Falling Without Gravity

“Hey Nicky, what you up to?”
I turned to see Spark standing behind me at the bar in Jefferson‘s, his long hair flowing over his shoulders.
“Drinking my dole,” I said, showing him the fiver in my hands, “do you want to join me?”
“Yeah sure, get us a Harp there and I’ll shout you the next one.”
His glazed eyes and slouched posture gave the impression that he’d already a few drinks in him, either that or he’d puffed a few spliffs before he’d come out.
I bought the drinks and went over to where he was sitting by himself.
“How’s the music going?” I asked him.
“We’re looking for a new guitarist,” he said.
Spark played in a local group that changed their name every time they had a line up change; this meant that they changed names every few months because more people went through the band than through an accident and emergency ward. At this point they were called Ligeia, after a story by Edger Allen Poe.
“What happened to Bob?”
“He joined the Lotharios,” he said this with exceptional annoyance, and rightly so, the Lotharios were a bit of a joke with a lot of the other bands around the town for being a poncy art school prog band.
“He’s ugly enough,” I said sympathetically. The name Lotharios was the biggest misnomer in musical history because they were all ugly as sin.
“Fuck it he was a noodler, all widdly-wee and he always wanted to use delay and reverb and flangers and all that shit, he could never be happy with just clean tone or distortion.”
I liked to hear Spark talk about his music more than actually hear it. As a band Ligeia were talented enough to make the three chord trick but then they tried to play more complicated grungy stuff like Pearl Jam circa Ten and Vs. but it ended up sounding a bit of a mess.
“Fuck him, we might just go back to a three piece, play some straight forward punky stuff, like Mudhoney or Nirvana.”
Spark and Ligeia were coming ten years too late; grunge wasn’t that popular anymore it was all skinny jeaned indie kid pop.
We finished our pints chatting about the future of Ligeia then Spark went to the bar while I put some songs on the jukebox. When I sat back down I realised that this had been a bad move. Every song that came on was heavily scrutinised by Spark.
I felt like telling him if he gave a bit more scrutiny to his own music it might sound better or better still he might give it up and get a proper job, but no, all Ligeia’s songs sounded like they were wrote over a cup of coffee and few fags. They could do a good cover though.
I had hoped that when my songs ended Spark might stop giving me his expert opinion on music but no, my last song Time For Heroes by The Libertines sparked him off onto a rant about indie bands and how they weren’t real indie, they were all just middle class kids on major labels. The important word in this sentence was kids, they were all younger and more talented than Spark. He was getting too old and his big break in the music business seemed to be getting less and less likely as time continued. Already touches of grey were creeping into the sides of his hair and crows feet were forming at the sides of his eyes.
His rant gradually subsided by the end of our pints. I was glad because I was in the frame of mind to say goodbye and leave. He started talking about a gig they had played since Bob left.
“It sounded a lot rougher, none of this poncy whale sound prog rock bullshit.”
“I’m gonna shoot on,” I said.
“Naw naw, come back to mine, I’ve got a few cans in the fridge.”
“Yeah okay.”
We were lucky to leave when we did. It was close to closing time and all the takeaways had just heated their food for the first time that night. I got a burger and some chips while Spark got a donor kebab.
We went back to his house, which was further out of the city than mine.
The house was a bit of a mess but it was pleasant enough. He had tried to give it a chilled out atmosphere with throws and lava lamps etc but he had got behind with the cleaning, leaving the house a genuine bohemian squalor.
The only picture in the living room was a large Pearl Jam poster, that seemed old and frayed at the edges like it had been hung up and took down a few times. It showed Eddie Vedder and Stone Gossard leaning back to back in the middle of a massive arena rock show. I felt kind of sorry for Spark, I could see him looking at this poster and thinking that someday that would be him. I could imagine him buying it when he was about the same age as me, maybe as an incentive or a reminder for what he wanted out of life.
“Here, spark up a bifta while I get the cans,” he said chucking me a lump of dope and some skins.
I rolled up a two skinner. Spark came back in and threw me a can. He stuck some Jeff Buckley on and sat down.
I offered him the spliff when I had finished rolling it.
“Spark her up there Nicky,” he said opening his can.
I lit the spliff and took a few drags. I passed it on to Spark and opened my can.
“There’s your gear,” I said throwing it to him. “That’s not a bad eighth.”
“It’s a quarter,” he said.
“Have you smoked much of it?”
“Few spiffs.”
“I can get you a lot better quarter than that.”
“I could get myself one if I’d a good spade and a full moon.”
“Why a full moon?”
“See where I’m going.”
“Where would you be going?”
“Auch now Nicky boy, I’m not going putting idea’s in your head.”
“Seriously, if you want, I can get you better deals than this.”
“Who from?”
“Me.”
“Who you getting it from?”
“Myself.”
“Where’s he getting it from?”
“Full moon and a big spade.”
“Oh aye, watch yourself or there’ll be more than dope buried up there.”
Spark started playing his guitar along to the record. To give him his due, he was playing a lot better than at any of his gigs. Maybe he was the right guy with the wrong band. It was nice listening to Jeff singing away to himself, accompanied by the warm tones of his guitar. He didn’t know about Spark playing along with him ten years later, but he didn’t sound like he felt lonely. He sounded cosy. Didn’t stop him killing himself did it? Or was it misadventure? Didn’t he name his guitar? Was it Lucille? No that was B.B King. It was Grace? Yeah that was it? No, wasn’t Grace like a spiritual Nova? No that was my mate’s car.
“What’re you doing hanging with that piss headed wanker?” a voice schreghed. There was no mistaking it, it was Alison; Spark’s girlfriend. I woke up suddenly when I heard her, but I pretended to wake up slowly in the hope that she would start talking to Spark.
“Spark, you lazy bastard, wake up before that Nicky bastard drinks all your beer on you.”
“Why don’t you drink it and swallow your tongue again,” I said, pretending to doze. That shut her up. Alison had been so drunk one time that she crashed out on the sofa and nearly choked on her own vomit. I’d had to put her in the recovery position.
She kicked Spark’s chair.
“Wake up,” she said.
“Get bent,” he said. I turned to see him sprawled in the chair with his head back and his mouth open, he looked like he was asleep and had every intention of staying that way.
“What you doing hanging out with this piss head?”
Spark didn’t answer her.
“Who says I’m a pisshead?”
“What would you call someone who sits on their own down the pub?”
“Sociable?”
“Oh aye, I heard you’re selling drugs.”
“Who told you I was selling drugs?”
“Someone in the bar tonight? Some bloke says he used to work with you, he was there with some posh bloke and his lass.”
“Oh Aye?” This sounded like Phil, Henry and Jane. I didn’t like that people were discussing what I did so casually in bars round the city.
“So can you get any speed?”
“Naw, I just sell dope.”
“You’ll never make any money at that.”
“Did you used to deal too?” I asked sarcastically.
“Yeah, I used to sell crack cocaine to politicians.”
“Oh aye, did you let them snort it off your arse?”
“Always Nicky, always. Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Coffee, would be better.”
“I didn’t offer you coffee, I offered you tea.”
“Tea’s good.”
She walked out to the kitchen, and I heard her fill the kettle.”
“How do you take your coffee?” she shouted out to me.
“Milk one sugar,” I said looking round for another can to drink. They were all drunk. How long had I been asleep? I looked at my watch, it was one o’clock. I needed to get home and get to my bed, I was meeting Zippy in the morning.
I went out to the kitchen to get my coffee, I didn’t intend to drink much of it or I’d never get to sleep.
“Thanks Alison,” I said as she handed me the coffee.
“So can you get us some weed?” Alison said.
“Yeah no bother, how much you looking?”
“Not yet, Spark gets off some bloke in his band, and he fleeces him rotten.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think much of that quarter.”
Just then we heard a rough sound coming from the living room and something getting knocked over. We ran through to find Spark stretched out and convulsing on the chair, a rasping sound was coming from his throat.
Alison just froze on the spot and screamed. I bolted across the room and threw him on the ground.
“Nicky fucking stop it, you’ll kill him, he needs a doctor,” Alison shouted thumping me hard on the back.
“Get the fuck off me, he’s choking on his fucking vomit,” I said trying to ignore her punches and put him in the recovery position.
Spark came round pretty quickly after I managed it. He didn’t seem to know where he was for a few seconds then he started skittering about on he floor.
“What’s happening?” he said, trying to push us away from him.
“Relax, would you. You’re alright,” I said softly trying to calm him.
He swung a punch at me, but I moved back out of the way.
“Watch doing that,” I said. It felt odd to be squaring up after what had happened.
He sat up and held his hand out as if to keep me at a distance, he was panting heavily.
“Thanks Nicky,” he said after he got his breath back.
I wanted to leave. He looked really shook up; he had almost died, I’m sure he’d went to sleep like that before with no one in the house. He had been lucky.
I made my goodbyes and left. I even gave Alison a hug, she looked so shook up.
On my way home I started thinking about why Spark had tried to punch me. I had put it down to instinct, lashing out cause he didn‘t know where he was for a minute, but maybe not, maybe I’d got in the way of what he was really trying to do. Some people kill themselves by jumping off buildings or taking sleeping pills, other people drink or smoke or shoot themselves full of heroin for years. It’s a more pleasant way of killing yourself and if anything good comes along you can always stop short, unlike a building where if half way down you realise that there’re things you want to hang around for, well, too bad. But then there’s people who get sick waiting for something good to come along and perhaps now, with his dreams of rock stardom more imaginary and distant every day Spark was one of those people.