Dashed Hopes and Broken Dreams

London, UK - a disturbed young man - Wednesday, April 27th, 2005 : goo

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Yesterday came to an uncharacteristically mellow close. It was balmy. Summer is on the horizon, of that I have little doubt. The bins behind the bingo hall had been left open again, revealing themselves to be empty. Empty; but for a sodden paper carpet of dashed hopes and broken dreams. The fluorescent marker inks as they bled together had produced every colour of the rainbow. I found it strangely reminiscent of the many psychotropic incidences of my distant youth.

The yellow brick wall on which we nestled was heated pleasantly by the setting sun, and our world took on a sudden orange hue. We sat in this warm ambience, drinking, smoking and talking. I sat bewitched by Carla’s enormous eyes as we spoke about nothing in particular for what seemed like an eternity. I ventured beyond her stony facade and found myself somewhere new. Somewhere even more deeply calming than this heavenly sunset.

As I reveled aimlessly in her company, Carla began recounting a story that she seen on the breakfast news. They warned of an individual targeting young female drivers. Upon his intended victim stopping at a red light, this fresh-faced fellow would bashfully tap on her window. He would concernedly gesture toward a tyre as if to suggest a puncture, then once sufficiently opened, a live rat would be swiftly introduced through the window. This action was invariably followed by his startled victim springing from her vehicle, leaving the attacker free to snatch handbags and whatever else caught his eye. They went on to advise extra vigilance, keeping windows closed and doors locked whilst driving. Carla doesn’t drive, and neither do i.

Alan acts as willing chauffeur to the ravishing Miss McDermott whenever he can, anywhere within the M25; but he is attending a cystitis seminar in Milton Keynes. I told Carla that such a concrete-grey wilderness was the perfect setting for a cultured man like Alan. She just laughed and adjusted the flimsy straps of her H&M floral-print summer dress. Our evening soundtrack was a heady mix of traffic noise layered with the tinny overtones of a distant bingo announcer. This was further interspersed with the intermittence of equally muffled applause. We sat in relative silence for a while; listening.

Two little ducks. Quack, quack! … Tuh-wenty Twooo!

Carla says that Bingo helps to keep pensioners minds sharp. It gives them an alternative focus in the way that youth centres and halfpipes are designed to sway kids from the more traditional pastimes of smoking crack and getting pregnant. The blue-rinse brigade could be out on the streets of an evening, getting in my way. They could be tripping on broken paving slabs, and filing lawsuits against the council. They could equally be let loose on our roads. Free to hold up the traffic with an over-cautious driving style. If lucky they might not get robbed at a busy intersection. They’re happiest though, when huddled together in rickety consumerist surroundings. Never happier, inanely marking off the numbers on their throwaway bingo cards, winning instant cash prizes with which to buy biscuits. The bus will take them safely home.

Two fat ladies… - declared the bingo caller, deliberately overstressing each syllable.

“You and your mother!” - I interjected bluntly.

My breach of Carla’s reverie was met with an expression that I took to be a combination of both constrained amusement and outward disdain in equal measure. I counteracted this with a sheepish grin followed by a pointless yet comprehensive visual inspection of my worn-out Reeboks, the toes of which made invisible circles in the warm night air.

Eighty Eiiiight!

From the rusty steel door beneath the air-conditioning vents, sprang three disheveled bingo hall employees in their ludicrously blue and yellow striped outfits. They were two floppy haired punk kids and the gummy girl from the corner shop, now sporting a brace. She smiled a gummy, orthodontic smile in my direction. I pretended not to notice whilst I observed one of the punk kids writing onto the side of a beige air-con unit with a marker pen. I made a mental note to take a closer look after they had gone back inside, though this note somehow got misfiled. It undoubtedly read something lame, however. The other punk kid presented gummy with a half hearted peck on the cheek, before hesitantly approaching me. He asked for a light which I begrudgingly obliged him before dismissing him with a discourteous grunt. If it had not been for that fact that I was smoking a cigarette at the time I would have falsely informed him that I did not smoke, and therefore no, I didn’t have a light. He had dyed jet black hair and a polished silver stud in his lower lip. I noted the lack of enthusiasm in his black nail polish. I am not fond of punk kids, or goths.

Siiix and Niiine…

Something happened last night. I woke early this morning to find Carla flaccidly hunched like a ragdoll over one arm of my tatty velour sofa. Donal was asleep in the kitchen again. He was too fucked to walk home. That much I remembered. Carla appeared to be entirely naked from the waist down. From the physical evidence before me I concluded that something fun had happened. Her stupor from her aroma, I took to be attributable to excessive alcohol consumption. It was roughly 7.00AM, and I remembered little of the previous nights course of events.

Had I been Carla’s welcome assailant? In the warm glow of morning glory I decided that whatever the case, such a glistening invitation was too welcoming a prospect to ignore. I entered slowly, not wanting to arouse unnecessary consciousness. She merely stirred and fell back into unconsciousness as my gratitude was released into its accommodating host. I think I love her.

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