The higher the monkey climbs the more he must expose.
I'm on the bus in a traffic jam on the mobile phone in my new silk bomber jacket. I'm talking with Pete that I shared rooms with at Trinity. I graduated two years ago but Pete escaped earlier, began promoting raves. At first he worked the suburbs but now he has big clubs in the City Centre. I took a degree in English that I know was useless. Pete is on his mobile phone too.
My old man is a South African Indian, involved over the years with the Anti Apartheid Movement. When I was a kid he organised, with other shitheads, protests outside rugby matches When Mandela got out of prison Mum and Dad fucked off to South Africa where he now has a big job with the ANC and she, Afrikaans, lectures in European history.
I stayed on in Dublin and got the family home in Rathgar to myself for a while. When I graduated, they sold the old house and now life is much the same for me only now I live in Donnybrook. I work with Pete organising the parties, selling the shit. Dad, who specialized in Medieval European economic history, strongly disapproves of me but I don't give a fuck about him or his political trip - which is his business. He was Marxist. I'm a boy.
We did raves to raise funds for the ANC Some of the money went to Africa. Pete and me made a small fortune dealing coke. I had so much money I used to wander into Tower and. say, buy all the Ramones albums or all the Beastie Boys albums.
I like it here in Dublin and I don't want to be anywhere else. My racial mix, white mother and coffee-daddy, makes me sexy to women and that is good. Dublin must be the coolest place in the world - except for the fact that it rains all night and day.
On the mobile I'm telling Pete I want to see him, I need to talk with him, to chill out a while. But Pete says he's going to the movies with his girlfriend so he can't see me. So what movie?
The new Johnny Depp one. Oh, really, which one? I didn’t know he had a new one out. I don't know the one where he fucks…
Pete looks deceptively respectable. His old man was big in politics in the past but bad health took him out of the running. Now all the family has is money and influence! Pete is tall and thin and sometimes I think that when he gets older he'll go into politics too "Oh. Man," he says to me one time, "I got the connections but I just hate that trip."
So he goes off with his bitch to see Johnny Depp and I sit here in the rain in the traffic jam.
I want to go somewhere. Rathmines would be perfect because Pete has this cool apartment with a really cool entryphone system and he has 2000 CDs. I want to be in my flat on Morehampton Road but the traffic won't budge. It's a rainy September in Dublin. At least if I was home I could dry out and be naked and have a few lines and listen to some CD, massage my balls, worry about the size of my cock like I always do about this time.
I take the mobile phone out of my jacket pocket again and call my girlfriend Nina. She is asleep when I call her so she’s drowsy when she answers the phone. What's up? I say, trying to sound upful. I tell her I want to talk to her about the way she ditched me. She says that that was weeks ago, that she didn't expect to hear from me, and that she doesn't want to talk about it. She is thin, dresses punk, has short dyed red hair.
"Well, fuck you!" I scream into the mobile before I realise I'm on the bus. Everybody turns to look at me, staring and sniggering, and I feel like crying. It's the modern world for sure now, we are in our own era.
Nina and me met up during our first week at Trinity. We fucked for three years and then, when we graduated, we shared a small place in Rathmines. That lasted two years and there was all the sex in the world between us.
"Fuck you too!" she screams back, suddenly awake and alert.
The conversation doesn't go the way I planned it and I feel sorry for the two of us. Then I know that maybe she's in bed with someone like Pete. Maybe the Fuqua has not gone to see the new fucking Johnny Depp movie but is perched up top of Nina in our old home, stuffing his seven inches up her asshole. Then I don't know what the fuck to think and the conversation has gone completely haywire (I thought she'd invite me around for tea) so I end the call in my own limp way, saying polite pleasantries into the mouthpiece.
"See you later." I whisper. "Goodbye." she spits back to me, hanging up.
"You fucking asshole." I think but at least I don't spit it out. I redial but she is off the hook.
I wish I was James Woods in one of those movies where he plays a motherfucker. I wish I had a big cock like James Woods. I love him in the heavy movies and some of the TV movies but I hate it when he makes those jerkoff comedies. I wish I was at home in my bed, masturbating slowly and violently, slow and low.
She was sweet the first time when she was 17 and I was a little uncool. We first bumped into one another at a shitty gig in the JCR She shared a flat with two other girls on the South Circular Road. The two of us made doggy rutting noises so that the other bitches got restless and agitated. Oh, those were good days. I think of them as the Frank Sinatra days and we actually did listen to Frank Sinatra
Now this fucking bitch is sucking cock like a real professional and telling the whole fucking city about it. Suddenly the bus jolts into action and, miracle of miracles, we are moving down the side of Trinity and heading towards Stephen's Green. Who knows? The fucking sun may came out and shine! I may develop some self-esteem. When we get to Stephen's Green the traffic grinds to a halt again. I can't handle it, so I get off the bus and cross through the traffic to some old monument on the Green. I walk through a gate at the side of the monument, and I'm in the park.
First I get offered man sex. A guy about 18, a country boy, comes on all shy and coquettish. Not my style man I say to him, not my problem either. Then it's dope but it's the usual adulterated Dublin shit. Then pussy, same wretched old bag with a North Dublin accent. Sorry I'm Gay I say to her real mincey which, in the context, is pretty sharp thinking on my part. She gives me the withering look and the finger. Well, fuck you! I say in a high pitched whine, giving her two fingers back.
Next is a black English guy who is hiding behind a bush. I think he is another hustler but he turns out to be the very guy I'm looking for. He has scag and coke and crack. I score a gram of coke cheap and I'm dubious because of the price. It's realty good shit, man, says the dealer as he puts my money into his pocket. Oh yeah? Why don't you came back to my place and we'll try it out? I say. Oh no, man, you'll want to enjoy this on your own or with your chick. Which is true of course if I had a fucking girlfriend, not some ex-bitch sucking cock in Rathmines as if to the manner born. But I don't say that to the dealer and why should I? It's my own business if I am so alone in the world and nobody cares whether I live or die, except for my mother, who is on the other side of the world trying to interfere with the future while I'm here floundering in this fucking backwater full of rednecks.
I quit that scene and head for the west side of Stephen's Green where the taxi rank is. I get into the first taxi there and tell the driver to take me home. The motherfucker is trying to talk to me about some tape he just bought of some fucking priest singing Tony Bennett songs, Ah Father Cooney has a beautiful voice and all the proceeds is going to drug rehabilitation, he says but I tell him to shut the fuck up and drive. Fucking child molester, your Father Caoney! He gets all humpy but I know he wants the fare and anyway there are plenty drivers where he comes from and not too many fares where I came from.
My flat is the mess of a brokenhearted man. Dirty jeans and sneakers everywhere. Where is that Nike shirt I bought in Madrid? I thought I left it on the couch. CDs with tea stains on them, letters from the bank, unused rubbers, Chinese take-away cartons. Ah, I think as I unwrap the coke paper, a young man in my prime. There is more coke there than I expected, almost a gram. I chop it up, I chop it fine. I go to the kitchen and find an unused McDonalds straw. I neatly wrap five long lines into myself, think, shit this really is good stuff, and before I know what I'm doing I'm on the phone to that bitch in Rathmines again.
Engaged. probably doing phone sex. I hang up and bang out another line. I'm sweating and looking for something to play like a rap record when my phone rings. It's Pete, and he wants to know if I want some coke later. No man, I already have some coke right here right now I'm taking it and why ain't he at the pictures? His girlfriend changed her mind. Well, women are like that I say, they're like pigeons, you can catch diseases off them. I slam the phone down. I press the redial and Nina is no longer engaged. Oh you again she says but cooler. Pete was just on, she says, he's going to score some cake later so I told him to drop around.
I've got coke right here right now I say, knowing that I sound a bit like a lunatic and that, therefore, she'll believe me.
There is silence at the other end of the line. I'm not going to fucking suggest calling around to her. Let her snort his coke. Let him stick his fucking Johnny Depp knob up her. Where are you? she says eventually. I'm on Morehampton Road, at hame, I say. I can hear a Joan Baez record playing. Nina is into all that stuff. Her name isn't Nina, she just calls herself that after Nina Simone. Her real name is some Irish thing like Maeve, but she was always Nina to me. Baez is singing Daddy You've Been On My Mind in the silence.
Nina is thinking of suggesting that we meet up but I'm not going to make a move so I am enjoying Joan Baez, crackly through the mobile. I hear some guy coughing in her background. That cough was so I'd know he was there and it's not Pete but somebody I know only I can't place him. A friend-enemy for sure so I say to her, Why don't you go back to your cocksucking and I'll go back to my cocaine.
I hang up.
Which is what I should’ve said a long time back only I'm too nice for that kind of talk. I put on some music, whatever the fuck is in the CD player, go back to the consolation of the coke.
Oh, oh, I love her so.
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