The Boy in Pink Dungarees
Kenny’s heart soared has he rounded the
bend, looked up and saw the brow of the chalk hill shining down on him,
standing sentry across Portsmouth. The white face was dirtier than he
remembered, but he let it go. Twenty years had passed and a great deal of grime
can occur in that time. He allowed it a
dirty face. None of us were really clean, he mused. Not least, he was back in
town on business. Not the good kind, this was the kind he didn’t want to
conduct. It was time to say the final farewell to Rick, the biggest casualty
Kenny knew from the Brambles Farm days. They’d all dabbled with shit back then
but nothing serious – a bit of blow here and there, some mushrooms, the very
occasional tab – but that was a phase. Rick, unfortunately, never stopped
chasing whatever he was looking for. Highs, for however brief a period they
lasted, provided it, but anyone who’s on that trip will tell you it’s like the
first orgasm; never equalled, but continuously sought - nature’s very own
insurance bond. Guaranteed to keep you
coming back, literally, for more. Perversely, it wasn’t one trip that did it in
for Rick. It seems it was all of them. Not one night gone wrong, a binge, a
reckless moment or regrettable act. It was every single one of them and none of
them which did him away. Truth is no one really knows what it was. It was all.
It was none. Here today. Tomorrow, mañana,
never comes...
Kenny swung into the Red Lion car park,
found a space and parked up. He switched off the engine and jumped out, feeling
his legs creak as they became accustomed to standing again. He reached for his
phone, and scanned the car park for a quiet corner. With one hand he dialled
for G, as his other fumbled for his fly. He pulled it down, reached inside and
shuddered as the warm stream splashed against the wall.
“G? Yep. I’m here”
“Give me five – I’ll be with you in five”.
Kenny hung up. Twenty years had passed, and that’s all they
needed to say to each other. No pomp. No ceremony. It only took a minute or two for G to arrive,
on foot, at the car park.
“You look like Robbie Coltrane” he quipped, remarking on the
extra pounds Kenny was carrying. G himself hadn’t changed much, apart from
looking older. He was still wearing his trademark Chino’s and short cropped hair.
“We can drive around to mine, grab some breakfast”. He went to the passenger
door, and then stopped. “Actually, I’ll ride in the back, dear boy, if you
don’t mind”. Kenny chuckled. “If you think I’m driving you around like the
bloody Queen of Sheba you’ve got another think coming!” He stood by the driver
door, and then gave in. “Ok. You still not driving then?” He knew the answer
already – in fact it was one of the few endearing qualities Portsmouth had to
offer – a decent regular bus service. G clucked from his position in the back,
mumbling something about not needing to, whilst he could be chauffeured in
style. Kenny asked for directions, adding, “…and don’t take me down the bus
route – it’s different in a car”. G perked up, looked out the window, and told
Kenny to take the next left. Kenny did, straight into the no entry bus lane.
“Err...you want to try that again?” G corrected the directions until they
reached his street which appeared to be the narrowest street in England, choked
both sides with parked cars and a refuse truck coming in the opposite
direction. Kenny just groaned, sensing that this was pretty much the pattern
the day was going to follow. He eventually negotiated the street, finally
abandoning the car on a yellow line.
TBC…
