The next day I woke up at 4.30. I’d had a teaching gig at lunchtime, but that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t cut out to be an English teacher. I didn’t have the work ethic for that and increasingly, I didn’t have the work. Ethics had gone out of the window a long time ago.
I made some coffee and tidied my room a bit. Then Ted came in and we rolled a joint. I looked out of my room and it was already dark. Ted left and I made some more coffee. Then I went down to Mark’s room and hung out and talked to some people for a while. Life was so interesting.
I weighed myself and I’m down to 68. It’s the lightest I’ve been since I was maybe 15. I don’t think I’m eating any less. Maybe it’s just the Japanese cuisine or maybe I’ve got a tapeworm or something.
How long had I been in Tokyo? Maybe a couple of months, I don’t know, but if I had a yen for every time I asked myself that question, I’d have enough to get out of this bloody place. As it was, I only had enough to get down to Mark’s room.
As I was going in John was coming out. We shuffled past each other, both a bit embarrassed at seeing the other. Me, cos I felt he was judging me for doing nothing, just hanging out and wasting another day spliffed up and zoned out. Him, cos he knew I was judging him for doing pretty much the same thing.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I said.
“Nothing much mate. Just sorting myself out, you know. Off to work this afternoon, but after that, fancy a drink? Maybe hook up in town early evening?”
“Yeah, go on,” I said. “How about that bar, you know the one, about six-ish?”
“Deal. See you there,” he said as he moved off.
It was all bollocks. I wasn’t going to go out, I don’t think he had work to go to and, thinking about it, I’m not sure there was even a “that bar”.
Mark’s room was a zoo. The usual rubbish collection of people hanging out, nowhere better to go, waiting for something to happen. Hacene was in there. Like most of the people in the Palace, Hacene was someone you wouldn’t find in any normal world. French Algerian, the son of some kind of aristocrats, he had the sort of effete manners and mannerisms you’d only find from someone who was raised in a fantastically rich, rarified world. Boarding school, maybe. Nanny definitely. He was huge, about 6’6” in all directions, had long hair and the biggest doe eyes. He was also possibly the most hirsute bloke I’d ever seen. I remember one morning I saw him as we were both coming out of the shower. Just wrapped in towels, we hugged. Someone said it was just like watching two sheets of Velcro embracing. Nice. Hacene was mad as a box of frogs, fragile as a new-born flower and completely sweet. A bit overbearing sometimes, but the biggest heart.
He looked at me. I probably looked how he looked – and he looked like he’d looked better.
“Wait here” he said, and he got up and rushed out.
“Don’t get in his way, man” said Mark. “The Big Man’s on a mission and you don’t in the way of a man on a mission”.
Most people didn’t move when Hacene got up. Bodies were lying around, each lost in their own heads. Occasionally people would speak. Even less occasionally, people would listen. Usually, no one spoke and no one listened though when you did listen to what someone said you really understood why no one listened.
Steve, who was apparently a scientist though God knows what that meant, said: “Has anybody got any acid…? I’m going to go up to Gas Panic tonight. A whole load of people are going to go. It’s Tim’s last night – there’ll be a load of free drinks going around.”
I looked at Steve. “Maybe, yeah. If you can get some free acid. Maybe.”
“I did a whole lot of thinking last night,” James said to no one in particular. “I was thinking Hawaii, California, Hawaii, California. I don’t know. The Fuji thing didn’t come off and if the Canon thing doesn’t happen I might just go. I mean, if you’re not earning any money, there’s no point in being here, right? I’ve nearly got enough money now and another intensive would be really good for me. But if it doesn’t happen, I might just go.”
Who knew what “the Fuji thing” was? Who cared? Maybe he’d told us, maybe not. Didn’t care. Did it matter?
About 20 minutes later I went up to Hacene’s room. He’d filled it with rolls and rolls of pastel coloured crepe paper he was crushing up and sticking to the walls of his room.
“It’s so important to create a good living environment for yourself, don’t you think?” he said. He had the air of a real aesthete and I loved it that even in a place like the Palace you could make your life a style statement. You didn’t have to lose yourself in the dope-filled slumber, you could still care about stuff.
I went back down to Mark’s room and painted the scene.
“You’ve got to love the way that Hacene sorts himself out, the way he creates an environment to reflect who he is.”
“Yeah” said Mark. “It’s really cool that he’s so concerned with how things look. He’s so stylish and sharp.” Then he laughed. At me.
I looked back at Mark who was still laughing. Suddenly I felt… You know that feeling where suddenly you realise you’re being a bit of a twat?
“It’s not for decoration, is it?”
Mark said nothing.
“It’s there for a reason, isn’t it.”
Mark said nothing.
“He’s hiding his gear under all that stuff, isn’t he?”
“Cup of tea?” said Mark.
Tim, who’d been lying in a semi coma, came round and said “It’s a fucking crazy place man.”
What?
“Gas Panic, man. Gas Panic. But they pay me to jump around like a mad fucking puppet behind that bar and if that’s what they want me to do then I can do that. I tell you, I couldn’t do that fucking teaching. It could do my brain in, but I’m out of here tonight and thank fucking God for that. Doing this six days a week, it does your fuckin brain in.”
Mark turned to me. “Did you see those two tall blokes here before? They said they were looking for David, but I don’t fucking trust them, man. I tell you, they were acting in a very uncool way. Hanging around here and then they followed me into the kitchen. They were too fucking straight, man. You’ve got to be very careful here. I’ve been doing this for 9 years – you get a feel for these things. Very fucking uncool, man.”
You could take root in this place. I could take root in this place. I could stay in Mark’s room forever. I could live here, propped up against the wall, smoking the odd spliff, talking bollocks to whoever was there. I could do this for years. I could become Mark. I could be Mark. I could do that with boxes of Corn Flakes in my wardrobe and crepe paper stuck to my ceiling and whatever else. I could sit here and sell my wares and make some tea and who’d tell me not to? Fuck it. No. I am going to write this bastard book. Chapter 9 – The Man Who Mistook His Life for A Mat. See? I can do literary too.