The English also still drink their beer warmer than we do, and live in colder buildings. I woke one morning, got up to visit the "Men's," and half-way down the hall from my hotel room, broke into such a fury of shaking chills from the wicked dampness that I had to dash back into my bed, wearing all my clothes. Stayed there nearly till lunch. Then, after the sun had shown steadily for a couple hours, I literally trotted down the avenue to the nearest "caff," where I slugged down a plate full of fried bread, with English tea laced with sugar and real cream. Figured that enough fat and starch in my system would fuel me through the afternoon without my having another fit.
I am also here to tell you that at least some English beer is still hand-pumped from a keg, and that unlike Americans, again, with our collective obligation to "just say no" -- the Brits are even today interested in going out and getting toasted.
This, I learned from my careful study of statistics, by way of being invited out for a couple drinks by a woman I met at my London hotel. "Buy us a drink, Luv?" she asks me in the hall, where we had been talking. And, I am silly American enough to get snookered by the bit there at the end, not grasping the fact that, in the correct mood, Brits use the word with undertakers.
I, though, take it seriously, and next thing I know, we're at a bar she frequents that specializes in regional beers from "North of England." I'm invited to try pints of "Old Peculiar," pumped up thick as Ovaltine. "Rocket Fuel," the barmaid calls it, with a laugh. I walk to the table, carrying a glass of the stuff the size of a milk bottle.
Scientifically speaking, I figure I made it two and half-pints before I lost steady consciousness. I was still sitting upright, but, some time before I started the third glass, I was seeing test patterns. Essentially, the next thing I can dredge up from my evening is lying in bed at the hotel, watching the woman make love with a "gent" she picked up in the bar. He looked tall as a willow, muscular, mahogany and gorgeous like a Masai prince. His muscles rolled like wheat fields in a storm.
Following morning, over breakfast (she bought) the lady tried to apologize. She couldn't understand why I wasn't upset. I told her that I should be thanking her. She's forking down beans and toast and fried bacon and eggs and tomato. I admitted the sordid truth: a turbulent year, the loss of a new job, my having shamed myself in a couple of stupid relationships . . . and I was "off romance," for a while.
She says to me, "Okay. We'll make a deal, then?"
"As in . . . ?" I ask, ever the innocent American bumpkin.
She tells me she's on a tight budget; she'll split my rent. I'm a "safe mate," she judges, for the week she's on vacation. As I was out of combat, she knew I wouldn't mind her maybe "having a few blokes up," while we were together. My room, though small, had two bunk-sized beds, so she thought the possibilities were "delightful."
She was, let's see. . . . Six feet. Pretty. Wide of shoulder. Long of leg. She's got this hair spiked up like brush bristles. A smile that simply exploded off her face. . . . She was gap-toothed, brazen. Had hands that fluttered like doves. Her parents had honeymooned in France; when she was born, they felt artsy and named her "Bijou." All her friends just called her "Bee," she told me.
Question: How many women like that are gonna pay attention to me? Demographically speaking, her offer seemed both an anomaly, and a very good deal.
She in fact did use my place several nights, after we joined forces. Mostly, she stumbled in with swarthy guys, folks from the East. Fellows with knit ties and good jackets, cars downstairs, double-parked, lights blinking. A couple nights, I went out for a walk while they were at it. Another, I dozed, read a paper in the lobby. She told me she "didn't feel healthy," without men.
Everything went swimmingly for us, too, until one night when we were out for a couple pints, and she brought back a Spaniard, a student, a self-consciously masculine throwback right out of central casting. All he needed was a beret. Moreover, he couldn't trust her explanation that I was just a friend sharing rent.
I was pretty loaded, so they walked me upstairs and then to the back of the hotel room, where I crashed in an easy chair under the window. Went out like a light. The next thing I know, I'm waking up to this terrific noise. I roared out of sleep thinking someone had blown off a grenade in the hall.
What I had heard was the fall of a ginger-jar lamp from the table at the far end of the room. Seems that our macho friend had gotten offended at something said, pulled a flick-knife, and then, drunkenly, cut himself. My Jewel is curled up on her side, on the floor, already undressed, holding her head, crying, frightened.
I'm not sure what came over me -- normally, I'm limp in the face of danger -- but, much to my amazement and shock, I was watching myself move. Slowly, I arose from the chair and walked over to my backpack: carefully, like skirting rattlers coiled on the road. Out of my supplies, I pulled a tiny emergency kit; out of it, a fan of Band-Aids that I could wave at the boy dancing around the middle of the floor, getting everything sticky with plasma.
I walked over and offered the bandages, thinking I'd lure him out of the room, down the hall for a wash, then lock myself back in and hunker down by the phone in case I had to call the desk for assistance.
It's amazing how apologetic drunks become, given a little compassion. This poor kid reacted like I was Albert Schweitzer. "Doctór!" he muddled out. "El Médico!" Busily I began patching up the bleeding, and, next thing I know, the trio of us are dancing in a circle, laughing and falling down. I'm getting the hugs and kisses. My Jewel is a beautiful, naked baby.
Suddenly, I'm hoisted up, the girl is shimmying into her dress, and we are tumbling down the stairs, crashing through the lobby, and on our way out for more drinking, this time in celebration of my medical expertise. I hardly know enough Spanish to order a taco, but I think we spent the rest of the evening bouncing from pub to pub, him telling everyone who would listen that I was a hero. Me held up by the armpits between these two whirling lovers, my legs dangling as if I were on strings. They even hauled me in and out of the head like that. I did my business suspended.
When I woke up, hours later, in the room, my Jewel and I were in my bed, she out like a light, rolled away from me, her clothes piled on the counter top under the mirror. I didn't know what else to do, so I scooted over and folded around her. Her warmth was delicious . . . her bottom round against my thighs. Again, I slept.
Woke up for the final time, with a start. Clock on the dresser gleamed out it was mid-morning, sun seeping through the curtains enough I could make out shapes of everything in the room. I was sleeping on my back; she had thrown a leg over my belly, was quietly staring at my face; the curve of her neck glowed in morning's light.
She leaned forward . . . moved her mouth toward my own. Suddenly, I'm shaking, just like on my run to the head. "Let's quit while we're ahead," I tell her.
*****
I waved at her train, later, when she pulled out of Victoria, journeying back to her flat and job and weekly labors, holiday over for the year.
Trotting along next to her window, all the way to the end of the station, I hung on her every feature. She looked mesmerized, but not embarrassed by the attention.
I shout, "I'll write!"
She yells back, "I never gave you the address."
And I realize I'll not be receiving it, either.
*****
Shortly afterwards, I lost my job, and my demographic research narrowed to studying the price of airfares in the newspapers. Later, when they dropped within my credit card limits, and I could get away from my newly found work for a few days, I'd fly over to London. I'd live on ginger nuts and lemon curd and Pakistani carryout. In the course of about twelve weeks or so, I made three trips -- made myself very broke, as well.
Sooner or later, each time over, I wound up at Victoria Station, counting trains. I'd stand right in the middle of the main floor and let the crowd knock me around. Go back to the hotel bruised, but calm. I made a point, then, of not speaking for hours. I'd let myself feel the bumping, let it all soak in. Faith in me said, "If I'm silent, I'll find her."
My final time over, I got arrested for "Breach of Peace." They grabbed me in Victoria. Frustrated with dreaming and waiting, I tossed myself against the side of a train car . . . slipped, fell, bloodied my nose -- looked and felt a stooge.
When the coppers dragged me off, they decided I wasn't dangerous, offered a stern lecture about how tourists should always behave as if they were "guests at table," and then dumped me back on the streets with some paper towels to wipe my face. Told me to "go home" and to keep my "trousers up."
*****
So, what's my report . . . bottom line? My Jewel taught me I cannot expect second invitations. Every once in a long while after, I would meet a nice person. I'd enjoy. Most of my life, though, women have told me I'm ridiculous.
I should be so objective.
But, I have a theory: Everything good happens as a surprise. Most of what men will ever know of women, we'll learn by way of what I saw called in a Japanese book shoshaku jushaku: "continuing mistakes."
I try to recall those ear-ringed numbers, hauling up the hill. Sooner or later, everybody pulls into the station.
