Jack and The Shoe Box

Jack and the Shoe Box

It was 1990. I was 20, very American, living in Paris on the Boulevard Raspail in a chambre de bonne across from l'hotel Lutetia. A chambre de bonne is a room the size of a shoebox on the top floor of most Parisian apartment buildings. They used to be the old maid’s quarters back in time. My neighbours in the other shoe-boxes were Arabs. The Gulf War was near and Nostradamus prophecies had me concerned. I didn't spend a lot of time in the shoe box, just to sleep in the small little single bed that took up most of the shoe box. The room didn't have a window, just a circular sky light the size of a large Frisbee on the ceiling where I could sometimes see the occasional star at night or cloud in the day. I had a poster of Marlon Brando as Don Corleone on the wall across from my bed.  The communal toilet down the hall was not nice and the toilet paper was of the gritty variety. I mostly only slept in the shoe box or to read. I remember reading Steppenwolf in that room. 

I worked one floor down on the fifth floor for a now defunct stock brokerage firm called Global America. The Paris office of Global America was a two-bedroom apartment with a huge lounge, which served as the office. A large wooden table took up most of the office.  A phone accommodated each chair. Cold callers sat at the table making calls to either get the guy who buys on the phone or to make an appointment with his or her secretary.  The brokers paced the floor of the office in anticipation of grabbing the phone and making the push to close a deal. Some of the brokers did push ups, sit ups, jumping jacks, anything to psyche themselves up for the moment the phone would be passed to them by the cold caller. It was a game. I was a cold caller. Cold calling was not my forte. I mumbled my way through conversations with people on the other line in Paris, Milan, Geneva, etc.  Most of the people on the other line spoke English but in case they didn't I had scripts written in French and Italian in front of me.  These were the days of Michael Milken and to be a broker was to be a movie star. 

The brokers in the Paris office of Global America either came from the New York or Florida office. The cold callers were mostly Americans living in Paris looking for work with an American company because their French wasn't good enough to work for a French one. There was Buck the former model from Tennessee who wasn't making enough as a model so he was giving cold calling a go. He looked like a male version of Sissy Spacek and was about as bad as I was at cold calling. There was Dianne the go getter from Wisconsin who wanted to be a broker and test her chops against these New York and Florida boys.  She was a good cold caller and probably eventually did make a good broker. Andy from Queens wasn't a broker.  He did the hiring, answered the phone calls as the first port of stop, dealt with the New York office and technical side of trading stocks and bonds. People said Andy looked like Tom Cruise. He was a nice guy who could adapt to a variety of situations but he wasn't interested in learning French or watching French films or eating French food. He was in Paris for the short term, like the rest of them. 

One night I fell off the back of Andy's motorcycle. It was a life changing moment. I had vowed after the first time I had got on the back of his fancy Honda motorcycle that I would never get on a motorcycle again, especially if he was driving. The first time I had the misfortune he drove around the peripherique of Paris swerving in and out of cars at one hundred and thirty miles per hour. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I could not tell him to slow down because I was hanging on for dear life. Months later, when we stumbled out of the Latin Quarter nightclub at three in the morning I was not thinking straight because I got on the back of his motorcycle again. I figured we weren't going to be on the peripherique, just a short trip back to Sevres Babylon in the seventh. He approached the red light casually but he had his eye on the other light to time the turn to green so he could gun it and punch through the small quaint Parisian intersection of the 6th arrondisement as fast as he could. He neglected to alert me.  I flew off the back of the bike onto the back of the helmet, feet over backwards, sliding on the helmet for twenty metres until inertia and gravity slowed and up I SPRANG TO MY FEET. This was explained to me later by Tony, another broker, riding the other motorcycle who witnessed the whole thing and had to swerve to avoid running me over. I can remember walking through St. Germain des Pres toward Sevres Babylon with the now heavily damaged helmet on my head and these two New Yorkers pushing their motorcycles and pleading with me to stop walking and take the helmet off. I walked all the way back to the shoebox and locked myself in.  I took the helmet off. I was in a state of shock, a daze. I felt extremely sore in the morning around my neck, shoulders and back. But lucky to be alive and not crippled. 

Things changed after that night. It was time to get out of the office- learn French, roam Paris. Andy and Tony said that if I didn't want to be a cold caller any more they’d find other work for me. I didn't care, so long as it didn't involve picking up the phone any more. They sent me on errands, asked me to clean the rooms, the bathroom, etc.. Tony had the great idea to have a party in the office. Andy was all for it. They drew up little flyers to advertise the party and they sent me out in the streets to pass them out.  

‘No ugly ones, and no men,’ they said.  

I thought it was a ridiculous idea but I walked around the streets of the Latin Quarter passing out flyers to all the beautiful women I could find.  It didn't take long to get rid of all those flyers. I spent the rest of the day playing flipper in cafes and walking around the Jardin de Luxembourg. Surprisingly quite a few actually came to the Global America party in the office turned back to luxury lounge, dance floor and all.  I met Nathalie that night.  I gave her one of my last flyers as she was coming out of the Musee D’Orsay. She was a voluptuous brunette with childbearing hips and a twinkle in her blue eyes.  She looked like a young Catherine Deneuve, only prettier. It was nice to spend time with French people for a change. It was a couple of weeks later in her little ground floor flat as she was cooking some salmon pasta in the kitchen that she laid into me after I stupidly told her I wanted to be an actor. I'd had couple of glasses of red and thought it a good idea. 

‘Oh Jean, everyone who comes to Paris thinks they are an artist or actor. C’est typique.’ 

Then the Gulf War kicked off. Paris had a charged feel about it. It was exciting walking the streets with the large gendarme and military presence about. I walked the streets trying to blend in, not seem too American, which meant keeping my mouth shut. It was then I came upon Jack’s advert, the one with he and Dustin Hoffman.There was Jack and Dustin Hoffman circa Tootsie and a quote from Hoffman praising Jack’s teaching. New York acting coach from the Actor's Studio. There was an address and a number to call, which I jotted down on a piece of paper and stuffed in my pee coat.  I called the number a little while later. The French women on the other end told me to come in on Saturday morning. Jack would be auditioning.  

Jack was behind a table with his assistant when I was called in. First he just wanted to chat. In those days I imagine it was unusual for Jack to have American or English speaking students in his Paris dojo. He wanted to know where was I from in America? Why was I there? What was I doing? And most importantly why did I want to be an actor? I told him I was from New Jersey, that I was in Paris to find myself and that I was destined to be an actor. Jack wanted to know why I thought I was destined to be an actor. I told him like Albert Einstein, at his chalkboard in search of the solution, he didn't know exactly what he was looking for but he knew he was on the right track, that he was on to something, that it was meant to be. Jack wasn't one to be impressed by anything but the truth and he was well aware that words were just words. He didn't seem too impressed but he accepted me into his class. 

The beginning of one of Jack’s lessons was all about relaxation. We sat in chairs like puppets dangling and Jack would walk around after fifteen minutes to feel people’s shoulders and arms for tension. When he got to me and my shoulders and arms he said I was holding lots of tension. I needed to relax and lose the tension, an actor’s instrument is his body and it needs to be relaxed.  That was true about Jack; he always looked so relaxed, like a puppet really. When he walked his arms swung like a puppet. His head was balanced at the top of his neck like a puppet. His legs moved like a puppet. He was funny too. Especially when he tried to speak French because he had the thickest Brooklyn Jewish accent you ever heard. There was a translator whenever Jack spoke because his French was non-existent.  

After the relaxation bit he would get two actors to do a role-play. One actor would be at the door knocking. He needed something badly because the stronger the need the better. The person answering the door is extremely busy completing a task. The task has to be so important that the person knocking at the door is a major inconvenience.  The point is to create drama- two people with contradicting needs. The number one rule of the exercise is that both actors are not allowed to ask questions. They can just observe and state what they see- not what they want, so their need is behind the words. Don't indicate. It's what you don't say. 

The women in Jack’s class would take their clothes off a lot. Emmanuel Seigner, wife of Roman Polanski, was in the class. She loved to take her clothes off. Once, she took her top off and painted her large nipples red with lipstick. She wore only her knickers as the person at the door bothered her. I don’t remember the importance of her putting red lipstick on her nipples but she had large breasts and was completely uninhibited. 

The first time I did the exercise I was the guy answering the door who is supposed to be really busy doing something and in no mood to be disturbed. I brought my bike into the studio. I was going to fix the front tire, i.e. put the tube and tire together and pump it up with air. Why? What was my need for doing this task? I told Jack that I needed to fix the bike in order to see my family in New Jersey. I needed to do it quickly before I ran out of time because I was cycling to the airport and I was going to miss the plane if I didn't get the tire changed quickly. I began to get very frustrated because I couldn't get the tire off because I didn't have a screwdriver to wedge the tire over the lip of the wheel. Jack loved my frustration. 

That was lesson number one. Things need to be difficult to be interesting.  The guy at the door needed me to help him find his dead father. Of course he didn't come right out and say it as that was against the rules.  No Questions. Don't indicate. It’s what you don’t say. 

The Best Stripper in San Diego

The Best Stripper in San Diego

Janker found the studio apartment on the off chance as he was walking by a community bulletin board in South Park, San Diego. He jotted down the number to call on a supposed Hollywood producer’s business card he had in his wallet from a party he went to in Los Angeles.  He made the call from the nearest phone booth. The year was 1999 and people still used phone booths. Janker had not been living in San Diego very long. He had been in LA for three months when Brian, a friend from back home in New Jersey, convinced him to move to San Diego and sleep on his couch until he found a place. It was now three months later and Brian’s couch was beginning to give him a bad back.  The studio was in Golden Hill, not far from South Park. 

To get to the studio you had to walk around the back alley and turn left into the parking lot, pass under the palm tree and old rusted basketball hoop, walk up a couple steps to the first studio on the left, number 1 on the door. These were not precisely the directions he jotted down in the phone booth, but close enough. He met the landlord outside studio 1.  His name was Charlie. He was a nice Mexican man in his fifties. Charlie said in his Mexican accent that the room was available immediately if he wanted it. He didn’t ask for any prior references or two months in advance- just that months rent, which was unusual and a good thing for Janker. 

Charlie opened the door to the studio and turned the light on. It was a dark room without windows on one side. It was a decent sized studio with the kitchen and bathroom adjacent. Charlie walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the bathroom- nothing special- linoleum flooring of the black chequered variety, no bath, just a shower.  Janker laid down the first month’s rent on the kitchen counter- three hundred and fifty dollars. He could handle that amount with his delicatessen (The Cheese Shop) wages. He shook Charlie’s hand for a second time.  Charlie said he lived in Mexico but would be around for a couple of days at the beginning of each month to collect rents. 

So that was it, no more Brian’s sofa across town near the airport where the planes took off, not that it ever stopped Janker from catching sleep.  Janker was not exactly narcoleptic but he could fall asleep anywhere- in a chair, at a party...you name it.  Janker had the gift of sleep. He sat on the edge of the naked bed taking in his new place. The room had the fresh smell of a good carpet clean. He decided to cross the room and pull the blinds and lift the window up to let some air into the room. It was hot and stuffy. The breeze was instant. He sat back down on the bed. He kicked his grey New Balance trainers off and they fell to the floor. He stretched himself out on the bed. He would have to buy some sheets and a desk or something to write and type on. He would have to go to Brian’s and get his clothes. He fell off asleep. 

He woke up about fifteen minutes later when there was a knock at the door. He opened it disappointed to be awoken from his almost slumber disrupted into a mere catnap. Standing there in front of him was a strawberry blonde ding bat straight out of central casting. Her tits were barely contained by her leopard print bathing suit top. She wore cut off blue jeans too small for her ass, which was rather large and bulging out. She wasn't sucking on a lollipop but she should have been.  Instead she chomped away on her chewing gum, hand on hip in a Lolita type pose but she was thankfully not that young. She was nineteen.   

‘Do you have a cigarette? She asked. ‘I live just next door, saw you moved in. I heard you talking to Charlie. I owe him rent.’ 

Janker was perplexed. Why was this woman, this young girl knocking on his door for a cigarette, this was peculiar behaviour? 

‘A cigarette?’

‘Yeah, you smoke?’ 

‘I do, but I’m all out. I'm taking a break.' 

‘Do you want me to go buy you some?’ 

She was blunt to say the least. It certainly took Janker off guard, but Janker was no fool. She was cute in a ding bat way that Woody Allen would have found amusing and made mincemeat out of on paper and a gem on screen. 

‘Perhaps we can go for a little walk to the shop together. You’ll have to show me as I have no idea where things are around here.’

‘I’ll give you the tour then. I'm Strawberry Kelly.’

Janker walked through the door and out into complete sunshine. 

‘Wow! That’s a nice name- a little long. Can I just call you Kelly or Strawberry?’

‘That’s what everyone calls me.’ 

‘What..Strawberry or Kelly?’

‘Either or, or both.’ 

‘I think I’ll stick with Strawberry. I already know a girl named Kelly.’ 

They walked down the alley toward the main road and the shops. Strawberry Kelly popped another piece of gum into her mouth from the pack in her pocket and offered Janker one. 

‘No thank you.’ 

‘What’s your name? You forgot to tell me.’

‘Janker.’ 

‘That’s a funny name.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘Do you drink?’

‘Beer mostly, sometimes wine.’ 

‘I hate beer. I'm a vodka girl and Kool Aid kid. I make it great. Look, I'm going to give you the tour. If you want the best Mexican food I suggest that place over there. It’s the best around here. I can’t tell you about the bar there because I've never been in there. That pizza place there on the corner is no good, too doughy. This here place in front of us is the best place to buy cigarettes and beer, or vodka, well unless you want to walk far. The other place is about a five minute walk.’

‘It’s very convenient.’ 

‘Convenient, that’s a strange word, where you from?’

‘New Jersey.’ 

‘New Jersey, I never met no one from New Jersey. Where’s that?’

‘Near New York.’ 

‘Oh, I heard a New York.’ 

Janker was a little embarrassed as they strolled around the shop as there were other customers and his dialogue with Strawberry Kelly was rather banal. Strawberry Kelly was never going to win any prizes for her intelligence or education. Her intelligence lied elsewhere, in surviving.  Janker grabbed a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, a six-pack of beers, made his way to the counter and got in line. Strawberry Kelly stood very close to him, practically touching him, so much so that Janker began to get a warm butterfly feeling inside and a hard on began to rise in his shorts. Strawberry Kelly was eyeing the vodka bottles and licking her lips. She looked as if she was chewing tobacco with the amount of the chewing gum in her mouth. Janker was tying to be inconspicuous as he admired her freckle dotted cleavage from above. How did he end up in this situation with this total stranger who was now his neighbour?  

‘Would you like me to buy you some vodka?’ he asked. 

‘Oh, you’re a sweetheart, Janker. Thanks honey. Don’t worry; I've got Kool Aid at home.’ 

‘My pleasure, Strawberry.’ 

Janker ordered a bottle of vodka and a couple of packs of Marlboro red on top of the eggs, milk, crackers and cheese. They walked back the short distance to their studios- brown papers bags in hand, smoking cigarettes in the San Diego sun. Dogs barked in the distance and Strawberry Kelly’s lips smacked in rhythm.  How could she chew gum and smoke at the same time?, Janker thought. Strawberry Kelly chewed her gum like a truck driver waiting impatiently for the barricade to come up at a train crossing. Janker’s mother always told him not to smack his lips while chewing and he wanted to say the same to Strawberry Kelly.  But Janker wasn’t one to be rude. 

‘Do you chew Strawberry gum?’ he asked out of the blue, breaking the silence that had momentarily consumed them. 

‘I do. How did you guess?’ 

‘I could smell it before when we were in the shop. How can you chew gum and smoke at the same time?’ 

‘It’s nice- it sweetens the smoke. Sure you don’t want a piece?’ 

‘No, thank you.  Strawberry Kool Aid as well with your vodka?’

‘You are psychic, Junker . . . My grandma was a psychic.’ 

‘Janker.’ 

‘Janker? I love that name. If I have a boy I might name him that, you know.’ 

‘Thanks, Strawberry, I like your name too.’

They passed under the palm tree and the old rusted basketball hoop and walked up the steps. 

‘I’m just going to mine to mix up some Kool Aid and ice.’

'Don’t forget the vodka.’

'The vodka is the secret ingredient, and the Kool Aid.' 

'Don't forget the ice cubes. In this weather ice cubes are very important.'

'You're funny, Janker.'  

‘Is there anywhere to sit around here?  

‘I just sit on the ground and lean my back against the wall over there.  Or sit like an Indian.' 

Janker put out his cigarette on the decking beneath him, then picked up the butt and stuffed it in his pocket. His back was still bothering him from sleeping on Brian’s couch so he tried to stretch a little. He was very stiff and gave up the idea. He took the packet of Marlboro reds from his faded blue Fruit o the loom pocket tee and tapped out another cigarette. He sat down on the decking between the two windows and lit up. He felt tired and when he was tired smoking made him feel even more tired, especially in Summer. Strawberry Kelly was yapping away through the half open door. She talked about her psychic grandma and her predictions that the world would end in the year 2001, that something big was going to happen.  Janker gathered Strawberry Kelly must have some gypsy roots. She was the type of girl who’d been around, who learned survival on the streets, not in a classroom. She certainly knew how to make a sweet drink. 

She came out through the door to her studio some moments later with two tall glasses of vodka and strawberry Kool Aid. The ice in the glasses banged against the side of the glasses to make that thirsty sound. Janker always loved that sound. Strawbery Kelly passed Janker his glass and sat down Indian style in front of him. She was waiting for Janker’s reaction to her drink. It meant a great deal to Strawberry Kelly that Janker, or anyone, heaped praise on her drink. Janker wasn’t really aware of this as he smoked on his cigarette in one hand, glass in the other, looking at a British Airways 747 cruising through the sky to the airport to land. Janker took a sip just after a deep drag then exhaled the smoke and made a funny squinty-eyed face. Too sweet. 

‘You don’t like it.’ 

‘No, it’s..’

‘Well, what do you think of my drink?’ 

‘It’s sweet.’ 

'Of course it’s sweet, but do you like it?’ 

The drink was not Janker’s cup of tea but he was not one to tell the truth if it meant offending someone so he lied. Besides- Strawberry Kelly was very proud of it. 

‘It’s very refreshing.’ 

‘Oh, you’re a sweetheart, Janker. I knew you’d love it. Everyone does.’ 

‘Strawberry Kelly’s Strawberry Vodka concoction.’ 

‘Con..coc.. what kind of word is that?’

‘You have never heard the word concoction?’ 

‘That can’t be a word. What does it mean?’

‘It means a special type of drink.’ 

‘Wow! Cun. Cock.. I can’t say it.’ 

‘Concoction.’ 

‘Concoction.’ 

‘See, you can say it.’

‘It sounds like a dirty word to me. Sounds sexy.’ 

‘Only if you have a dirty mind.’

‘Nothing wrong with a dirty mind- do you have a dirty mind, Janker?’ 

‘No, not me; you have got the wrong guy.’ 

‘That’s a shame.  You can come see me at work some day.’ 

‘Where do you work?’ 

‘I work at Cheetahs.’ 

‘Cheetahs? What do you do?’

‘Guess!’

‘I don’t know… You’re a waitress.’ 

‘Close. Try again.’ 

‘You flip burgers.’ 

‘Close. I did work at Jack n the Box a couple of years ago, but not for long. Try again.’ 

‘You’re a secretary, no sorry, you’re a…?’ 

‘I'm a stripper, Janker.’ 

‘… A stripper. Wow!’ 

‘You don’t seem impressed.’ 

‘No, I'm… I'm very impressed, just surprised. I know I shouldn't be. Now that I think about it. It makes perfect sense.’ 

‘Well I am the best stripper at Cheetah’s- best in San Diego actually.’ 

‘That’s great. What makes a good stripper?’ 

‘What do you think?’ 

‘Well, there must be some tricks of the trade… things you learn along the way…or is it something that’s simply natural?’

‘It’s all natural, Janker.’ 

‘Perhaps you could give me a private show?’

‘Do you have a lot of dough in dem pockets? It is my day off today but I do private shows. Sean’s supposed to come by later but he won’t mind me making some extra.’ 

‘Who’s Sean?’ 

‘The love of my life.  I told you bout him?’

‘No… you didn't.’ 

Janker hid his disappointment- that he wasn't bothered by the fact that his afternoon would not be one having mad sex with Strawberry Kelly. He didn't want a private show with the best stripper in San Diego. He wanted the real thing. Strawberry Kelly just broke his bubble.  She proceeded to describe her relationship with Sean and Janker pretended he was happy for her. 

‘Yeah, Sean’s good now. Clean, out of prison. You’ll like him, Janker.’ 

‘Prison?’ 

‘Yeah, he nearly killed a man. He was bad into drugs then. He’s much better now with them. He can handle the drugs now, not like before. He was young.’ 

‘What kind of drugs we talking about?’

‘Oh, you name it. Sean is amazing. He is strong. He protects me, you know. He is my man. Even when he was in prison those years I never went with another guy.  He said he’d kill me if I did.’ 

Janker took the last sip from the glass. Both his legs were asleep from sitting with his back against the wall and they began to get that ticklish yet irritating feeling of pins and needles that makes it difficult to stand without either laughing or crying. His back had now completely stiffened despite the vodka. He realised that his afternoon with Strawberry Kelly needed to come to an end. He foresaw the boyfriend Sean returning and kicking his head in for drinking with his girl. He tried to shake free the ticklish yet irritating feeling in his legs. 

‘Are you okay? You look like you’re going to fall over.’ 

‘No it’s just my legs are asleep. It happens when I sit down on the ground or floor. Listen Strawberry Kelly, I need to head across town and pick up some things. I’ll see you later. Thanks for the concoction.’ 

‘You’re leaving already. Do you have any weed to smoke?’

‘Sorry, no.’ 

‘Oh, I hope Sean brings some back. I asked him to but he prefers the harder stuff. I like a good smoke and my vodka and Kool Aid. Don’t you go stealing my recipe.’ 

‘Don’t worry; I won’t.’ 

‘When ya coming back? I can give you that private show so long as it’s not too late.’

‘I’m okay actually… Some other time maybe.’ 

‘Okay, Janker. Give us a hug then and see you later maybe.’ 

Janker gave Strawberry Kelly a reluctant hug. The warm butterfly feeling of before was now replaced by paranoia and panic. He locked the door to his studio with his new keys, waved goodbye to Strawberry Kelly sipping her glass in the sun. She waved back to him, then un-strapped her bikini top and lifted it over her head revealing her pierced nipples.  They sparkled in the sun. 

‘Just a peep, Janker.  See you later.’ 

Janker couldn't help but smile and laugh to himself as he walked down the steps passed the palm tree and rusted old basketball hoop and made his way to the other side of San Diego to pick up his things at Brian’s place. 

The Skateboard Ramp

The Skateboard Ramp

Josh was a late bloomer to skate boarding. He was almost forty when the obsession kicked in. It started out as a quick way to jet down the alley, up the block and across the street to get more beer from the shop. The skateboard was faster than walking and Josh liked his Budweiser’s at the end of the day, plus he also liked the girl behind the counter. Every chance he could get he was popping over the shop. It grew from there to something much bigger and explosive. We were neighbours for about seven or eight months. The place was kind of like a hotel- a row of ground floor studio apartments behind Rebecca’s coffee shop in Golden Hill, San Diego. They were owned by a Mexican guy named Charlie. He only showed his face to collect rents, usually around the end or the beginning of the month. 

Josh was a builder of houses so he had access to wood when he was doing a big job. I could see a big idea brewing in his head. 

‘What about a skateboard ramp right here? I can build it. There is plenty of room.'

I immediately advised him against it for a variety of reasons.  The other tenants certainly wouldn't want a skateboard ramp in front of their doors making a racket. It would also attract all the local kids, prime graffiti target. He wouldn’t want to tear it down as soon as he built it, which is surely what would happen… a waste of hard work. I realised that my attempts to discourage him were actually convincing him to build it. 

‘They’re going to love it,’ he said. 

I tried harder to dissuade him. 

‘What about Charlie? He’s not going to love it. It’ll be a lawsuit waiting to happen. He’ll probably have a heart attack if you build a skateboard ramp here.’ 

‘I’ll handle him. Don’t worry.’ 

‘Dude; there’s not enough room here to build a ramp.’ 

‘There’s plenty of room.’ 

Josh built the ramp himself in a couple of days, courtesy of some stolen wood off a job site. It was a monstrosity- not a half pike but a full pike, right outside the doors to the apartments directly behind the coffee shop. Lawsuit written all over it. The local skate rats were on it like flies on dog dookie- lounging about, zooming up and down. As the evening came they started spray-painting the ramp with tacky tags and loud colours.  Josh encouraged them. The girl from the shop came by after work with her skateboard. Josh was king those days- white trash and proud of it. The noise in the air was a horrible hollow sound interspersed with the grinding of wheels and sneakers squeaking and banal conversations concerning absolutely nothing of importance. I watched the on goings from my room, attempting to pen a story of some sorts, but I was mostly just taking notes. 

Josh nearly crippled himself learning to skateboard. He fell so many times I lost count, but he was determined to become a good skateboarder and he did eventually after some weeks of serious pain. Like skiing you have to learn how to fall, and not so often. 

At the end of a long day skating and falling he would lie back in his arm chair- legs up, ice packs on his knees, Budweiser in hand. The pain didn't matter, that was temporary. He was so proud of the skateboard ramp. He was a local hero to the local skate rats. I reminded him not to get too happy about the situation because Charlie was surely not going to be happy about it. Josh wasn't concerned about Charlie. I informed him that it was nearing the end of the month- one more day to go and Charlie would be showing his face. He shrugged, downed his can of Budweiser and cracked open another. 

‘Charlie’s gonna love it. You wait and see.’ 

The day of reckoning eventually came. It was the second day of the month and Charlie pulled up to collect rents. Josh wasn’t around. Charlie parked his old grey Chevy pickup in the driveway, walked under the basketball hoop and up the steps. It was then he saw the skateboard ramp for the first time. I washed the dishes in the kitchen sink of my studio which looked out on the courtyard and skateboard ramp. Charlie composed himself as if he what he was seeing wasn’t really there, that it was a dream. Some of the local skate rats were zooming up and down on the ramp. He turned and looked at me in the window washing the dishes. He looked concerned. He turned his hands upward to the sky as if to ask, ‘what the hell is going on here?’ I grabbed a hand towel and dried my hands and walked out to talk to him and pay my rent. 

‘Who built this thing?’ he asked immediately. 

‘You better speak to Josh.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. He’s usually around at this time.’

‘This thing has to be torn down immediately.’ 

‘I’ll tell him you want it taken down.’

‘I can’t believe my eyes. Is he crazy?’

‘I think so. .. yes.’ 

‘Well, he better tear it down.’ 

It was at this point that Josh did a disappearing act every time Charlie showed up, which suddenly became a lot more frequently than the end or the beginning of the month. He began to come a couple of times a week to talk to Josh and he wasn't happy about it because he was coming all the way from somewhere in Mexico. Unfortunately for Charlie, Josh quickly developed a sixth sense for his arrival. He would either cut through the coffee shop and walk around the block and wait in the bar until Charlie got fed up and left or he would just go into his apartment and lock the door and pretend he wasn't there. I relayed to Josh Charlie’s displeasure and demand that the skateboard ramp be taken down. Charlie also wanted his rent. Josh dug his feet in and wouldn't budge. 

‘I’m not taking it down. And I’m not giving him his rent if he wants me to take it down.’ 

‘Josh, you can’t do that. His neck is on the line. He can get in deep shit if one of those kids gets hurt and sues him.’ 

‘Who is going to get hurt? Who is going to sue him? Nobody. He has nothing to worry about.’ 

‘You don’t know that- this is America…. People like to sue. It’s part of our culture. It’s a lottery mentality.’ 

‘You’re paranoid.’ 

Each time Charlie came back Josh escaped and Charlie became angrier each time. I ensured Charlie that Josh would tear it down, that I talked to him and he said he would. 

‘You said that before, but it is still here. You tell him that if he doesn’t tear it down tomorrow then I will send my men around to tear it down.’ 

‘I will, Charlie. I’ll tell him.’ 

After Charlie left to go back to Mexico and Josh came out of hiding I told him what Charlie said, that he was going to have his boys remove the ramp. 

‘I’d like to see him do it.’ 

‘Josh, it has to go. He’s the boss. He’s the landlord.’ 

‘It’s a free country.’ 

‘No, Josh. It’s not a free country. That is bullshit.’ 

‘We’ll see. We’ll see.’ 

‘How can you stop him? He’ll call the police. I’m surprised he hasn’t called the police already.’ 

‘We’ll see.’ We’ll see.’ 

The next day I came home from work to find a nicely stacked pile of wood where the skateboard ramp used to be. I knocked on Josh’s door. He opened the door, Budweiser in hand, big smile on his face. 

‘You’re taking it well.’ 

‘Best thing to happen. Bigger and better things.’ 

‘Oh, that’s good. I was afraid you were going to take it much harder.’ 

‘Bigger and better things, my friend. Need to think big, higher- where they can’t get you.’ 

‘Sounds good, Josh.’ 

I went to a party in La Jolla and ended up staying there for three or four days. Eventually I wanted to sleep in my own bed and read. I made it back to my place feeling a little worse for wear. I walked down the alley to my studio- through the driveway, under the basketball hoop and palm tree and up the steps. It was then I heard that familiar sound- the grind of the wheels of a skateboard on the wood of a ramp, but I couldn’t see the skateboard ramp.  Where was that familiar sound coming from? My head throbbed from dehydration and the sound of the skateboards didn't help. Then out of the sky a skateboard hurtled above me- end over end like a flying banana- only to come crashing to earth on the wood decking of the courtyard, not fifteen feet from where I stood. It could have killed me had I not stopped to hear where the sound was coming from. I looked up to the roof of Josh’s apartment. The skate rats were looking down from the skateboard ramp in the sky wondering where the skateboard had flown.  

Josh zoomed up the ramp to the lip of the pike, twisted his body and board and threw himself down into the ramp. There was a huge grin on his face as he saw me looking up. He was skateboarding in the sky. 

Steve the Stammer's Missing Painting

Steve the Stammer’s Missing Painting

Steve the Stammer didn't have many friends and I think he liked it that way. Steve was pretty sober when I first frequented his pad in Isleworth. The only reason Steve was sober was he didn't have any money. His dole allowance didn't allow him enough to both eat and drink so what he did was drink his dole money in a day or two and live off the vegetables he grew in his garden the rest of the month. 

Steve was thin, wiry and healthy for sixty-four years of age. He had thick white hair that used to be red. Steve had a bad stammer and when drunk he and his stammer could get pretty ugly, like the time he went to the local gallery opening and took advantage of the free wine. He didn't sip the wine. He slugged it. Drink didn't improve his stammer among strangers as he usually ended up offending people. His stammer had a sting to it and these local artists were on the receiving end. 

Steve woke up in West Middlesex Hospital twelve hours later after he passed out on the gallery floor in front of all the patrons. He was covered in his own vomit. When Steve drank it was a process of making up for the lost time. In these moments he drank at break neck speed and it usually ended up a train wreck. Luckily he was sober ninety percent of the time but his day of reckoning was coming. He would turn sixty-five in a couple of months and his post office pension would arrive and the seven years of poverty would end and the proper drinking would begin. 

Steve used to be a postman in Richmond upon Thames, a cushy number for a postman. He was a postman for twenty-two years before he got fired. He began to stumble in at five o'clock in the morning- check in time, drunk as a skunk, a bottle of vodka stashed in his coat for easy access. One morning he came into to work so drunk he shat himself. He then proceeded to insult the boss beyond reason for accusing him of coming in to work inebriated. Steve told the story with such regret. He missed the Post Office and how his life was so much better when he was on his bicycle delivering the mail. His life had purpose and meaning when he was a postman. 

Steve’s flat had that stale, damp smell of an old country home that suffered from not being heated on a regular basis in winter. The sofa where Steve sat and smoked had the stuffing coming out of it. You couldn't tell what colour it used to be. The arms were worn down to the wire, especially the side where he sat and rested his elbow. His kitchen was as barren as a ghetto parking lot- just dirty old plates with tacky designs, tea and coffee stained mugs, and old cans of Skol Super lined up on the counter like dead shoulders. The windows dripped with condensation due to the lack of heating.

Steve lived by candlelight at night. Some years earlier he fell asleep drunk on his sofa.  His roll up cigarette was in his hand dangling, still lit. It slipped (still burning) from his fingers and fell down into the heart of the sofa. Steve woke back up some moments later. He forgot about the cigarette, stumbled to his bedroom at the front of the house, took all his clothes off, and passed out on his bed naked. The neighbours in the flat upstairs noticed the smoke and called the fire brigade. Steve finally heard the banging on the front door and staggered to open the door. There he stood stark naked to greet half the street in their pyjamas shivering in the cold- smoke billowing out the door from his flat on fire behind him. 

‘What can I do for you today?’ he asked with a large smile on his face.  

‘Fire! There is a fire in your flat. Can’t you see and smell the smoke? Your flat is on fire.’ 

Steve liked to tell this story and how all the neighbours ignored him after that. The neighbours in the flat upstairs put it on the market immediately, fearing for their lives and their children’s lives. 

When Steve’s pension money finally arrived the collection of Skol Super beer cans surrounding the sofa began to increase by the day. Each time I visited Steve there were more and more cans accumulating along with the odd bottle of whiskey or vodka standing tall among all the cans. It got to the point that you couldn't walk around his front room without kicking over an empty can of Skol Super. I told Steve that the worst thing that ever happened to him was the pension. He was better off without it as the money was killing him. I'm not sure he cared. I tried to talk him into painting again, as it would give him a reason to live but he wasn't interested in anything but drinking now that he had money. His once gorgeous garden was now beginning to go the way of his living room. 

Steve still didn't have electricity or gas now that he had money. He couldn't be bothered to sort it out. He was so used to living in the 19th century he saw no reason for modern creature comforts of the 21st. No TV, computer, no music. Nada.  No friends either. I wasn't even a friend really, just someone to drink with for a change, instead of drinking alone as he usually did. 

I asked Steve one afternoon if I could see his paintings. He got them all out of his closet for me to look at. He propped them up against the walls around the living room and we sat and looked at them. The paintings were inspired by ancient Persia and geometric symbols, except for one that was different from the others, it was simpler, more naive, but my favourite of the lot.  He drew it in art school when he was seventeen. The painting was a faded green armchair with two tennis sneakers on it- one with laces, one without. It had a cartoonish look about it. In my drunkenness I said to Steve that I thought I could sell it. 

‘Th th a aaa at thing? You’re having a laugh. I did that one in art school with F..FF r….Freddy M..MM… Mercury.  He liked that one t..tt.too.  Everyone likes that one.  . .  I d…d…d… don’t like it much.  Ah, it’s k... k... kid’s stuff.’ 

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I just like it. I think that you should paint in this style, instead of the Persian geometrical style of the others- this is simple, straight to the point and in my drunken opinion the two tennis shoes on the sofa represent the state of relaxation and movement as both shoes are on the sofa, yet only one has laces.’ 

‘I d… d…don’t kn...kn…know wh…wh…what you’re talking about. N..None of the…these things p…passed through my mind wh…when p… p…painting it.’

‘It was subconscious then.’ 

‘W… w… w…well if you think ya…ya…ya…ya… you can sell it. How mu… mu… much?’

‘I don’t know, at least a hundred quid. I’ll try and get more.’ 

I suddenly saw myself an art dealer, Steve’s agent. I stumbled out of Steve’s flat with the painting and carried it home. I showed it to the ex wife hoping she would like it, but I knew she wouldn't as she has horrible taste in art. Of course when I walked in the door and hung it on the wall she demanded it come down. I hung it up in the shed next to the window looking on the garden. In the morning I wasn't quite sure what I was thinking when I took the painting as I had no idea who I could sell it to. That was a tough period in my life financially. Hanging around at Steve the Stammer’s place was not really a good thing for me so I stopped going around there so much and time passed and I never did get around to selling Steve’s painting. I bumped into Steve a couple of times in the neighbourhood and he didn't say anything about the painting. I figured no big deal, no rush to get it back. I had a dream one night that Steve died and the painting ended up in a trash heap, a big gaping hole right through the middle of the armchair. I reasoned it wasn't such a bad thing for the painting to be hanging in the shed. It was appreciated, instead of sitting in the darkness of Steve’s closet. 

Pete the Tooth and I were throwing back some real ale on the other side of town at the Red Lion Pub. The Tooth knew Steve the Stammer for years, much longer than I knew him but the Tooth hadn't seen the Stammer for years now that he moved across town. Their paths didn't cross any more. The Tooth asked me how the Stammer was getting on. I told the Tooth the Stammer was really going downhill fast with the drink now that his post office pension came in. The money was literally killing him. The Tooth and I talked about the sadness of it all, the shame that Steve didn't paint or garden any more or do something to keep himself busy so he didn't drink so much. He was spiralling down the vortex of the bottle at break neck speed, making up for lost time. 

The Tooth said to me, ‘you know, I never really liked his paintings much, all that Arabic mathematical nonsense, painting by numbers, but there is that one of the green armchair with the two pairs of old white plimp sole trainers on it. You know, I would love to have that painting hanging up there on that wall.’

‘One hundred pounds and it is yours.  I have it.’ 

‘What do you mean, you have it?’ 

‘I have it. He gave it to me. I said I could sell it for him. It’s yours if you want it.’ 

‘Okay.’ 

‘Deal.’ 

I came back the next day with the painting. I needed the money badly and I figured I would buy it back when I was on better financial footing. To tell you the truth I forgot all about it after that as the Tooth actually hung it on a wall in his bedroom so it wasn't hanging over my head to remind me. Out of site.  Out of mind. I moved to the other side of town myself so I didn't cross Steve’s path much after that.  One day I was cycling through Twickenham and I saw him across the street and I shouted his name. He ignored me completely. I thought that is odd. Maybe he is upset I never pay him a visit any more. About a year later I popped into JOSEPH’S CAFÉ in Isleworth for a full English and there he was sitting down at a table- plate off to the side of the table, Sun newspaper spread out in front of him.  He looked about twenty pounds heavier. He had a beer belly and his face was now puffy. He shot daggers at me with his bright blue bloodshot eyes. 

I said, ‘hi, Steve.’ 

He wasn't having it. 

‘Any chance you returning my possession.’ 

No stutter at all this time. Crystal clear.

‘Steve, I've tried to drop it off a hundred times but you’re never there.’ 

I lied. 

‘Well I want it back.’ 

‘I’ll drop it off. Sorry about that.’ 

He didn't say anything, just returned to reading the Sun newspaper. I sat at the back of the café out of his line of vision. I felt like shit actually, like a thief. I met up with the Tooth and explained to him the situation with Steve and the painting. The Tooth wasn't too happy about it, that I was asking if I could buy the painting back. 

‘Does he know I have it?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ I said, which was true. 

‘So you never had any intention of giving the Stammer the hundred quid I gave you for it. You said he knew you were selling it.’ 

‘I know. I know. But I don’t have the money to give him.’

‘Then that’s not my fault- you sold the painting to me.’ 

‘Well if you spotted me a hundred quid I can pay him off for it.’ 

‘I am a little skint at the moment and you already owe me fifty.’ 

The conversation turned to something else and I forgot about the painting again.  Months passed.  The Tooth contacted me to meet him at the Red Lion. Our tides had turned completely. The Tooth was in debt to everyone he knew, including me. Even though I was financially fine and could pay Steve the money for the painting I still hadn't done anything about it. Out of site. Out of mind. The Tooth and I were in the garden of the Red Lion sipping a couple of real ales when he brought up the painting again. 

‘Hey, you know, I'm kind of short of money these days. Remember you mentioned the Stammer’s painting and buying it back. How’s fifty quid sound and we’re all square.’

‘Deal.’ 

I picked up the painting from the Tooth’s flat and awkwardly carried it across Isleworth to Steve’s flat. I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, and again. Finally I heard some rumbling inside and the door opened and Steve saw me standing there with his painting. He was completely hammered, swaying back and forth. His eyes had the blood shot look of a five-day bender. 

‘So you couldn't s… s… s…sell it then?’ 

‘Sorry, mate.’ 

‘Come on in, I got some Sk… Sk… Sk… Skol S… S… S… Super.’ 

‘Okay, but just one.’

I carried the painting back into his house, leaned it on the paint pealed wall, cracked open the can of Skol Super Steve handed to me, sat down on the old disgusting sofa and counted cans as Steve began to tell me the same old stories again I’d heard so many times before.