Charlie Dorr’s Memoir pt. 3

Earlier parts include “Stay Away From The Riff Raff” and “Where’s The Bus, Charlie?”


We were at a bar for no reason because we didn’t want one. My reason now is for writing or sex. If someone asks, I’ll say it’s for friendship. If someone ever says their reason for being at a bar is for ‘fun’, I’ll punch them in the jaw – man or girl.

I was with Jimmy and two of his friends I didn’t know, along with two underage girls. Their lips had the trace of small pimples, baby fat, and unearned laughter. I was twenty-one and they were seventeen, but the age didn’t matter; what mattered was having four guys and only two girls. Jimmy and I, for a while, were good friends because I forgave the fact I hated his guts. He had an Arab dad that he hated because he never saw him, so Jimmy’s mum hated Arabs, and Jimmy hated his long nose and probably a lot of things I would have known had he not been a bore who bragged about his big dick and drug use. This was when I dressed for attention, but didn’t know how to handle it when I got it. Any fuck I’d ever had then was from a woman taking my dick and its hopes or dreams into her own moist hands. They were usually chubby and unimaginative women, so it never counted.

The bar closed and we hadn’t made any moves yet. I spoke to Simon, the redhead friend with arms so bulging with wiry muscle they distracted me while he rattled on with the arrogance of a kid who’d won academic medals and never been beaten up for it. I wanted to write a poem out loud regarding the purple tinge in the sky and love or youth and all of that. He interrupted me to talk about the light pollution and chemical make-up.

When there were four guys walking back to an old, ill-kept slum house with two underage girls, I realised I was drunk and that left me only one option: to stay drunk until something interesting happened. Someone else had bought enough booze to facilitate that and when I walked into the room I added nothing to the conversation because it was all a terrible veil of horniness. I wanted to spray something goey inside of one of the lovely, illegal morons, whether it was jizz or wisdom, but I had more self-respect and manners than the others.

I drank deeply from the red wine, and requested The Doors. One guy passed out in an armchair. The girls said they didn’t get along with their parents in a long winded way of complimenting Jimmy about his squalid bedroom within a terrifying terrace house.

I slid down from my own chair head first, and with my legs shooting up into the crumbly walls the formed a lime green sky, I poured wine into my mouth. I missed. My white shirt died. Coldness tickled me and I was sad about losing wine and having to move, then do something about the mess, like stand up and find a towel. I took it as a sign to sneak the bottle out and walk home for a giddy wank, thinking about women that mattered, or just some filthy porn that made me feel mature. I think I passed out before any of that happened.

Two months later I saw Jimmy for the first time since and it was only to buy acid off of him. That was his main benefit to me and he wasn’t a bad guy at his core, but I say that out of kindness and weakness. Apart from the women and the drugs, he tried to go to university three times and kept being kicked out for lack of attendance. His excuse was that he had just coincidentally developed an addiction to role playing board games at that time with his stoner housemates. A few weeks of 30 hour games and he had no ability to make it to class. All I see is him sitting in a cheap 3rd hand brown suit telling me that his application had been processed and that this time he would be mature. 10 years down the line and he’d be a lawyer with kids whom he’d surround with musical instruments to force them to be rich musicians so that he could quit his awful job and get high at the beach in Borneo.

For the time being, I wanted my acid, and he was intent on telling me how the rest of that night went when we were at the bar. He and Simon had fucked the two girls. It was like saying America fights illegal wars. I knew and it upset me, but I had other things to worry about. Then he told me that one of the girls had felt regret or shame or fear and never seen them again, but somehow he and Simon had formed a lust-triangle with one, her name was Becky and her Eighteenth was coming up. She was also pregnant, but they didn’t know whose it was. Simon and her were in love, he said. I laughed and called him a fucking idiot. Simon was a science genius though and Becky’s Dad would help out financially, he said. We took acid and I met myself then died. I haven’t seen Jimmy since.



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