chapter two you want some coffee?

it’s 1978. I'm on a beach in Jamaica. in front of me is a log, upon which sit maybe 14 rastafarians, obviously high as kites, singing some rasta chant, banging drums, one there on a penny whistle, dreads a-shaking, they’re wearing varying beige brown and blue shades of those sort of 70s man-made material flared dress slacks that people from affluent countries donated to Africa in the mid 80s, after the heart of disco caved in and all hope of it ever starting up again had been forsaken, sartorial disasters bundled off to charity shops at great haste, as well as hand knitted tank tops and raggy old adidas t’s that rich kids in new york and london and paris will now pay £50 a pop for. into this motley scene jigs, nay minces, a loose-hipped mick jagger, and somehow this seems perfectly natural, his hair kind of feathered and flicked to the right, wearing a tight blue polo shirt and faded jeans, no shoes. he sits down and starts singing to some guy to my left, whom I can’t see, and who is, I sense, stuck in some kind of a paranoid mania –

- you want some coffee
dontcha!
yeah! I said you want some coffee!
dontcha!

after a pause, mick still jigging away, the voice of the guy to my left says ‘yeah, yeah I do, that’ll sort me out. thanks mick!’, obviously he’s quite relieved that mick jagger can read his mind. then a blue butterfly floats by my eyes. then another and another, then another ten, twenty, a hundred, suddenly the whole scene is taken over by electric blue butterflies flitting epileptically about - I feel like I'm going to suffocate -

and then I wake up. bolt upright. and fuck my body hurts. and my face. I collapse back onto the pillow and last night, this morning, what time is it anyway? comes back to me - I was beaten up. in Tokyo, where, after living here for five years, in this city where I’ve never even seen a single fight, I get the shit kicked out of me. by Puff Daddy ShitDrip and his fucking DiddyMen. and did I just meet mick jagger?

oh my life. oh my face. everything aches.

-samuel
-yeah
-are you decent
-yeah

the door opens. there stands daniel g robinson, affectionately known as – dan. dan’s my flat mate, a good friend, a mess, and an English teacher. he looks thoroughly miserable. then he sees my face, and looks aghast.

-what happened to you?
-would you believe I got a beating, some god damned hip hoppers. I was outside zenith with mark, something about a girl, next thing I know I'm here waking up to mick jagger and in agony.
-christ…. eh? mick jagger? are you hurt bad?
-no no, I'm ok. it’s mad though, I’ve never been beaten up be4, ever! feels kind of – interesting. if sharp, stabbing pain can be interesting…
-huh… well, you look terrible.
-thanks. what happened to you anyway?
-ah who fucking knows. all I know is that I woke up in some temple garden on a bench, freezing my arse off.
-ha! fantastic. another great danny anecdote. where was it?
-I was in the club with you two, lost you, then suddenly decided that I absolutely had to get home. so I set off on foot like an idiot, and after about half an hour’s walk, maybe more, I thought I was close to home. sure of it. from then I was wandering about for ages trying to find our street, got exhausted, started to cry – stood in the street, crying! - saw this temple on a side street and just gave up.
-you’re an idiot.
-I'm not the one who got a kicking over a girl, old boy.
-it wasn’t exactly over a girl… never mind.
-well, my story gets worse
-how?
-I woke up, of course to blinding sunshine, lying on a stone bench in the temple garden, and there’s all these old women milling about with incense sticks and what have you, giving me the daggers. I sat up and - and, uh, well… I found that I’d uh… I’d sort of - shat my pants
-oh my god. get out of my room! now!
-I’ve showered!
-I don’t give a fuck! get out! you’re 28!

he departs looking mock sheepish, placating me with the offer of a cup of tea. which will work. his mother sends Yorkshire tea bags from home, the old dear. gold dust.

I look at the clock. 4.40 in the afternoon. I could quite happily lie here, I think sometimes, in this sort of suspended animation that is weekend life in this flat, forever. it’s like a hurst fomaldehyde sculpture, me in a vat of dense chemicals staring fixedly at the wall. for. ever. suspended animation – stopped life. course it’s not enough, though. I have some vague idea that I'm supposed to contribute. not sure just to what exactly. I'm not too sure what it is I'm supposed to be doing at all, in fact. but that’s no great confession, in itself, when you consider that I don’t know a single soul who thinks that what they‘re doing is what they think they’re supposed to be doing. if that makes any sense. I guess we’re supposed to work out how to be happy. but happy people freak me out. they always seem to be faking it. and when I meet them I start faking it too, like ‚oh hiiiii sam!‘ and then the obligatory airkiss, and why am I doing it too? morrisey, I believe - ‚why do I waste valuable time/ on people who don’t care if i/ live ior die‘… maybe it’s contentedness I should be aiming for. and then what? is being content with yourself enough? where does that get you? I have this idea that being content means that certain things stop. it’s like negation. anyway I need this madness, this chaos. it’s me... take it away and what would I have left? oh I don’t know. I just know that my face hurts, my gut is sore and my balls ache to hell. I could take an aspirin or 5 I guess, or rob some of dan’s sleeping pills. but I feel oddly awake. I wouldn’t say alive, I mean I'm not some kind of fightclub freak – I don’t think – but I do feel wired, tensed, awake – for the first time in a long while. maybe it’s because I'm feeling my body so intensely. and in my mind’s eye, just there, is an electric blue butterfly.

right, I'm going to go to the park, fresh air, do me good, think I can still walk, once dan gets in here with that tea. or maybe I should have asked for coffee. could mick have been talking to me? am I the paranoid freak in the corner?

-tea’s up!
dan comes in, sits on the bed next to my still prone self.
-fantastic. hang on – that’s not yorkshire.
-ah, I know, we’ve run out. it’s yellow brand.
-oh. what a letdown…
-listen, we have to sort out the lease soon. it’s almost a year.
-yeah I know. let’s talk about it later
-hey, is that – it is. you’re losing - you’re going bald! there at the front!

this is the first time anyone else has noticed. this is not good. it’s now official. I now will have to officially Start Worrying.

-do you want to fuck off again?
-um, no…