"The Good Old Days" (For Chris Peck and David Caggiari)
12:04 PM
I've never carried an umbrella.
I'm a former Northwest kid and we're a defeatist sort of people. When you live in a place that rains 280 days out of the year--what's the point, really? No matter what you're going to get wet.
The flight was long and uncomfortable. Sleep came in five minute muscle relaxant induced increments during which my chin fell flush against my chest. I closed my eyes, opened them, started Caddyshack, closed my eyes, opened them, restarted Caddyshack, closed my eyes...
I tried to keep from fidgeting. I kicked around the carry on bag at my feet and, finally, when the plane landed at Heathrow just after noon on Wednesday-- I was hesitant to vacate it.
The 72 hour disclaimer from the airline continued to worry me throughout the course of the flight. I made attempts at bracing myself for being put on the next plane back to The States when it occurred to me that I might have a more pressing matter than documentation...
The drugs.
Okay, drugs may have been an exaggeration (extreme exaggeration) but where my mind was at should be taken into consideration.
I had come off of my first transatlantic international flight in which I had barely slept and due to a strict vegetarian diet (and poor planning) barely eaten. Also, I had watched the aforementioned Caddyshack no less than three times in about twelve hours.
I was unwell but add this to the sudden realization that I had inadvertently trafficked drugs into a foreign country (with every step down the terminal taking me closer to customs) and I was having a fucking hemorrhage.
In the 1970s, The Runaways had been arrested in England for stealing a hair dryer and hotel room keys (also, they had some cocaine but the feds didn't know that).
Those girls had to spend the night in jail for a hairdryer and I had six--count them (1,2,3,4,5,6!)--muscle relaxants in my pocket.
They could put me in prison. I didn't know the laws in England. I did know that I had been told that the world hates Americans so pretend to be Canadian but I couldn't possibly pretend to be Canadian when customs had my American passport and my American drugs which would already have them hate me before they found out that I hadn't given the proper documentation to the airline 72 hours prior to departure--and that would do me in.
How was I going to start a PayPal account to raise bail from prison?!
I slipped into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I pulled the tiny wooden pill box from my pocket, slid the cover back and tilted it upside down dropping the pills into the toilet then I emerged from the bathroom attempting to look inconspicuous.
I spent thirty seconds in customs before they stamped my passport and waved me through. No one bothered to look at (let alone in) my bag. I could've had a kilo of heroin and no one would've cared.
Welcome to England.
I sat in the airport for an hour trying to make sense of it-- just being there and how I felt. So much of the previous months had been spent trying to figure out how to get there that I hadn't really thought about what to do when I was.
I pulled money from the ATM and got directions for which Underground trains to take to get to my hotel.
I got hopelessly lost but felt happy. I didn't say anything to anyone but just watched them. It didn't feel real. I didn't feel different about me and I had expected to feel different about me. Nothing had sunk in, yet.
It was raining when I got to the hotel and there wasn't a single item on me or part of me that was dry. Water dripped from my hair into my eyes. The make up stung a bit.
The desk clerk at the hotel told me that I wasn't staying at that particular hotel but at one a couple blocks down that was run by the same company. I was wary of this due to the address on my reservation but didn't argue. I thanked him and walked down the street.
The new hotel told me that my room was in the basement--just outside and down the stairs. I had never experienced anything like this before. I'd never had a room in a basement and I was beginning to feel a little scared of what I had gotten myself into. With all of the advice that I had been given before I left; my natural inclination was to believe that anyone could hurt me at any time. I was really hoping that if this were the case it wouldn't be within the first couple of hours.
I trudged down the stairs and opened the door. The room was small. It had a full size bed, a night table, mini-fridge, electric kettle with tea and instant coffee and a small vanity that doubled as a sort of coat rack. The floors were hardwood laminate. The entire bathroom was actually the shower with a drain set in the center and all of the surfaces pink tile.
I flopped down on the bed and sort of studied any object that my sight fell on. So far I was in love with this place. In America, everything is what is bigger, faster and newer. The old is being torn down to put in something temporary. Everything is a substitution for the next thing and nothing is built to last. I come from a place where it is impressive if something has been around since the 1960s.
This country seemed practical and if something worked it was still in use. I guess it seemed more grounded and I needed to be more grounded.
I gave myself a minute to lay there and think before I convinced myself that I didn't have time to lay there and, emotionally, I couldn't afford thought.
There was a cafe on the corner that I stopped at on my way to find a phone. I tried to order coffee and the girl asked me if I had meant something about espresso drinks. I told her I had. I hadn't. I had meant coffee-- the kind that comes from a pot and can be consumed gallons at a time when needed. I didn't bother to explain. I ordered a sandwich. Turns out (thankfully) that sandwiches translate the same as they do where I'm from.
Several blocks away from the cafe, I acquired a GO phone and started in on my next mission to find a computer with internet access. I walked at least two miles through the rain with absolutely no idea where I was going (and a watch that told me it was after 5 pm and time before the gig was running out) when I stumbled upon a weird familiar salvation-- A Westfield shopping mall.
Surely somewhere within the recesses of capitalism email had to exist.
By the time that I sat down to a computer, I had come to admire Londoners (?) and their umbrellas. They seemed to be fighting hopeful people as opposed to myself who resembled something of a washcloth needing to be rung out.
I posted to my Facebook to alert the masses of my safe arrival:
"I'm at a Westfield shopping center in London. I came to London to go to the mall?! Might as well get an umbrella while I'm here."
I hurried back to the hotel, up one umbrella and down ten pounds, only to stall once I got there. I took too long in the shower. None of my clothes felt right. I spread an Underground map out on the bed and studied it carefully, struggling to memorize what I needed to take to get to where I was going.
When it came down to it, I was kind of nervous and scared.
Tote bag over my shoulder, I pushed myself out the front door, onto the Underground and straight into the guest list line at The Forum.
**
The slim dark haired boy standing in front of me was getting soaked by the rain.
He seemed happy enough in his predicament, with hands shoved down into black coat pockets and shoulders slightly lifted with the natural tension of getting wet but knowing there is nothing that can be done about it.
I briefly glanced up at my umbrella and surmised that he wasn't in need of my services. I wasn't really in a position to help anyone, anyhow. I was delirious with sleeplessness, crippled by a strange kind of nervousness and running off of an inadequate amount of coffee and food... all of which gave me a quality of being less than charming.
I was also quick to betray my best interest. I glanced up at the umbrella again to find that my hand had tilted it over him while neither of us were looking.
He turned towards me.
"Hello," he greeted.
"Hi," I answered back.
"I could uh...," he kind of awkwardly reached for the umbrella as if to be polite and hold it for me. I was reluctant to let it go.
We exchanged introductions. His name was David.
We were quickly joined by a nice boy wearing a hat. His name was Chris and he and David were there together.
The three of us huddled under the umbrella. I told them that I had just purchased the umbrella a couple hours beforehand and Chris assured me that it was a good investment.
Both of these boys seemed incredibly kind. They each had a certain warmth about them that was comforting and they were funny in a way that was light-hearted. If I'd been capable of being coherent at the time, I'd imagine that they would've been quite easy to talk to...plus, as individuals, they were terribly interesting.
Chris was currently living in London and had been in a band that I had heard of (but hadn't heard) called, 'Boy Kill Boy'. Also, as someone's good fortune would have it (probably mine) he was playing in Carl Barât's solo band.
David was currently living in Belgium (though he supposed that it could be said that he was from London) and he fronted a band that I hadn't heard of called 'Apartment'. He told me that the last time that he had been to The Forum was because he had played it and he filled me in on some of the venue's history.
David was also very patient. He held up the line for me on a few occasions while I absent-mindedly stood about staring.
Inside the doors, with my name checked off the list, I asked the boys if they would mind if I tagged along with them. Before either of them could finish uttering their consent, I made like a shadow and replicated their every move (remaining inquisitive about every part of the process).
We walked up some stairs and stood behind a large group of people.
"What do we do now?" I questioned.
"We get drinks," David answered.
I looked to the front of the people to notice the bar. Right, it was a bar...er, right.
They bought me a beer and I thought about Neil's warning of accepting drinks from strangers, but it didn't seem applicable. I had seen where the drink had come from and these boys seemed nice enough...besides no one would want to drug someone like me. I was too perfectly plain in comparison with English girls (in my head, I heard Nena reprimanding me for my self-deprecation. She would've understood, though. I was reasoning with myself because I already had the drink in my hand)!
I made an attempt at telling Chris & David what I was doing there and all of the odd things that had happened around it but my sentences came out disjointed. I couldn't articulate the story so instead I gave them the business cards that Nena made for me and told them about the blog.
"Ana Yenrick," David read my name aloud from the tiny pink card, "You're a writer?"
"Sort of. I work in a record store."
We found three seats in the balcony with the other guest listers and I was pleased with the clear view down to the stage. David pointed out some of the things he had mentioned to me during the history lesson while Chris spoke to people he knew on the other side of him.
I made a joke about how there hadn't been a "Nazi party party" after all.
The weight of what was happening started to sink in and every breath that I took felt heavy. I was in London. I was at The Forum and down there on that stage would be The Libertines.
"I can't believe that I'm here," I confessed, "It's surreal."
"Do you have a camera?" David asked, "I could take your picture for you?"
"No... I have my phone & it has a camera but no thanks... it's silly."
I sat down and rummaged for God knows what from my bag.
"How old are you, Ana?" He inquired. I couldn't tell whether he was asking because I was acting quite young or because I maybe looked too old to be doing what I was doing.
"26," I answered, "And you?"
"31."
"That seems like a good age."
I hadn't realized that Chris had stepped away for a moment until he came back and a new beer was set before me. The boys spoke to each other in hushed tones and I wondered what the excitement was about.
"Amy Winehouse," Chris told me. He gestured to the aisle away from me, "With the muscle."
I looked behind me at her entourage. I was confused by this, it seemed a waste to go to a show only to draw attention to oneself when it seemed like the last thing one would want was attention.
I turned back towards the stage. "We'll meet again" played over the PA and was accompanied by a picture slide show. All those old photos that I had spent the last couple years staring at as I wrote. These dirty, destructive rock and roll kids. I felt myself about to cry but held my breath to hold it in.
I couldn't cry, not in front of these strangers who probably found me to be completely bizarre--
These four human beings strode on stage. These four boys. They were real. They were not photographs in a book or magazine. They were not between record sleeves...
They were The Libertines.
At the first chord of 'Horrorshow' my eyes stung blurry with tears and I just cried.
I cried.
I wanted to explain myself. I wanted to tell David and Chris that I wasn't hysterical and that though I was crying about this band-- it wasn't about this band, really. It was about everything that this band had gotten me through. It was about how at that exact moment everything that I had been carrying around with me surfaced: Erik's suicide, writer's block, the novel I couldn't finish, hours spent in an empty bathtub while my marriage dissolved on the other side of the locked door, the desperation that I felt to get us both out of it alive, being forced to leave what I had built up as the closest thing to home, moving in with my pregnant sister, falling in love with a teenager, playing shows and moving gear, losing friends, getting left by a teenager, the sleeping pills and dreams that would shake me from sleep, car crashes and how standing there--none of it mattered anymore. These things could no longer touch me.
This band had been the only constant in my life and though they didn't save me-- they had given me a reason to save myself.
I wanted to be able to say that this was why I was crying.
Then, in tears with fingers pressed up against my lips, I felt an arm around my shoulders in something that resembled an embrace. This strange dark haired boy that I had known for maybe an hour was hugging me and he said,
"Let it all out."
I did. I carried on for so long that by the time the band played 'The Good Old Days' he told me that I was going to make him cry.
The Libertines that I had seen in photographs were the same as The Libertines on stage in name alone. The boys in pictures were skinny, shirtless, twenty-somethings who thrashed about with wreckless abandon. Their live recordings sounded rough; urgent. The boys on stage had rounder faces, long sleeves and Pete and Carl were in their early thirties--neither of them so much as knocked over a drink. The songs were tight; clean...but, Lord, was it fun to watch! I liked these Libertines. These Libertines were alive. These Libertines seemed like maybe they could be healthy...maybe they could succeed and that's what I wanted for them more than anything else because that's what I wanted for myself. None of us would get back the old days and nothing would feel that way again but who would want it? The old days had almost killed all of us. They has almost killed Pete and Carl being in a band together. They had almost killed me a world away in an empty tub. Not being able to let go of the old days had killed Erik. He didn't think that he could live through it and so he didn't. I supposed when I thought about it-- that's what had started this whole thing in the first place.
Erik.
I was standing in The Forum in London and my brother had never been further east than Utah. He would've made fun of me. He would've called me impractical and in the end, he would've done exactly what Neil had done-- he would've pulled $20 from his pocket and told me that I could do it.
Everything in forward motion.
I called Neil as they played 'Time for Heroes' even though the whole thing must've sounded static to him. It was appropriate, not only because he always sung it to me, but because Neil had spent the last couple months keeping my heart beating when I thought that it couldn't. He had been my co-conspirator and (much like the boys on stage and the two boys to my left felt for each other) he was a friend like a brother. Also, at the exact moment that I called him I was doing the only thing that he had told me not to do-- I was drinking a beer given to me by a stranger.
Down on the stage it looked as though a few things hadn't changed since the photographs. John Hassall (still a twenty-something) was stoic but content and Gary, well, I guessed that Gary had always seemed sort of radiant.
Chris handed me a white wristband to get into the after party as the houselights went up and I once again asked if I could stick with them. They obliged me. I was curious as to what they were making of all this. It isn't often that you go for a night out and end up with a foreign girl who bears all the demeanor of a lost child (then again, I didn't know these boys. They could attract such oddities).
Chris disappeared as I was gathering up my belongings and I asked David where he had gone to. David said that he was over talking to the singer of The Enemy. I told David that I didn't know who that was. He was incredulous,
"And you work in a record store?!"
I was offended. I may have worked in a record store but I worked in the back room of a record store where I spent all day pricing used cds. Perhaps The Enemy was just so good that no one ever traded it in used. Plus, these were pretty big criticisms from a guy who had just admitted to me that he liked all of Fleetwood Mac (not just the Peter Green, stuff) and boldly stated that he found Stevie Nicks' voice to be quote end quote "accessible". Also, he had provided photographic evidence that he had recently been bearded.
I suppressed a grimace.
The three of us walked a few blocks until we stood before a car.
"Oh. A car," I recoiled.
"It's okay," They assured me as they got into the car. They both fixed me with looks that told me they didn't understand what the hold up was.
If I was considering at this moment that I might get abducted then they must have been considering that they may have stuck themselves with a crazy person.
Forget it. I'd already seen The Libertines.
I got into the car and confessed my worry.
"My grandma told me not to get into the car with strangers."
I'd hoped that would make them laugh.
They didn't.
Chris was talking to someone on the phone. I looked out the window at all of the dark, wet streets and knew that I wouldn't see anything familiar. I should've been scared to death but I wasn't. I was worried a little and that's what kept me inside of my head thinking even as David told me something about the first time his band had been played on the radio then something about having lived in Istanbul.
I thought about Nin in Lee's apartment just hours after they met. It's strange how in life we become our own fiction.
We made it to The Lock Tavern, all limbs in tact and no one abducted.
I felt a certain kind of amused chagrin as I looked around the bar. Turns out hipsters are the same no matter where you go. The clothes, the attitudes, the dance party music and despite the accents--the conversations are the same as well.
This was not my scene.
Chris handed me two more beers and I was beginning to think that I quite adored these two boys. They didn't fail to remind me that meeting them had been like winning the lottery (quite literally it was them who told me that).
They were not long for the party and bid me farewell. We parted with hugs.
"You better write about us in the blog," one of them told me.
"I will," I promised.
The last thing that Chris said to me was,
"You mind your grandma and don't get in the car with any strangers."
I promised him that I wouldn't.
It could have simply been the kindness of strangers but I had come to learn that the world is a weird, small place. Truth be told, for the first two people that I had met in London-- I couldn't have asked for nicer ones.
I quit drinking once the boys left and settled into a booth to read a music magazine. I felt exhausted but thought that I should stay because it was a rare opportunity. The people watching was interesting enough. At one point I walked down the stairs as a boy was walking up them. He stopped me, kissed me on the cheek and kept walking without having said a word. Kiss of death, maybe?
Carl showed up, but unlike when I had met him, he was immediately swarmed by excitable fans. As much as I wanted to say something to him or thank him for his help, I didn't want to do it like this. I gawked for a moment, thought about how I kind of wanted to be Carl Barât when I grew up and made my exit.
I took a taxi back to my hotel and called my grandmother as soon as I got my jacket off.
"What time is it there?" She asked.
"Uh-- just after 3 am."
"What are you doing out at 3am," my grandma teased, "You're breaking curfew, kid."
"When I get home, I'll be grounded. Besides, I'm still on your time. It's,like,7 pm."
"How was the concert?"
"It was the best thing that I've ever done. Worth the whole trip. I even met a couple of nice kids."
Then my grandmother with her strange psychic connection to me said the words that I was hoping never to hear her say,
"You got into the car with them, didn't you?"
5 comments
Ah, so so wonderful!! I know the Libertines adventure story but I love to hear it again and again, and hear the little details I didn't know about. I even welled up a little... so glad you made it! and survived drinks and rides with strange boys that turned out to be nice!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful and Moving!!
ReplyDeleteit's true:
ReplyDelete- no self-depricating!...unless you are using it as an excuse for more free beer. then, if it's working for you, i support it fully.
- hipsters are the same 'round the world.
- musicians gravitate towards each other. in a good way and a bad way. luckily for you, it was good!
i can't wait to read about the rest of the trip. and when you get home. what's happening now?!
Beautiful, funny and very moving. Rogerx
ReplyDeleteso good, the 4th time i read it!!!!!!! love it
ReplyDelete