.
There's this beautiful girl, and I want to take her out somewhere nice. I don't have a clue where to take her. Any ideas?
Nope. London's over-rated.
Jack laughed. He put his phone back into his pocket and took a sip of the warm tea. His phone vibrated again.
Berlin's cool. And lucky for you, I know a girl who knows that town inside out.
Race you there, Jack texted back.
Huh! Jack thought in reflection. All that, and nobody mentioned the war!
He chuckled from the bottom of his heart, before the emotion simmered, to his usual cool temperament, and his eyes wondered to where his ears carried them. He looked on as a couple barely danced in each other's hand, locked though they were in each other's embrace, in front of a busker singing a Bon Iver tune, about a flume, each in their own world, oblivious to the world at large.
An old man sweeped - in the archaic sense - the street behind Jack London, before leaning against a lamppost because his back ached. He watched the wind fling up the autumn leaves and carry it in her embraces. He heard the bell toll. Then he swiped the sweat off his brow and carried on working...
XxXxX Eat. Drink. Play. Drink. Sex. Work. Friendship. Smoke. Love. Drink. Sleep. XxXxX
