Space Invader

I like to hear him talk, his tales are so very amusing. He takes a word of mine, a slice of hers and WHAM the conversation is his. He runs headlong into a myriad of memories; skipping and jumping across fences, up and over enveloping hills. He drags us like a string of sausages, grabbed and tagged to take in the tale – he is my Space Invader.

The thing is, you see, I like him. He has a brilliant mind - one which stores and hoards like a box of Meccano, always linking and full of teeth. I am the plasticine of the toy box, sticking into plastic prongs and scraped out at the end. He is the fencer who slices my vocal chords as soon as I make a sound. He links, and he does not think that I might not have finished.

I enjoy his stories so much I forget if they started out as one of mine. He is sweet and kind, generous and giving, but prone to over emotional floods. His speech runs so fast I wonder if he will fall off a cliff one day and not realise he has fallen until he has hit the bottom. Weed makes him laugh and slightly less verbose; he reminds me of my brother.

His childhood was beautiful – we know; his father a workaholic – we know; he was once thin – we know; he hangs onto boyhood with a shambolic charm - we know. And he is very funny, literary satirists he and his chums. I feel charmed to know him, he is, however, still my space invader.

I am now looking up at someone who is smaller than me, how have I let this happen? The armchair surrounding my drunk body slides me in, and I disappear into the background of his noise. He’s getting his kicks on Route 66, and I’m driving on B roads to Bournemouth. I'm swelling up on self-pity and wanting to gasp, to SHOUT, to let it all out.
"Shut the fuck up and let me speak. I am here!"

But my mouth is dry of words and wet with wine. I smile and I laugh, pretending it’s fine. My brain zones him out as I watch him from my place at the back of the stalls. I’ve taken a quantum leap into an invisible seat and now I don’t know how to speak.
My brain starts to blot up every word that he says. Faster, faster he talks and still nothing I have said. Am I the only one here who wants to stem the flood? To speak, if I could, and slam down his hood. "Fuck you! I’m in pain and how dare you be happy and in my house?" I don't say. I’m normally strong and wouldn’t have allowed this to carry on so long, but I’m weak at the knees and not eager to please. "More wine?" he says.
I nod a reply.

I’m seeing double now and swimming in wine, eyes narrow as I round a cigarette, and avoid the concerned glance of my silent partner. Someone senses my thoughts, I think, in a miniature blink. I’m too drunk to know what I want to say, can’t be funny, smart or entertainingly gay. How long have we been sitting here? I make moves to walk away. Can’t tell them my plan, my self-loathing stealth will take me from this place and up the stairs I race.

Morning is broken and the froth fluffs and guffs, floating and boating on the caffeine sea. Here come the bohos, the Soho no hos, steamed up and reeling, through the spiders legs street. Feats, meets and greets, I understand this hour.  A power play of self-absorbed glory. Dirty little jewels, dropping off the stage, plip plop play, gay, gay, GAY!.

My coffee, froths with traces of melting chocolate. Air-blown milk, skimmed like old silk, quivers as I drip dry my hangover.  Observing all this from the safety of my own hollowed out mind, I find myself rather prickly.

The late winter sun bounces and announces the wet clean streets. I trip off down the way. Sounds pound the streets, stomp, stamp, greet. Morning! Music smacks through the alley, the druggies, the desperate, the mad and the sad, all congealed in the dirt where last night people flirted and fucked, down in the muck. I push my way through, don’t care for this crew, my pulse races harder, here’s comes the rush. The wake up and shake up, the drowning of sound and levelling is allowed.

I walk in and grin, here’s the sin bin.  Girls with no fannies, boys with their toys, smoking and choking, pimps, salesmen and gimps. A smile crosses my face, as the race is on to know who did who, and how and how long. Couldn’t get enough, look at me muff! All night, look at the bite! Coffee, yes don’t mind if I DO. You? Never! Really. And you, what did you do, yes you. My bites are all over he wanted it all. So you gave it? I did. Two sugars, wooah, hard night was it love. Me, no nothing just wine with a friend.

Whine with a friend. Trannies wanting fannies laugh and look dead. 

I work through till lunch, surrounded by the boys, cocking and sure and not delving deep, soon I am laughing and remembering, this life's OK, come on then let's play. They give me space, and do not invade as we read through personal ads, laugh at the freaks, and I crack a few lines, make a few smiles, hours pass and I am revived. I push back my chair and swing as I stare, at a blank white wall a drug splattered stall. The afternoon bends into a gentle glance through the window to the curve of the street, the path below my feet. It's him. 

Beer with the queers, that'll straighten him out. Maybe a gin. I’m out and I'm in. Mouthed greetings all round, crowd, loud, wowed. I am drinking again, ‘doubling my trouble’ neat vodka haze, and soon friends surround. Smiling and chatting, the verbals are batting. I warm up my act. "How you doing?" they ask. "Do you want to talk?" Concerned faces ask, “not about that”, I say, “yes I’ll have a shot, why the hell not?”

We slam dunk the drink and the tequila slinks deep down and into my spine, he is here. He is talking and walking, ready to run. Pushing through the crowd, kisses all round, a mouth never closed, except for the peck, then he’s back with the chat and I’m feeling sick. Shit not again,  I grab another shot, gather my guns tight, then I’m there and I’ve done it he’s dropped his word punnet! Spilling over the ground, letters spinning around, I take the baton and run, breathless and bolshy, I'm ready for the feast. My words gather and rise seeing the prize. If I slip now, make one indiscretion, take a sip of my drink he'll have time to think. But this time I win, slamming the home run IN! The conclusion is mine, and yes, I'm feeling fine. No I don't need to talk.