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By Root 669 0

Barry. I went out to work, which suited me right down to the ground. My small family scattered. Lily has married again: she helps her husband run a delly in Fort Lauderdale. Julie is married, too, with kids, up in Canada somewhere. Nick does God knows what in the Gulf — Qatar, I think, or the Emirates. Norman is in a home. I reckon he would have gone there whether he failed or not. A kind, baffled man, always scheduled for great confusions. It was written. Norman is the man that I owe money to. I once sent him some. They sent it back. In a home — that's the only place where money isn't worth anything one way or the other.

I felt big and eager, at fifteen, and willing to use any talent I had. In the early mornings I would hump crates with Fat Vince. All day I ran messages at Wallace & Eliot. In the evenings I would help Fat Paul dribble the drunks out of the public bar, there, at the Shakespeare. I ... I don't quite see why I tell you this. It's all so far back in my time travel. Points of a journey do not matter when the journey has no destination, only an end. On the streets the women click — they are ticking through their time ... It happened, but now this is happening. Like the vanished Vera the past is dead and gone. The future could go this way, that way. The future's futures have never looked so rocky. Don't put money on it. Take my advice and stick to the present. It's the real stuff, the only stuff, it's all there is, the present, the panting present.

——————

'What happened to you?' I asked the telephone. I was all prepared to be big about it.

'... I didn't show up.'

'Yes, so I seem to recall.' I waited. 'Why didn't you?'

'No point. I tried to cancel on the telephone but you weren't listening.'

I waited. 'I waited,' I said.

Martina sighed. 'You were drunk. You know, it's quite a lot to ask, to spend a whole evening with someone who's drunk.'

... I had always known the truth of this, of course. Drunks know the truth of this. But usually people are considerate enough not to bring it up. The truth is very tactless. That's the trouble with these non-alcoholics — you never know what they're going to say next. Yes, a rum type, the sober: unpredictable, blinkered and selective. But we cope with them as best we can.

'Meet me tonight. I won't be drunk, I promise. Look, I'm really sorry about last night.'

'Last night?'

'Yeah. Things got a little out of hand.'

'Last night?'

'Yeah. I don't know what came over me.'

'It wasn't last night. It was the night before. Call me at eight. I'll be able to tell. If you're drunk then I'll just hang up.'

Then she just hung up.

Now I'd felt some queasy queries posed my way as I climbed out of bed, and undressed slowly before the window's span, sensing huge chemical betrayals and wicked overlappings up there in the spilled sky. I had even said to myself, Christ, it's another of those inner eclipse deals — but then Felix appeared with my breakfast, and wished me good morning, and all seemed well. Apart, that is, from the food. My omelette looked docile enough on the plate, yet it soon took on strange powers of life.

I buzzed down for Felix and summoned him to Room 101.

'Now look, kid,' I said, pretty stern. 'Why did you let me oversleep like that yesterday? You're supposed to look out for me. Time is money. God damn it, Felix, I'm a busy man.'

'Huh?' said Felix, tipping his head. 'Man, you weren't even here yesterday. I thought you gone away for the weekend or something. You got in last night. Late.'

'Drunk?'

'Drunk?' And here he began his smile. 'Downstairs they don't agree but me I think it was the best yet. You had a party hat on your head. You whole face was covered in lipstick. Drunk? They ain't got a word for where you were at. You gone and beat yourself up with that bottle. You were — you were just dead.'

This was a real bitch, no error. I could remember nothing to speak of about last night, yesterday, or the night before. Worse, I could remember nothing at all about Animal Farm.

Whatever I got up to yesterday has given me a boil on my ass—and a big 'un, too. I've