A new day dawns across the tracks, their burnished steel winks wickedly. Monuments of industry rise from the hallowed East End ground like grotesque cenotaphs. Discarded auto parts are strewn carelessly, the callous disdain of their twisted metal grins, reflect my gaze. Mannie takes a sip of Grolsh - his Dutch Dutch-courage, and savours the flavour on his own breath. The railway estate begins to wake up. On the poppy stippled embankment, the boys kick a football and nearby, a one legged pigeon pecks around the overturned rubbish bins.
The pitiful crying of babies, the tarry cough of pensioners, couples arguing about the kinks in their lives; these are the lamentations of the poor reaching towards the amber daybreak. A myriad of pale faces sulk through the cobwebbed windows as the new days is blessed by the heart; benediction by DSS.
Mannie listens to the sounds of estate, that ring on the bells of nostalgia like a heavenly choir. His altar is the scuffed bar, tattooed with cigarette scars and Friday-night nail scratches. Eternal suffering transmuted by alcohol- alchemy into pleasure. He is the high priest of this temple, his denim robes soaked in stale beer and cigarette smoke. Lager replaces altar wine. Mannie the landlord has been drinking all night and even the most enduring members of his lock-in congregation have left for their homes, their beds, their warmth. Except for one. I'm on a mission man, gonna ride like suicide from the top and straight down. Mannie doesn't believe me.
He pours me another half and sidekick and some of his filthy Spanish spirits which tastes of turps and skews my vision. He doesn't try and talk to me knowing I'm too drunk, immersed in the grief of only twenty-five years, dripping the tears of malfunction into myaniseed comfort. Eventually I stand unsteadily and shake Mannie's. He has tucked my letters behind the plastic pool trophy. I've never claimed that trophy because no matter how hard I try, I'm still inexcusably poor at pool, potting the cue ball more than anything else. That's why I can't stay here. Not because I can't play but because it bothers me that I can't. I'm an insignificant cog amongst the flashy fashionistas of post-modernity. Most of all though, I am homesick but fear that I have no home.
I am nearly at the top now. Someone has sprayed an insult on the wall and a broken bottle glints so beautifully in the now fully risen sun. I wish I could stay to see more of this but I walk towards the low concrete barrier.
