(no subject)
Because I'll lose the hard-copy. Because of limbering up. Because, let's face it, I've no way better to spend my time. This is the exam practice piece I wrote early this year/late last year. I don't remember how long you get for these, but I'm sure I cheated because it was homework. Sounds about right.
Of everyone I've ever known, my godfather Jackie was, and still is, my greatest influence. My greatest inspiration. He was a friend of my dad's - they'd known each other since childhood and were blood brothers. My mother never took to him in the way that my brother and I did, and though it seemed strange at the time, in retrospect its not so hard to see why. He was a little too fond of the drink - whisky in particular - and notoriously unreliable. My dad insisted - against the will of most of my family - that he be a part of my upbringing, for hazy reasons that I'll never fully understand. What I do know is that I haven't seen Jackie in four years.
Jackie was in my life from the very start. While I was being born, he was calming my dad down in the hospital car park, and when I was only a baby he was ever-present. A third parent. He'd babysit, when I was older, and I'd insist that my mum and dad went out more often. He would cook pancakes for dinner, or tomato-bread, and tell the most insane stories I have ever heard - full of danger and excitement and, usually, himself. Always in the starring role (modesty was not among his virtues). I idolised him like you couldn't imagine. He taught me how to play blackjack and rummy and poker, and gave the best presents - for my ninth birthday, a music box, and a pair of white kid gloves which didn't fit me. I remember my mother's mouth twisting as I opened the box. My dad shifting in his seat.
Strangely, for someone so clearly there in my life, I only have four photographs of him, and three of those are blurred. I mentioned it, once, and he said he was "cultivating an air of mystery", or "propagating the myth", or something like. I had no idea what he was on about, but Jackie was like that. He was a sort of fiction that can't be faked - so ludicrous that you couldn't help but wonder what he was actually like, under all the layers of style and silver-tonguedness.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see him now, standing in the doorway, razor-thin and grubby, one hand in his curly hair. He had this tremendous coat, burgundy corduroy and lined with an excess of pockets, which fascinated me. He told me more than once that he never left the house without a box of matches and a penknife. Tools of the trade, he'd say, and don't you forget it.
Jackie was an adventure-junkie, in theory. A "thrillseeker". He didn't smoke or watch television (vices), but he could beat anyone at arm-wrestling. That's what he's doing now. Adventuring, I mean. I'm not sure where. Sometimes we get postcards or letters. He's never forgotten my birthday. A few months ago he sent me a note - a colourful scrap with no return address and the postmark illegible. He says he'll come back soon, but he's not sure when. The rest of his letter described a series of improbable events, which ended with his escaping a "pirate gang" through his unexpected use of poetry. But the story rings bells. Wasn't it George Melly who recited Dadaist poetry and escaped a beating? Maybe it's coincidence, but I suspect otherwise. Nevertheless, I can't bring myself to disbelieve Jackie, as such. I don't want to.
Most clearly imprinted on my memory, and in the curling pages of my diary, is the last time I saw Jackie. It was a warm evening in May, a few days after I'd turned twelve, and we were eating dinner outside when the bell rang. Jackie stood there in the door, the left side of his face swollen and bleeding. He could hardly stay on his feet. Been beaten up by ageing teddy boys on the way over, he said. Very embarrassing. He didn't want to talk about it. He stayed the night in the study while we gave him lemonade and an ice pack for his face. I can't remember being so scared for anyone. He kept his bag close to him, and later I smelled whisky on his breath.
I woke up late in the night when I heard records playing in the study. I crept downstairs and found Jackie dressed, and crying. He was surprised to see me. We talked in the dark for a while. He was going away, he said, and then I cried too, wedged my fingers in my eyes so that he wouldn't see me. He gave me his bag, heavy leather, and sent me back to my room. He was gone before morning.
I keep the box and its contents under my bed: 3 records (Billie Holiday, The Smiths, and John Coltrane), a disintegrating copy of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, and a map of the world covered in lines and dots and scrawls of red ink. There's also a box of matches.
Of everyone I've ever known, my godfather Jackie was, and still is, my greatest influence. My greatest inspiration. He was a friend of my dad's - they'd known each other since childhood and were blood brothers. My mother never took to him in the way that my brother and I did, and though it seemed strange at the time, in retrospect its not so hard to see why. He was a little too fond of the drink - whisky in particular - and notoriously unreliable. My dad insisted - against the will of most of my family - that he be a part of my upbringing, for hazy reasons that I'll never fully understand. What I do know is that I haven't seen Jackie in four years.
Jackie was in my life from the very start. While I was being born, he was calming my dad down in the hospital car park, and when I was only a baby he was ever-present. A third parent. He'd babysit, when I was older, and I'd insist that my mum and dad went out more often. He would cook pancakes for dinner, or tomato-bread, and tell the most insane stories I have ever heard - full of danger and excitement and, usually, himself. Always in the starring role (modesty was not among his virtues). I idolised him like you couldn't imagine. He taught me how to play blackjack and rummy and poker, and gave the best presents - for my ninth birthday, a music box, and a pair of white kid gloves which didn't fit me. I remember my mother's mouth twisting as I opened the box. My dad shifting in his seat.
Strangely, for someone so clearly there in my life, I only have four photographs of him, and three of those are blurred. I mentioned it, once, and he said he was "cultivating an air of mystery", or "propagating the myth", or something like. I had no idea what he was on about, but Jackie was like that. He was a sort of fiction that can't be faked - so ludicrous that you couldn't help but wonder what he was actually like, under all the layers of style and silver-tonguedness.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see him now, standing in the doorway, razor-thin and grubby, one hand in his curly hair. He had this tremendous coat, burgundy corduroy and lined with an excess of pockets, which fascinated me. He told me more than once that he never left the house without a box of matches and a penknife. Tools of the trade, he'd say, and don't you forget it.
Jackie was an adventure-junkie, in theory. A "thrillseeker". He didn't smoke or watch television (vices), but he could beat anyone at arm-wrestling. That's what he's doing now. Adventuring, I mean. I'm not sure where. Sometimes we get postcards or letters. He's never forgotten my birthday. A few months ago he sent me a note - a colourful scrap with no return address and the postmark illegible. He says he'll come back soon, but he's not sure when. The rest of his letter described a series of improbable events, which ended with his escaping a "pirate gang" through his unexpected use of poetry. But the story rings bells. Wasn't it George Melly who recited Dadaist poetry and escaped a beating? Maybe it's coincidence, but I suspect otherwise. Nevertheless, I can't bring myself to disbelieve Jackie, as such. I don't want to.
Most clearly imprinted on my memory, and in the curling pages of my diary, is the last time I saw Jackie. It was a warm evening in May, a few days after I'd turned twelve, and we were eating dinner outside when the bell rang. Jackie stood there in the door, the left side of his face swollen and bleeding. He could hardly stay on his feet. Been beaten up by ageing teddy boys on the way over, he said. Very embarrassing. He didn't want to talk about it. He stayed the night in the study while we gave him lemonade and an ice pack for his face. I can't remember being so scared for anyone. He kept his bag close to him, and later I smelled whisky on his breath.
I woke up late in the night when I heard records playing in the study. I crept downstairs and found Jackie dressed, and crying. He was surprised to see me. We talked in the dark for a while. He was going away, he said, and then I cried too, wedged my fingers in my eyes so that he wouldn't see me. He gave me his bag, heavy leather, and sent me back to my room. He was gone before morning.
I keep the box and its contents under my bed: 3 records (Billie Holiday, The Smiths, and John Coltrane), a disintegrating copy of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, and a map of the world covered in lines and dots and scrawls of red ink. There's also a box of matches.