Low life
I've cracked it
Jeremy Clarke
Iam not a policeman. (My brother is: I'm not.) But my local is a drug users' pub and new customers are suspected of being undercover policemen and women until satisfactorily proved otherwise. So I've been on probation. Until now, for Jeremy, there's been no going back to one or other of the drug dealers' houses for a smoke, pill or line after the pub has shut like everybody else, in case he shops them.
The pub is more New Age than Low Life to be honest. No Letter from the Underworld this. There's only small-time drug dealing going on, and what there is has more to do with cosy rebellion or selfaggrandisement than capitalism. And there's a snob thing going on, too. The ecstasy poppers look down on the cannabis tokers, the cannabis takers look down on the few straights, and the cocaine-snorting clique looks down with amused condescension on everybody else.
I've been on probation for an unusually long time, mainly because the drug dealers find me difficult to pigeon-hole. I don't seem to have an occupation. Nor do I appear to he drug-oriented. I might dress with courage and enterprise, but my clothes give out mixed and confusing signals. Above ail, the potent combination of Stella Artois and Prozac makes me behave as if I'm definitely on something, but no one's sure what.
Well, I've finally cracked it. Suddenly I'm cool and I get invited back after the pub. It's like being awarded the coveted Green Beret. (A pathetic sentiment for a man of my age, I know. But I've been living in a sober, chapel-oriented village out on the coast for many years, so please make allowances.) The first time I got invited back went like this. I was drinking at the bar with a man who boasted that he had taken six ecstasy tablets before coming out for the evening. He was good company, especially as he found everything I said excruciatingly funny. I only had to say something as prosaic and unambiguous as 'Same again, Al?' and he'd sort of implode with mirth and collapse sideways. Then, regaining his composure after a false start or two, he'd clasp me to his breast like a long-lost brother. When the bar staff started shouting for us all to clear off at 11 o'clock, he put an arm round my shoulder and led me back to his house. There was a crowd of familiar faces from the pub gathered in his living-room, the carpet of which was very deep. I was among the Elect and welcomed as such with conspiratorial nods. I sat down, Not much was happening. It was a bit like being at a prayer meeting. Instead of taking it in turns to pray, we took it in turns to puff at the joints being passed around. Conversation was constrained rather than convivial. The music playing on the stereo was purely for seated, opinionated, music connoisseurs.
Give me a good old-fashioned booze-up any day of the week. I thought. I determined to make the best of it, however, by smoking, sniffing or popping whatever came my way. I was handed a small glass of sweet white wine, which I downed in one, but unfortunately no pills or coke. The girl I was sitting next to had one arm in a very large sling. I enquired about it. She'd been stung by a bee, she said. It had been terrible. She'd almost died. After a bit she asked me to help her roll another spliff. When it was completed our combined effort roused the assembled company to something approaching jocularity, owing to its poor construction. As it was passed around, humorous comments were made, including one about Christmas coming early. Things were looking up. Levity had broken out. But after a while the comments subsided until everyone fell silent and we just sat there like a row of gonks in a seaside gift shop.
We sat there like this for what seemed like a very long time. I finally broke the silence by asking our host if I could turn the music up. I could, he said, serious for the first time, but only by one notch of the volume control. I got down on my hands and knees, crawled across the thick carpet to the stereo unit and located the right knob on the console. It was a very big black knob, larger than any volume control I've ever twiddled before, and very finely calibrated. There must have been at least 360 distinct graduations. I carefully turned the knob clockwise one notch. The difference this made to the volume of the music was so slight it was virtually indistinguishable to the human ear. I returned to the dent I'd made in the four-seater sofa.
Well, I stuck it for a bit longer, then I stood up and said, 'I've just about had enough of this, I'm off.' And waving valedictions right and left to the Elect, I made for the door.
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