Frendliness

I accidentally spelt friend F…R…E…N…D

That’s my desire for simplicity showing. Or maybe I have been reading too much American literature recently.

I never quite learned where all this came from, all this trouble. It just seemed to be part of me, Pretty much right from the start.

If I had a penny for every time I’d heard ‘where does all this come from?’ I’d probably have a couple of quid by now.

There’s nothing much here, apart from some piles of washing, a few hundred books and me. The raised voices of the neighbours and the screaming of their kid penetrates my ears, a breeze rushes in from under the door so I have to sit up on my feet to keep them warm.

It’s a common misconception that loneliness is lonely. Well, it is lonely. Let me explain. I feel less lonely here then I would sat in a room packed with people. I feel more socially fulfilled sitting here then I would engaging in conversation with 15 others. So whilst I feel lonely here, it’s in a pleasant calm way. Whereas when surrounded I feel lonely in a violent, anxious way.

Its not late. It is only quarter to four. The only person I have seen all day is a woman I spotted from my window earlier. She was walking alone, she paused to go into the shop, and a few minutes later came out with two packs of twenty Mayfair. She had shoulder length bleach blonde hair, and sunglasses, her age speckled legs were uncovered, her denim mini skirt was much too short. She looked… well, she looked battered. Maybe a little lost. She hadn’t lived on this estate long. Or maybe she’d lived here all her life, but had never come to terms with her surroundings. Maybe she’d never been sober enough to notice.

A few lads sat smoking dope on a bench are shouting across the street at her. She ignores them and walks on, one of them crosses the road to stand in front of her, he spits on the floor, she jumps back in her sandaled heels. He gets behind her, puts a hand round her hip and blow smoke in her ear. She looks scared, he laughs. He walks away, turning around only once to throw his cigarette butt at her.

If I was more of a person I’d have intervened. Maybe gone down there, or shouted something from my window. But I didn’t. I watched. And now I continue watching while she sways away on her heels, hurridly, clutching her Mayfair. I’m surprised the kid didn’t take them. She had a lucky escape.

A few months ago the shop got robbed. Some of the local kids jumped over the counter and held a knife to the elderly Asian guys throat. They touched up his daughter, when he protested they cut his face and smashed his nose. They took the safe and the till, smashed up the place. Before they left they poured a bottle of liquor on the door step and set light to it. Scare tactics. They rule the place. And the government knows it.

The boys are in charge.

My speakers, which had been thrashing out a record, jumps and stops. Must be a scratch on the vinyl. The silence makes my ears ache. Suddenly I can hear the knocking that’s been going on for a few minutes, and I bounce off towards the door. I swing the door open and a breeze comes in and cuts through the smoky interior of my room.

A tall, dark eyed guy stands there alone. He wears a dull, laddered West Ham, shirt and a leather jacket with Sex Pistols patches. ‘Give me a fag’ he says, taking the one from my mouth. ‘ok’ I say, trying to reach behind me to get the knife I keep on the table by the door. ‘Give me a tenner’, ‘ok’ I say and swing the knife towards his stomach. He dodges, steps back, looking shocked and walks to the next door, just down the hall.

I shut the door, and set up another record. I wander back over to by the window. One of the kids is on the floor under the bench out cold, while the others shrug and hold their hands up in front of two wildly gesturing policemen.