The calm and peaceful ambiance was briefly interrupted when someone from a passing auto on the highway above tossed an empty can of beer out the window. All eyes were on the can as it floated towards us. As the can hit the ground seven people dove for it. The nickel deposit being the reward for some lucky person. A struggle ensued and many epithets were heard. Several observers with mobiles in hand were prepared to call emergency services should violence break out. I wondered to myself how, if one is unemployed, one can afford to have a mobile. This thought quickly passed as I was distracted by a lone figure leaning against the abutment. Curious, I walked over to the person in the shadows. It was not until I was within spitting distance of the figure that I heard, “Long time no see, Bill.” The voice was familiar but I could not place it. The North London inflection was distinct but I couldn't put a face to the voice. Below us, the partiers had dumped a large box of books on the community fire and the fresh fuel highlighted the surrounding area.
I looked into the face of the stranger. The patented gap-toothed grin was instantly recognisable. “Raymond Douglas!” I laughed. “Yes, it has been a long time.”
I reached into my pocket and brought out my cigarette case. “Fag, Raymond Douglas?” I offered with a smirk. Raymond Douglas reached for one of my Harry Rags.
“Thanks, mate.” Raymond Douglas reached out and lit my smoke and then his. “How long since you worked, Bill” he asked.
“Months.” I replied. Its getting rough. “It's not like the UK where a bloke who isn't working isn't stigmatised.” Here, if you don't work you don't exist.”
“Yeah. I spend six months here and six months in London because of tax,” Raymond Douglas laughed. “What happened at the last situation?”
“Policy infraction,” I sighed. “They have a zero tolerance policy concerning violence. I wrote, 'This machine kills Fascists' above my monitor. The Director had stopped by my cubicle and I got the sack.”
Laughing, Raymond Douglas quipped, “No one likes a plagiarist!”
I chuckled at his self-deprecating humour and retorted, “Everything produced since 1877 has now been sampled. I think I heard Edison's “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in a 50 cent cut. There's plenty of work for Solicitors.”
“They think they know us because of what we publish,“ I complained. “Most of them over there couldn't find a metaphor in a sack of mad cats.”
Raymond Douglas laughed out loud. “They're burning books for light and comfort. In another time that would be a red flag. Today there's too much rubbish. Too many bad books, too much bad music, too many bad films.”
“Its unfortunate its come to this,” I sighed. “What did Bob say about creating something?”
“Bob did it right. He got in on the publishing rights angle straight off. Not like me. Bob hasn't much use for us Brits. Can't say as I blame him. He's got his resentments. I have mine. How about you?”
Raymond Douglas drew hard on the fag and stared down at me. I felt a little overwhelmed. The man had given me so much over the years. My gratitude I could not express adequately and I figured he'd heard it all before.
I thought for a moment and stammered, “Raymond Douglas, I think that in years to come, long after we are all dead and buried people will know you and David as two of the most unique and original artists of the latter Twentieth century. Its cold comfort I know - about the money and all - but you know the true originals are never recognised in their life times. Bloody Hell! I sound like an arse kisser but you asked me and I answered you honestly.” I smiled at him and wanted so much to hear his approval.
“Bill, thank you. I've been around long enough to suss if I'm being stroked. So what you gonna do? You gonna give the people what they want?” He asked with sincerity and genuine concern.
“Hey!” I chuckled. “That would make a great title for a posting. Mind if I use it?”
“Go ahead. I got it from Barnum,” he laughed.
“You that old, Raymond Douglas?” I grinned.
“Some days, yeah,” he winked.
“I wonder who he got it from?” I chuckled.
“Hard to say, mate. I imagine he fucked some innocent wanker out of it.”
“Raymond Douglas, I have to get back and find people to use. It was great seeing you and I'll keep listening,” I promised. “G'night.”
“G'night, Bill. I'm off myself to the studio.”
The smile in his voice made me glad I had come to the underpass on this particular night. I walked back towards the crowd a little richer, not financially but emotionally and intellectually. It was time to find a ship and go a-whalin'.
I looked into the face of the stranger. The patented gap-toothed grin was instantly recognisable. “Raymond Douglas!” I laughed. “Yes, it has been a long time.”
I reached into my pocket and brought out my cigarette case. “Fag, Raymond Douglas?” I offered with a smirk. Raymond Douglas reached for one of my Harry Rags.
“Thanks, mate.” Raymond Douglas reached out and lit my smoke and then his. “How long since you worked, Bill” he asked.
“Months.” I replied. Its getting rough. “It's not like the UK where a bloke who isn't working isn't stigmatised.” Here, if you don't work you don't exist.”
“Yeah. I spend six months here and six months in London because of tax,” Raymond Douglas laughed. “What happened at the last situation?”
“Policy infraction,” I sighed. “They have a zero tolerance policy concerning violence. I wrote, 'This machine kills Fascists' above my monitor. The Director had stopped by my cubicle and I got the sack.”
Laughing, Raymond Douglas quipped, “No one likes a plagiarist!”
I chuckled at his self-deprecating humour and retorted, “Everything produced since 1877 has now been sampled. I think I heard Edison's “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in a 50 cent cut. There's plenty of work for Solicitors.”
“They think they know us because of what we publish,“ I complained. “Most of them over there couldn't find a metaphor in a sack of mad cats.”
Raymond Douglas laughed out loud. “They're burning books for light and comfort. In another time that would be a red flag. Today there's too much rubbish. Too many bad books, too much bad music, too many bad films.”
“Its unfortunate its come to this,” I sighed. “What did Bob say about creating something?”
“Bob did it right. He got in on the publishing rights angle straight off. Not like me. Bob hasn't much use for us Brits. Can't say as I blame him. He's got his resentments. I have mine. How about you?”
Raymond Douglas drew hard on the fag and stared down at me. I felt a little overwhelmed. The man had given me so much over the years. My gratitude I could not express adequately and I figured he'd heard it all before.
I thought for a moment and stammered, “Raymond Douglas, I think that in years to come, long after we are all dead and buried people will know you and David as two of the most unique and original artists of the latter Twentieth century. Its cold comfort I know - about the money and all - but you know the true originals are never recognised in their life times. Bloody Hell! I sound like an arse kisser but you asked me and I answered you honestly.” I smiled at him and wanted so much to hear his approval.
“Bill, thank you. I've been around long enough to suss if I'm being stroked. So what you gonna do? You gonna give the people what they want?” He asked with sincerity and genuine concern.
“Hey!” I chuckled. “That would make a great title for a posting. Mind if I use it?”
“Go ahead. I got it from Barnum,” he laughed.
“You that old, Raymond Douglas?” I grinned.
“Some days, yeah,” he winked.
“I wonder who he got it from?” I chuckled.
“Hard to say, mate. I imagine he fucked some innocent wanker out of it.”
“Raymond Douglas, I have to get back and find people to use. It was great seeing you and I'll keep listening,” I promised. “G'night.”
“G'night, Bill. I'm off myself to the studio.”
The smile in his voice made me glad I had come to the underpass on this particular night. I walked back towards the crowd a little richer, not financially but emotionally and intellectually. It was time to find a ship and go a-whalin'.
