The doors of the club would open at 8; it was now 6. She had gotten to the London suburb of Harlesden purposefully early with the intent of getting acquainted with the area: the bus line, the route to the club. She was a very long way from home and not all that close to where she was staying, either, and didn't want to get lost in such alien territory.
But she had two hours to kill before the concert. She walked in and out of the only interesting shop--a record store with prominent displays of Menudo album--five times. Now it was closing, as everything else was. She did have a book with her, though. The trick was finding an inconspicuous place to read it.
Reading this book had gotten her in trouble earlier in the day in Hyde Park. She'd been sitting in a garden area by a trellis covered in roses when she noticed a man with white and red sneakers passing by and grinning. He passed by and grinned several times. She left the park; he followed her out. "Excuse me?" he called.
She turned and glared, more annoyed than frightened. "What? What do you want?"
"I want to ask you something."
"About what?" she barked at him.
"Sex," he replied.
His matter-of-fact manner caught her off-guard. She managed to say "Sorry, not interested," and walk away without being accosted further. But now she was leery of finding another bench and attempting again to read her Roald Dahl book.
In the end, her aching feet made the decision for her. She sat where benches circled the Harlesden Jubilee Clock, this suburb's idea of a town square. An old wino sat on the bench opposite. "Old winos are better than young winos" had been her reasoning when choosing this location. Maybe with him sitting there, no one else would bother her. She flipped open the book. Its cover was black with a large eyeball painted in psychedelic colors.
"Excuse me, sweetheart," said a voice a short time later. Lo and behold, the old wino had been joined by a young one, a sturdy fellow with short cropped hair trying to beg money for a pint from her in a brogue so thick she could barely understand him. She turned him down--several times, he was quite persistent as well as incomprehensible--and tried to get back to her book.
"Are ye lost?"
"No, I'm seeing a show at the Mean Fiddler."
"That's just up the road! Can ye get me in, too, love?"
"No."
"C'mere," he said, patting the bench beside him. The old wino was still at the other end, looking zoned; she wondered if he'd heard any of this exchange or would come to her aid in a time of trouble. She balked about moving for a long time, than finally thought, oh, whatever. As she sat he leaned in conspiratorially. "In exchange for getting me in to the Mean Fiddler, I'll give you an ipener."
"Sorry?"
"Look." He pointed to the cover of the Roald Dahl book. "There's an eye, right? I'll give you an eye op'ner."
She got it. He grinned. What's the deal with this city? she wondered. "Sorry, not interested." She went to sit on her bench again.
He let her sit in peace a few minutes. "What's yer given name, sweetheart?"
She told him.
"My name's Paddy."
She had to laugh. "Could've guessed that."
He laughed, too. "It's me red face that does it, isn't it? Look, today's me birthday, so how 'bout a pound to buy me a drink for it?"
"You win points for trying, Paddy, you really do, but I'm a mean, nasty person, and the answer's no."
A few more minutes passed in silence while she tried picking up the thread of the short story again--something about a woman and a husband and an elevator.
"Know what you remind me of?" Paddy said suddenly. "A turneyose."
"A what?"
"Ever been in a rose garden? A turney rose."
"Oh! Thorny! I get it." Successful conversation was beginning to seem like victory. "I take that as a compliment."
"I meant it as one."
An old lady came and hailed Paddy. He left for a while as she introduced herself--her name was Mary, and she had the filthiest mouth imaginable for a grandmotherly type. Paddy came back with two beers--one for himself, one for Mary--and a cigarette which he tried to give the old woman. "Stick it up yer hole," she grumbled.
"I would, but it's lit. I'm not as kinky as you, Mary."
Paddy was somehow less threatening with someone else there. The girl put down Roald Dahl and engaged him in conversation. "I've been divorced, separated from my children, I lost my job, my dog got run over," he told her. And as random pedestrians passed he called out to them. "Sugar Ray Leonard!" he yelled as a skinny black man passed.
"I'm beginning to understand your strategy," she remarked.
He winked and grinned. A blonde lady walked by next; he yelled, "Michelle Pfeiffer!" She turned with a laugh but kept on. "If they laugh you've won half the battle," he said seriously, like sharing a trade secret.
So the evening passed in a mix of deep but incomprehensible monologues from Mary, who gripped the girl's shoulder like she was her long-lost granddaughter, and dark jokes from Paddy. "See that over there?" He pointed to the Harlesden Jubilee Clock; at its base was a little sign, "DO NOT FEED THE PIGEONS." "Back when I had a job I added a sign o'me own: DO NOT FEED THE TOSSERS. Drunks, y'know. Now look where I am!" He laughed. He had a great laugh, she thought. He used it often.
"Things always come back to you, don't they?"
"That's the truth, sweetheart. That's the very truth."
Concert time. She got a kiss from Mary in farewell. Paddy wanted to walk her to the club. "Stay!" she ordered. "Mary?" The old lady grabbed his arm and the girl left.
But Paddy followed. "Just let me walk you over. Let me walk down the street with a pretty girl. You're wily as a fox, you know? I think you're a few roads ahead of me, and that's saying somethin'. Didn't we have a good time? Don't I get a birthday kiss? Here we are at the Mean Fiddler." He turned his head away like a protest. "If I get a kiss you better give it to me now."
She took his hand and kissed it. They walked to the very door of the club. "Don't I get a proper kiss? How can I go without a proper kiss?" She let him kiss her cheek; she kissed his scruffy cheek in return.
"Now go away, Paddy," she said with a stern laugh and a push.
He took her hand with a warm smile, almost wistful. "God bless. Listen..." His eyes were unsure now, an unusual expression for such a seemingly practiced con artist. "I'm a bum and a tosser, but I'm pretty all right anyway, right?"
She shook his hand, holding the fingers tight and holding his gaze. "That's right. God bless, Paddy."
He walked off and she never saw him again.