Paulyanna, page 5
The music changed to a record I had requested, one of my favourite songs, 'Kiss' by Prince. The girls decided that one dance was enough, so grabbed their bags and left the dance-floor. I couldn’t not dance to my idol and, for some reason, added some silly notion about not wanting to appear sheep-like in front of my colleagues. This meant I remained up there alone, so I pranced around with my eyes firmly closed as a protective shield against my self-imposed predicament. Even without vision I knew that everyone watched. As I jutted and stopped at the various junctions along the Prince track, I contemplated each degree of embarrassment and concluded it was still way better to have a blast than to slink back to my seat and watch on with regret. I started to marvel at my own bravery, then decided I didn’t even feel that self-conscious and so opened my eyes for a brief moment.
On Christmas Day, a lunch of five courses was served to one hundred cheery consumers. The kitchen was fully staffed and spirits were high. Kevin and the other waiters, who had been at the Christmas sherry, had a right good giggle. They made these long frenetic skids across the wet kitchen floor whilst they held aloft towers of precariously balanced plates. They made a sport of it, almost daring the plates to topple with longer, crazier and more stylish deliveries.
An endless stream of dirty crockery was deposited on the teetering mound on my left. Even though I laughed and splashed down more water to aid them, I envied how cushy the serving staff seemed to have it. Their duties didn’t include scraping slops into the bin and they were having way too much fun to consider stacking the dishes correctly. So the piles grew and oozed ever higher. My silly attempt to keep on top of things by buckling down hard had been grossly misjudged. Even when I cut short the rinse process by opening the dishwasher prematurely, I was still forced by the lengthy wash cycle to adopt a slower pace. Like being trapped in a time-lapse motion, no matter how quickly I washed, the piles continued to grow and soon overwhelmed me as the staff sped happily on with their duties.
Through the window I watched the snow as it began to fall. I was a big fan of white Christmases, so it should have been a “yah” moment but it wasn’t. There were no fluffy white flakes, only miserable, wet, grey snow.
My first Christmas away from Wolverhampton made me nostalgic. Although technically family Christmases had ceased a good few years prior, I mourned what I understood would never be again. My pining could not be alleviated by a telephone call home, as nobody in my family had a phone. I watched the sludgy trickles of wet snow slowly cascade down the windowpane, then caught a glimpse of my own ghostly reflection. I appeared to be crying.
I eventually finished my chores around 9pm. The kitchen staff, free to enjoy the rest of Christmas, had left a couple of hours earlier. The restaurant was now officially closed until breakfast. I made the most of the opportunity and took time to prepare myself a sumptuous turkey dinner with all the trimmings from the mounds of leftovers. My first day’s room service delivery had been a one-off and I was no longer permitted to eat in my quarters. I choose to break their rules and took my feast to my room to watch some Christmas telly. Before I slunk out of the kitchen, I added a portion of Christmas pudding with butterscotch sauce to my tray. I could never abide Christmas pudding previously and have no idea why I thought the Yuletide flavour might have changed. I tried one spoonful of that feeky-tasting dessert before I concluded I was too stuffed to continue.
In January I was invited to join Kevin and a few of the staff who were going to a night club in Watford. I was excited to experience something new as hotel life was dull. A large, open-spaced venue with multiple bars, it had metal walkways and raised platforms that overlooked parts of the dance-floor. It pumped out deafening dance music; the hard thumping bass went right through the soles of my trainers. Moving spot-lights cast powerful beams of blue and red that erratically sliced through the air and cut across the empty dance-floor in all directions. Every so often, a loud hissing smoke machine would release dry ice into the place, to entice the shy into dancing. It appeared nobody was all that keen to be the first and I was also happy to wait.
Eventually, when the intoxicants had kicked in, the inevitable happened. ‘The Only Way Is Up’ by Yazz and the Plastic Population began to play and all the girls headed onto the dance-floor. I went too. I was quick to notice I was the only male dancer. As it was back home, the men in there didn’t really dance, at least not in public. Instead they clutched onto their drinks and remained static around the outer edges of the dance-floor, staring inwards with fixed broody expressions. I wasn’t intimidated, or not much. In my mind I believed they all secretly wanted to join me and I was pleased not to be one of them, on the outside looking in. They still had to wait for the rave scene to properly kick-in before it would become socially acceptable for straight men to stomp around blowing whistles in public.
At first I tried to curtail being overly expressive and imagined I danced like a straight man and not a happy clappy gay chappy. Then, as I became lost in the music, I started to care less about perceptions and began to really enjoy myself. As the girls and I pranced around to Tiffany’s ‘I Think We’re Alone Now’, our movements became more sensual and flirtatious, which to a sexually repressive lad from the provinces seemed wickedly decadent.
The single hotel room I occupied when I initially arrived had been allocated to me as a temporary measure. There were still no rooms available at the staff-house but a new room within the hotel had been freshly painted and was ready for me. I had been downgraded to a broom-closet containing a bed, wardrobe and hand basin. I suspected from the awkward dimensions it had once been a storage room, or perhaps part of the narrow corridor it adjoined. It was situated near the kitchen and next door to the newly appointed staff-room. When I played loud music, staff taking their break thought it funny to bang on the wall. It didn’t annoy me as it gave me an excuse to turn it up some more.
One time, the usual knocking came so I simply cranked up the volume. Then, as per usual, there was a tap at my door because the staff had to pass by it when they returned to work.
“Fuck off!” I shouted at Kevin through the wall.
I knew it was Kevin, it was always Kevin. He kept on so I jumped up fast as I hoped to startle him when I caught him in the act. I opened the door swiftly and yelled. “PISS OFF!”
Although my words cut off quickly, the echo in this newly decorated corridor didn’t. Stood there before me was that nice elderly gentleman who had interviewed me: the owner. He simply asked me to lower the level of my music and nothing more. Which I ran to do, happy for a momentary distraction from my rising shame. When I voiced my apology I thought I saw a slight smirk on his face, but it could easily have been a grimace at my taste in music.
One time I was in the laundry room lounging around on the sacks of linen. I was taking a breather as I found lugging around bags of cloth very strenuous. He came in and, as I felt justified to be resting, I didn’t jump up. He asked if I’d seen the head of housekeeping, Mrs Patel, then left me in peace. The rest of the staff would kow-tow and jump through hoops to look busy whenever the owner or his family came to visit. They were regarded like royalty and extra cleaning efforts were made whenever a visit was imminent. I didn’t want to creep and grovel like a serf. I had some pride. I got the impression that he admired that and perhaps even had a soft spot for me.
There was one benefit that came when I moved rooms next to the kitchen. Perhaps the only glint of silver in my cloudy existence. I could make myself tea and toast whenever the coast was clear and sneak it to my room.
CHAPTER 6 Spring 1998
The first signs of spring brought with it a breath of optimism in the form of a second kitchen porter. William was a very pleasant black South African who constantly wore a smile. Although he had learning difficulties and was prone to fitting, he performed his duties well. Subsequently, I received a new rota and, for the first time, had properly scheduled days off. Once I'd completed my Friday night shift I was free until Sunday evening.
Happy that I now had time to spend my wages, I hit the local shopping centre. I purchased a Taja Sevelle cassette tape from Our Price Records and a rather snazzy pair of white and burgundy Avia training shoes from a sports store. As the latest basketball trend dictated, they were extra wide and bulky. They were expensive – cost me around fifty pounds – but I paid without a quibble. As a child, I’d often worn tattered shoes that would flap open like a hungry hippo and chomp at the ground. That was not only mentally but also physically painful.
My newly-acquired dress sense was to be casual rather than dressy. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel like a complete tramp. I owned enough suitable garments to allow me to comfortably step out in confidence.
On the following Saturday morning I headed into London. My number one priority was to restock as I had smoked all my hash. Without a clue of where to go I decided my best bet would be Electric Avenue in Brixton. It had been made famous by the London riots of 1981 and also the Eddie Grant song. So I rocked on down. I found the street easily and hung around. I walked up and down for a while, asking any black face that looked approachable – meaning not too posh – if they knew where I could buy some weed. I soon realised it was a bit early in the day for drug dealers.
I located a nearby pub, a scruffy-looking bar. Bare floorboards revealed a decade of spillages and the pool table had a torn surface. Although it had only two customers, I hoped that someone would come in whilst I contemplated my next move so I ordered a cola. I supposed, had it been a Friday night, scoring in there would have been easy. I remembered that in Wolves if ever my dealer wasn't home, I could usually find him in the pub or local betting shop. I supped up and asked the barman where the nearest bookmakers was and headed that way.
How similar the scene was to a Wolvo bookies. In amongst what appeared to be unlucky punters were a few recognisable stereotypes I could relate to. A grey-bearded Rasta chatted to another more stylishly decked out black guy in a long leather coat. They were so reminiscent of Willie and Cannon, two people I scored from back home. I practically became a one-man stampede and rushed to them. I politely asked if they knew of a place I could score. The cool stylish dude retrieved from his coat pocket a small soft lump of black hash. He tore it in two, handed me one half.
"Ya gimme a tenner.”
I was heartened to hear a deep Jamaican voice. From the accents out on the street I started to think that all London black people were really posh.
From Brixton I headed into central London by Tube. I wanted to meet a man who would take me to a gay pub. I decided to try the place I already knew, so hung around Piccadilly’s Shaftesbury Avenue. The incessant buzz of central London still delighted and overwhelmed me. It was so busy and transitory. Tides of people milled about hither and thither; tourists and commuters all fused together as a single collective entity. I was a tiny gnat indistinguishable within a voracious swarm that never seemed to slow or cease.
When I took myself out of the crowd to rest against a shop front, I was able to focus properly. Then I clearly noticed it was the contrary. London's underbelly was revealed. Individuals, all the people that flew against the wind, so to speak. Vagrants staggered as they squabbled over cider, plain-clothed cops walked at speed and shady hawk-eyed beings that appeared to scour the terrain in search of prey, all cast a glance in my direction.
After a while I became bored and, as I needed a pee, I headed to the toilet in Dunkin' Donuts. A rush of people crossed the avenue and merged with the pedestrians on my side of pavement. I noticed a Chinese guy as he attempted to slip his hand into the bag of an unsuspecting tourist. I reacted instinctively and quickly barged through the non-existent gap between both people. As if by accident, I knocked his hand out from under the flap of the now open handbag. I thought it wise to inform the lady so a few steps further on, I tugged on the woman’s coat sleeve to gain her attention. She instantly reared away from me and squealed loudly, as though afraid of me. Offended by her reaction I just yelled out. "Someone was in your handbag, ya silly cow!” then walked off. The woman's companion must have explained what had transpired as I then saw the lady clutch her handbag tight to her chest. I immediately regretted my interference, as I imagined the possibility that two Chinese children could be waiting in a darkened doorway somewhere, arms folded tight to suppress their hunger pains.
I rolled myself a mini joint whilst inside the toilet and purchased a couple of doughnut rings. I walked around the Soho back streets, smoked the joint and ate my snack. Working girls stood in the doorways of the numerous clip joints and accosted men as they passed by. Never once did they solicit me. Although I didn't glimpse any boys that could pass for renters, I was happy to see that my uninformed choice of hangout was not totally wrong. Instinctively or accidentally, I had happened upon central London’s red light district.
I returned to my patch on the avenue and once again stood to watch the pavement artists. It was late in the afternoon. Although the sun had not quite set, the lingering daylight could not dispel the final breath of winter. Temperatures fell rapidly and Jack Frost’s icy fingers found a way through the layers of my garments. I shivered at his touch and clenched every muscle tight as the slightest movement created a cold breeze upon my skin. I allowed my teeth to chatter as I found it worked like a dynamo and produced body heat.
I was so relieved when a man around forty years old finally did approach me. He was a short fellow, clean-shaven and although smartly dressed, looked a right nerd. My first impression was that he probably still lived at home with his mother. He told me he sold watches for a living, so I quipped that must be nice if you've got the time. He said he was staying at the Regent Palace Hotel, which I knew was fifty or so metres around the corner from the avenue. As the name suggested, it was quite palatial with over five hundred rooms. I counted seven floors as I scanned the magnificent bleached terra-cotta facade.
Although round-edged, the building appeared to be a triangular shape, the front entrance on one corner facing out towards Piccadilly Circus. I marvelled at the enormous stucco rose that spanned the entire reception hall ceiling. Rococo eaves and elaborate garland cornices sat above polished stone pillars. Old style light fittings resembling flaming torches sat in sconces around the walls. I was well impressed. I imagined myself as a 1920s aristocrat as we ascended the large marble staircase to our floor. In comparison to where I worked, there was an obvious quality in the deep pile carpeting and age in the velvety wallpaper and drapes.
The actual deed didn't take too long. I remembered my previous encounter with my first customer, so suggested it might be nice if we bathe together. Regardless that he already looked clean, it was important to me that there was no extra off-putting nastiness to hinder my performance. Fortunately I didn't have to do a great deal. He ejaculated rather quickly whilst still in the bath. I told him I was new to London and had no knowledge of the gay scene. Fact was, I didn’t even know it was called a scene, never mind anything else. My plan was for him to show me a nice safe gay bar. He took me in a black taxicab to Marble Arch and we pulled up outside a pub named The City of Quebec.
Through a side door we descended a dimly lit staircase to enter a darkened basement bar. He chose a seat close to the door. I found it difficult in such low light to see more than a few metres into the bar but did notice that almost all of the faces that passed by our table to visit the men’s room were ancient. I detested the taste of all alcohol but could just about stomach vodka drowned in orange juice. I had a low tolerance against its effects and considered myself a teetotal. I got absolutely hammered, being plied with drinks all night.
I woke the next morning back at the Regent Palace Hotel. Fragmented memories soon came into focus putting me in a pizza restaurant and a second bar. From the bathroom I heard a tap running; I was so parched the trickle must have woken me. I retrieved a bottle of spring water, thoughtfully positioned just within my reach. I quenched my thirst and a momentary flash of panic jolted me to full awareness. With trepidation I wondered what I had done the night before. Nothing of any significance sprang to mind, except the fact I could not remember if I had said my prayers. I took a moment to mouth an edited version at top speed. I had to allow myself this small late-clause so I could keep my ‘pray every night record’ intact.
Before I headed back to my hotel, I was treated to breakfast in The Rotunda Court Restaurant. In perfect harmony with the rest of the hotel, this round breakfast room with its opaque domed ceiling and large potted palms appeared unchanged since its conception pre nineteen-twenties. Penguin-clad waiters and waitresses stood to attention at various stations around the room, eager to serve with a smile. I was recommended by my companion to try the Eggs Benedict; it sounded really posh so I needed no further encouragement. It was delicious – poached eggs and lightly toasted English muffins, with sliced ham and a hollandaise sauce. With it we drank Earl Grey tea, which I thought tasted like perfume. I persisted with the strange taste because I thought the name seemed fancy too and towards the end of my cup I'd acquired such a taste for it, I requested a refill.
“Look at me,” I thought, “All posh.”
These opulent surroundings knocked the spots off the three-star dining-room I was unworthy to enter at work. I activated the shutter within my mind to capture another image for posterity.
I had been in the man’s company long enough and I was eager to be on my way. We parted ways with a handshake and I headed straight off towards Baker Street underground station. My first expedition into town had been a success. I'd earned fifty pounds, the equivalent of a week’s wages, and I’d even managed to score some hash. However, back at work, it hadn't gone unnoticed that I had stayed out all night. I had a real issue telling lies; it was something I didn't like doing and so avoided whenever possible. I would rather omit than admit which, in most instances, would usually suffice. So when they questioned the “dirty stop-out” I told a big whopper. I said I’d spent the night with a woman. I even invented a life for her. I made out that she lived and worked in a busy public house down the West End.
