Electricity and water. My favourite cocktail.
Especially at 2am. In the morning.
“Hey, ZZ Top. You still up, then?”
The neighbours. Great. Icing on the muffin.
I took another bite as I watched them close the door soundlessly behind them. The one with the stubble – not the baby-faced goatee – was in charge of this operation. He took it seriously, looking around to catch spying eyes before easing it closed one millimeter at a time.
I offered my plate to Goatee. He took a long look. A longing look. But he shook his head, shivered and pulled the strings on his black hoodie tighter around his face.
“I don’t know what that is, man.”
Which was fair enough. After the muffins got stuck in the toaster, I’d had to use a knife to get them out. They’d lost some of their basic muffinness during the process. The chocolate peanut butter had hidden the rest of their identity.
Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Never stick a steel knife into a toaster. But hey, I’m a grown up. I know what I’m doing.
“Do you know what happened to the electricity?” asked Goatee. He’d told me his name earlier, but that was before I’d popped across to the Electric Ballroom and discovered Camden Pale Ale. Several hours had passed since this epic discovery, and, to be brutally honest, I hadn’t really been listening to him at the time. I did remember him saying they were from Clapham.
I shrugged.
He nodded immediately. “Hey, no problem, dude. It’s just that, you know, it’s only our two flats in the entire street that are out. And I don’t think we did anything to ours.”
Crack-heads. How would they know what they’d done? Did they even know where they were?
And here was Stubble, fresh from his door-closing adventure. He took a vial from an inside pocket of his black leather jacket and unscrewed the cap. He took out his tiny spoon. The first snort went up his left nostril with a shake of the head. Amateur line dancers. He dug out another spoonful and raised it halfway to his nose before he realized his dreadful faux pas.
“You want some ice, dude?”
I looked steadily into his dilated pupils. Took another bite of my chocolate muffin.
He didn’t move. Except for his eyes. The pupils grew even wider, then shrank back to their normal size. He flicked them to the left, then to the right. Then they went down. Then left again. But never up.
I took a long drink from the bottle of Guinness I’d brought out to wash down the muffins. Extra strong Guinness. It was going down smoothly. But it was awakening my darker side.
By this time, Goatee was actually vibrating. I could sense him holding himself back, desperate for a snort himself but trying as hard as was humanly possible to let me have the next hit.
“You remember I told you that I’m a cop?”
Goatee’s head started to shake, almost imperceptibly. A side effect of his previous vibration. His flat-mate’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of movement and special effects, a camera lens gone wild. Quietly, he tried to slide the tiny spoon back into the vial.
Had I told them that I was a cop? Their memories were even sketchier than mine. But crack-heads didn’t tend to argue with large tattooed persons.
There was no sound at 2am on our quiet back street in Camden Town. The clubs and bars had closed. The eternally hungry tube had swallowed the last of the tourists. And the natives obviously had better things to do on a night where dark clouds threatened to sweep the streets clean.
The three of us, a frozen tableau on the street outside our holiday flats, were the only sign of life. And even we were silent.
When I could stand it no longer, I laughed.
“Really? You fell for that?”
They exchanged a furtive glance. Still panicked. Still on edge.
“Really? Do I look like a cop?”
Goatee took a breath. His hand shot out, reaching for his comforter, then jerked back again. Unsure of himself. Was this a trap? Should he run?
I waved my bottle at the vial and smiled.
Stubble took another quick hit before passing the vial to his flat-mate. Goatee took his time, his eyes never leaving me as he abused both nostrils, one after the other.
I smiled again.
It didn’t help.
They looked at one another before agreeing that it was late and they really needed to get some sleep. They were polite enough. They said their goodbyes. Goatee even popped his head out again after closing his door and pointed behind me at the door to my own flat.
“Sir, there’s water coming out from under your door.”
I waved my bottle at him. It was only slightly threatening, but he disappeared anyway.
What was wrong with these people? Why did he think I was sitting out here on the street at 2am? In the morning? Eating chocolate muffins with crack-heads?
Extract from Anthology of Snippets, 20 short shorts that were a lot of fun to write. I hope they’re as much fun to read.
Available dirt-cheap on Amazon. And on Amazon.co.uk. Free on Kindle Unlimited.
Also included in Tales From The Crying Room, a combined paperback-only (so far) version of these snippets, a few actual short stories, and a radio play I wrote for a competition (I didn’t win).
We might – or might not – be holding our next book fair at Ferndale on Republic –14th of September, from 9am to 2pm. Still waiting for final confirmation from the landlord. Watch this space for updates. Check out some of the authors who might be in attendance.
If you can’t make the book fair, you can pick up copies of my books at Curiosity in Pretoria, at the entrance to the Railways Cafe. Wednesday to Sunday, from 11am till late.
Till next time.
Cheers.
