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Carry on Dreaming
By Jeff Ward AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Jeff Ward
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-2300-5
CHAPTER 1
We arrived back in New York exhausted after a whirlwind road trip down to Florida, which included a short cruise around the Caribbean. We, being my old pal Harris and his girlfriend Robyn, over from England, and my other half, Carmen. We were broke (... which was a sad and undeniable financial-factoid prior to the trip, also). However, in an act of unparalleled patriotism, encouraged by the words of Prince Dubya, we went anyway. Spent our last dollars. And hammered the credit cards to their final hilt.
It was springtime 2002; about six months after the attacks of 9/11. During the course of this odyssey I'll gradually explain how Carmen and I had both become jobless, and homeless, and would soon be heading for New Mexico. But, for now, all you need to know is that we crashed for a few days at our friend's place in Williamsburg (Anita's). About fifteen minutes away from where we ourselves had been living, until ten days and three thousand miles prior.
After the exhilarations of the road, Brooklyn in grey rainy March was a downer. Even Anita's abundant stash of pot couldn't brighten things. Personally, I was bored of the damned stuff. And, in fact, pot was a bit of a sore subject, since Harris and I had temporarily fallen out over it. Before setting-off I'd scored some good strong bud from the Bronx, courtesy of my Puerto Rican ally at work, and assured him that we had plenty for the trip, provided he didn't go at it like the mellower hash he was accustomed to smoking back in Blighty.
I can't say that I was surprised when Harris attacked it, fiendishly, and then started hunting down more in Miami. This, despite my warnings back in New York that I didn't want to go getting ripped-off unnecessarily on the Islands ... "We've got fuckin' plenty, Harris!" I snapped.
Of course, he went chasing the first nod that came his way, thus requiring Carmen and I to mollify some poor wastrel, with good humour and cigarettes. Then, with the second nod, he disappeared for hours in a shabby, mysterious taxicab. Later, once we three had sat around uselessly watching our day in Nassau gradually slip away, Harris showed up 'bug-eyed' after smoking half of his sixty bucks with some brothers up in the hills. To be honest, part of my anger at the selfish prick was nothing but jealously ... he'd had an adventure. It was classic Harris behavior, however. I should have expected nothing less.
Killing time during the days before their flight home, we scoured thrift stores, cooked Indian food, meandered through the St. Patrick's Day Parade, and caught a few bands. This allowed me to introduce them to my closest New York friend, Geisha, whom I may never be able to describe better than a manic-astrological-fashion-mystic-peacenik-punk-goddess.
We also ran into Geisha's brother, Zanda, and his Parisian wife Nini on Bedford Avenue. While Nini was at the bar ordering drinks, Zanda discreetly passed me a flyer for his latest short film. He told me to hide it, though, because Nini was so fiercely jealous of his female collaborator, whom she referred to as "'iz elf bitch," or "'iz fucking elf pig." When I'd caught my breath, I asked him how his ribs were healing, since Nini had recently cracked a couple with a baseball bat. Smiling, though painfully, he mono-toned that they were repairing well, but there was little hope for his broken computer.
I thought this would be a great meeting; Madam Z and Dirty Harris. I thought Harris would start talking madly and excitedly about 60's garage music. The road trip. The classic 50's décor of old Floridian Tikki bars. Fred West (the serial killer) talking to the spirits of his victims, or ... something mad. And act-up the way I'd described him to Zanda in prior conversations, and letters from England way-back-when. Or, that Zanda would talk about his films. His books. His absolute un-employability. Nini's bar room brawl with the elf bitch. Or the series of provocations that led up to him smashing a bottle across an ex-admirer's skull, which later resulted in criminal charges against him.
Zanda, however, was in a silent mood. And Harris was bored of Americans by now, not even staying for another drink. Preferring instead, to head back to Anita's apartment, and the fresh supply of pot he was already demolishing.
Carmen and I didn't stay long, either, just chitchatting about the conclusion of Zanda's recent court appearances. He'd 'escaped' with community service. Mainly because his accuser (stalker) had a string of other such 'provoke then sue' cases, in which he was also seeking compensation. The upshot, for us, was that we would get our $500 bail money back.
Before leaving for the airport I gave Harris a few rough copies of my recently finished comedy novella, Mac & Beth, to take back with him, scribbling a brief message in his, and those for our friends; Daley, and Younger. As I did so, I scanned random pages to double-check that the printouts I'd copied at Kinko's were fluent, or at least close enough for rock 'n' roll.
While doing so, I thought (as always) of our old acquaintance, Gavin Gilmore, whose hooligan antics had inspired me while writing the book. With quiet amusement at the mixture of thoughts he provoked, I handed them to Harris, while secretly contemplating my plight if one ever got into Gilmore's brutal hands. Not that it was too likely, though, since like me, he'd also evacuated Birmingham's many city limits. Long gone, in fact, Cape Town via Brighton, last I'd heard. I would have loved for him to read a copy sometime, but in truth, he'd probably punch me out, and stamp on my fingers, "Teach me a fackin' lesson."
I could hardly believe it when, a day later, Harris called me from England, and said Gilmore was dead ... well, I could. It was Gilmore! ... Still, it was unbelievable, and miserable news. However, to add to the shock of it, Little Jon, one of the cool, old-timey punks, had made his untimely exit, also. By slitting his wrists.
"What the fuck's goin' on, Harris?"
"I know, it's too much, man," he answered glumly.
The phone call was brief ... there wasn't much to say, really. No one knew much about either situation yet. Gilmore had apparently died of a drug-related heart attack in Bangkok. While Jon's death was seemingly just another, pointless, rock 'n' roll suicide.
Jon's final, violent act didn't fit with the man I knew. As I remembered him, he was a very gentle, shy kind of a guy, like so many of the original punks. Just in it for the music, and never any airs, even though he had a dozen years on me, and had seen it all. He'd often attend our gigs, or show-up at after-gig parties with Dana Lovell (Geisha's British sister!), Trixy Kissinger, Ethel Mermaid, Gay Ray, and other vaudevillian punks from that generation. Always with a gentle smile on his face, seeming to enjoy overseeing our fledgling hedonism, and general silliness.
However, I hadn't seen him since I'd been in the States. Almost seven years at that time, and maybe a year or more before that. Sadly, and in all honesty, I couldn't help but feel distant, and even a little numb to his passing. But Gilmore, on the other hand, had been talking to me just yesterday. And constantly while I was writing Mac & Beth. Still, I hadn't seen him in seven or eight years, either. However, in his case, there'd been frequent reports and updates from Daley back home. And, more recently, from Nicko, who'd just moved to New York.
The link between Daley, Nicko, and Gilmore dated back to a time when they all had a tenuous business partnership in a vintage clothes store, on Birmingham's Rag Market. "Tenuous, torturous, and terrifying," was one description, but never within earshot of Gilmore.
Back when Daley, Nicko, and I shared one of Trixy's luxury dole-swindling homes, Gilmore would show up with huge bin-liners full of dubious-looking garments. He would enthusiastically hold up 1970's Adidas t-shirts like trophies, pronouncing that "punters'll crawl over fackin' hot coal for these!" They would sell, yes. However, Nicko, who by his own account, derived his self-esteem based upon the caliber of the goods sold on his store, frowned painfully, whilst contemplating a more physical pain should he burst Gilmore's bubble. I'd have to grab my guitar and exit the room for fear I might crackup, laughing, but Daley and Nicko had to hang in there, petrified.
The thing with Gilmore was that he couldn't be told "No." He had a violent reputation, and a fiery temperament that made him impossible to contradict. Okay, I'll admit that his violent reputation was, at times, somewhat exaggerated for our amusement. And by Gilmore, also, for his own purposes. But still, you didn't get a nickname like "Sir Gavin the Glass" for balancing one on your head! There were many who'd seen him in action, either on the terraces, or down at the Market Tavern, or later, out in California.
Nicko had seen him in action during a recent buying excursion to Amsterdam. Gilmore had elected to bring his dad along, ambiguously explaining it to Nicko as "Cover." It came as no surprise that Gilmore Senior liked to cane the drink, and so constantly needed to pull-over to piss ... soon precipitating a family rile-up. At one pit-stop, the old man tripped and fell into a ditch at the side of the road, soaking himself in oil and foul-smelling stagnant rainwater. Gilmore lost it. He thundered towards him, fuming, jabbing him here and slapping him there. All the old man could do was shout apologies and regret training his boy so young, and so well. "Fackin' silly old cant!" yelled Gilmore, with a final swipe, shoving him back towards the car. Nicko sat inside, watching it all. Awkwardly pretending, or wishing, he wasn't there ... The father, son, and holy ghost.
Before business issues were raised and discussed with Gilmore, Daley and Nicko would rehearse and delicately fine-tune their general line of approach. Always with a self-mocking humour about who, and what, they'd gotten themselves involved with. Ever since he'd smashed someone's eyebrow off during a recent incident at the Elbow Room in town, it became customary for them to raise their hands and ask, "All those in favour of dusting-off the hockey masks, say I." They'd have pissed their pants if he'd walked through the door.
I'd sit-in on their rehearsals for bored dole-days entertainment. Often the meetings themselves, which were far from business-like, and guaranteed to be headed towards a session at the Roebuck by their conclusion.
Gilmore never got that over-heated about the garment industry though. He was just a tireless, somewhat criminal, entrepreneur, who needed to be involved in something, or he'd go crazy. Also, it was small change to Gilmore, who, in years gone by, had juggled some much tidier sums before his eventual fall into the hands of the law.
It was during the period shortly after his release from prison that I really got to know him well. When he drifted back amongst people who didn't want him for his cash, or his hardness; we musicians, bohemian dole-wallas, and vintage clothes dealers from down the Rag Market.
He'd gotten started in the 'big money' literally by accident; when he came off his motorbike and got sixty-grand in compensation. With this wad he set himself up with his football hooli mates, dealing ecstasy and acid, then got himself over to California in time to co-promote raves during the late eighties and early nineties boom. According to some accounts he more than tripled his money, fast, and often flew others out to join in the party. But, not surprisingly, with more power came more powder, and heaps of paranoia.
There was much distrust among the top 'jolly' boys, so Gilmore pointed an accusing finger, with a glass in hand, slamming it into someone's face. This didn't go down well in peace-creep San Francisco, and it wasn't long before his luck changed, and the cops received the nod. One of 'the crew' notched up a ten stretch for manufacturing the acid, but Gilmore served less than three (... although the scandalous facts of the case always remained very hazy, and were never up for discussion ... ever).
While living only a few streets away from us, on City Road, he would stop-by at will. One afternoon, when I was home alone, he showed up and invited me around to his place, where he planned to get some food on the go. On the way there he sparked up a joint and complained of waking up, "with a right fackin' Cobain head on," he pointed two fingers down into his mouth. "England's fackin' shite!" he added, and I agreed. His occasional London accent came from a childhood raised there. Plus, some periods spent with his Cockney uncle, later on. After his parents had moved north to Birmingham.
As I watched the surreal vision of Mother Gilmore taking baked potatoes and pie from the oven, gloves and all, I pictured him back in his youth; with his vicious buck-toothed snarl fixed menacingly beneath his trendy, side-parted wedge. The La Cost t-shirt. The Pringle sweater. The Farah trousers, and tasseled loafers. Hunched forward, yelling, "Cam-on you fackin' cants!" at the opposing fans.
Nowadays, the wedge was shoulder length and straggled. His t-shirt a vintage Adidas, faded but cool. And his lanky, sinewy body, covered in grungy denim. He was, on the whole, far more likely to laugh at himself a little, now. The ecstasy and the acid had done him good in this regard, I thought.
He would not have agreed, though. And I certainly wasn't about to propose it! He knew that he'd gone soft, and couldn't stand the dole lifestyle, even with the extra money from the Rag coming in on-the-side. No, he wanted desperately to get back out to San Fran, or New York.
Aware that I knew people in New York, he often quizzed me about what they were into. However, I didn't know anyone as mean streets as him, yet. So far, I'd just met Zanda, Nini, and Geisha. And, although Geisha worked with a top fashion designer, I wasn't going to let Gilmore know so, and potentially fuck-it-up for her.
When he did fly out to the States (armed with a load of E's to pay the bills) things didn't go well. He called me from the East Village asking again for Geisha's and others' numbers, but nobody picked up. Then, later, when he got out to the west coast, he turned up at his old watering-hole, lagging drunk, and dived across the bar (breaking a tap mid-flight) announcing, "I'm back!" An annoyed acquaintance from the old 'glory days' quietly took him to one side and told him straight, "Things have changed, Gav ... do one!" And so he returned home, tail between his long legs.
We heard about all this a few weeks later from one of Nicko's San Fran connections, who also frequented the Brit-Abroad bar. When he asked Nicko what Gilmore was doing now that he was back, the most honest answer was, "Ulga Gardner's models ... two at a time."
Nicko was also a regular at the swinging photographer's place. Likewise, sniffing around there, for panties and powder. And was much chagrined that Gilmore was now plowing this turf, as well as lowering the tone of his clothing business. But for Daley and Harris, and me, and eventually Nicko too, it was just more material for our 'bollocks conversations' and in-house comedy routines.
CHAPTER 2
Let me talk to you about something which you may, yourself, be familiar with; vicious bouts of spontaneous depression. They have crept up and strangled me for years, on and off. Hence, I've become accustomed to defending myself by viewing day-to-day life as nothing more than a surreal comedy. A dream. A work in progress, whose ultimate finale is only viewable provided I don't succumb to the temptation to hit the Off-button at the side of the screen. Enemies, friends, family, war, work, sex, drugs, thugs, cops, violence, fools, school, marriage, politics, religion, depression, loneliness, joblessness, pennilessness, seriousness, I seek sad humour in anything. All the entertaining obstacles of life, like changing my underwear, or shaving my face, cleaning the cats litterbox, or washing my hair. I chore my way through them. Perplexed. Annoyed. And amused, as I observe myself submit more and more to all things normal; making private, comedic mountains out of the mundane.
Every morning I'd leap under the subway train, just to watch my cool Euro-trash brethren on the L-line lose theirs, as they became annoyingly delayed on their way under the filthy East River. But this is no way to live! Suicidal fantasies? Beckett nightmares? And my tuned-out avoidance of important worldly affairs; its crisis', conflicts, ecological destruction, and all those other countless ills out there? None of this avoidance is good for the spirit ... Of course I care, I care desperately! I care so much I'd give my life for the sins of the world. But that has already been tried, b'jasus! Who knows? Who really knows! Maybe that was what Little Jon, the cool old punk, thought he was doing?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Carry on Dreaming by Jeff Ward. Copyright © 2016 Jeff Ward. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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