Air Dancer
By djr
- 909 reads
Air Dancer
TUNES were playing on the radio.
I got two hours before it's worth even going out. Time for another
bowl of pasta. No exchange for a wrap of base and a pill tucked down
the deepest corner of my wallet but I don't do those things no more.
I'm trying to step back up onto a natural high. `Hello, I'm the Nescafe
Kid'. Is there a little trace of irony in the lines around your
smile?
Two hours. Shit. I suppose I should do something useful: the tunes
have got me pacing round this two-room pad like a caged animal. Head
full of dreamy pictures of the experience to come. But what's to do: I
got no TV. Don't do zombie brain rot . There's a grill pan with two
weeks pork dripping over-nuked onto the bottom: could bring out the
Marigolds and try scraping it off. I should really and stop the flat
smelling like a goddamn kebab shop when I make toast. But.... (idle
shrug).
But we've heard this all before.
No, I don't do drugs any more. Nearly died last month. Broke the
Golden Rule: purchased from a stranger inside the club. White
Elephant's meant to be the business, but too many words get around the
same subject and crooked dealers get wise quick. Big demand, and the
merchandise gets cut. No trust. No respect. No good damned rat poison
and ketamin is what I got. Thirteen hours of convulsions and crawling
across my bedroom floor wondering: is this my heart stopping? Or is
this stopping my heart. Make any sense? No. Didn't think so.
I skip out my flat and hit an old rendezvous.
Cafe Baloo.
Used to be a nice place, freezing cold in its first winter and
stinking of gas from leaking bottle heaters, but now it's just a seedy
drug den. Pre-club warm up. On ramp. Ascent zone.
Attractive faces-
But set in sullen masks.
Nice clothes-
But is that the right label and are you all you want to look at?
It's full of narcotic compressed personalities. They follow the
variable wave-sign of the chemical compounds within the blood stream.
Right now the smiles are on Hold. It can be a long walk to the
Himalayas. Try it with a dodgy German accent like Brad Pitt. No the
humour doesn't work here. Too serious, too cool. Cafe Baloo.
My eyes begin sweeping the other faces around me, quick bright glances
and an energising smile.
Girl on the bus props herself up provocatively in my mind. Now where
did she come from? More importantly, where has she gone? She was one of
the beautiful people, the ones that stand on the club balcony and never
let you get close. I used to see her around all the time: long limbs, a
sculpture of perfect flesh and strong bones. Fate weaves her magic in
devious ways. A wrong bus ride brought her into the seat next to mine:
`Haven't I seen you at club Koko?` I said. She passed me a knowing
smile.
Fifteen minutes of conversation between two strangers left a lingering
smear of deep attraction on my brain. I had always hoped I would see
her again but now five months have gone past and I doubt she would even
remember my name.
But still I think about her-
Time to get going, I skip out of Caf? Baloo to catch the club before
the pubs empty into hellish queues.
I walk past the packs of lager-boys who stand eating chips in the
rain, swaying like day-glo triffids, the same shirt hanging out of
their trousers, repeated over and over again. The City Centre, give
some one the wrong look at this time of night and they'll punch in your
brains.
Club Koko. Warehouse structure, scaffolding-like balconies, video
screens, laser rigs, UV cannons and the biggest, best, uplifting
Tunes.
Flashback city, I'm here and I'm enjoying it, another ubiquitous can
of Red Bull in hand, but in the sweating darkness I'm remembering my
days of drug culture, how this place was when the eye was sealed behind
a narcotic lens. An acid trip fairyland of cellophane colours; when
lights would solidify into a tangible substance and radiate strange
buzzing sounds. Euphoric happiness and a one love with everyone. I
choose to ignore it. Willpower is mine. There are other forms of
enjoyment. Looking around I see the victims who have scored bad deals.
They sit or stand miserable, cast in stone.
I'm dancing on the edge of the floor, close to the wall of speakers,
not too many people pushing past here, everyone in their own world in
their own head.
I had this feeling in my stomach since the night began. A trace of
magic delivered by God's own hand. I knew it was going to be special.
I'm feeling a cold rush around me as my gaze settles firm. I see her,
over there: the girl on the bus. I wondering what to say when she sees
me and smiles, comes over and laces her fingers through mine. Her first
words shatter my mind, "I've been looking for you since that day you
sat next to me."
There's an energy surging between us, spilling out through a crumbling
dam.
"I'm not looking for a girlfriend." I blurt out and instantly try and
bite off my tongue.
She grins like the devil and answers, "Then be my lover and
friend."
I'm down on the main floor now. My body slicing precise moves, the
music firing every synaptic nerve; the smile on my face is
overwhelming, any one close to me sees it and is transformed. It's
amazing to see my happiness reflected, spreading through the club like
a drug in your blood.
She is up there, on the balcony, her gaze caressing my skin, one of
the beautiful people who never let you close. There are grinning
zombies all around me, moving in unison now, their worlds merged in a
tribal haze, but I'm outside of everything, string-less and free.
I'm dancing on air.
END~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- Log in to post comments