The Bottom Side Of London

I'd sure like to call it home.

This afternoon, I was lying in bed, pretty heavily intoxicated on a variety of substances that mix pretty well and come about as close to a nice heroin buzz as you can get without actually using heroin, and I came upon this beautiful dream - a beautiful scenario - OK, maybe one of those scenes that make you know that, if they were to actually happen, life would be complete and there could never possibly be anything better. 

I think I must have been in the Bayswater section of London, because they have a lot of these seedy, underground joints that hold about a dozen people.  Weathered oak bars with long-handled pulls to bring the ale up from the cool cellars without need of refrigeration.  Fires flicker over in a corner of the bar now and then, when the bartender flashes up an Absinthe.  Alas, only the opium was missing!

Old men - drunks mostly - but a few younger guys - junkies looking to make it a little longer between hits with the Absinthe tide-me-overs.  Maybe a few working girls who've called it a night and stopped for a beer or two on their way home. 

And then, there's me.  They've got an old upright piano tucked away in the back corner.  Folks saunter over there and bang out a few keys ones in a while.  It's mainly there because it's just too much of a b***h to get it out!  A long, skinny stairway, a heavy, bulky turn-of-the-century relic - Oh, just leave it there!  It's not really like they need the space or anything!

I've been wandering around London for a while now.  Of course, as an American, the chance of getting a work permit is next to nothing.  But the National Gallery and British Museum are warm (or cool, depending on the season), as well as free.  I have a Polish gal at the Kensington Court on Princes Square that lets me sleep in the kitchen, in exchange for making the coffee, tea and toast for the guests at the crack of dawn - whatever they don't eat, is mine.  Once in a while, some fellow American feels a little sorry for me and passes me a cold one in a pub somewhere. 

Anyway, there sits that piano.  It really deserves a slinky blue dress and heels, but worn-out jeans and a tee-shirt is all I've got, so OK - it has to do. 

 

Not too many songs can be pulled off completely with piano accompaniment only, but there are a few.  There's only one that runs through my mind, though - that's been running through my mind for years.  I strike the first few chords - boy, does it need tuning! - but it'll do. 

"I remember you too clearly, but I'll survive another day.  Conversations to share, when there's no one there - I'll imagine what you'd say....."  I always loved Rickie Lee Jones in general, but that song touched me on a different level than most.  Plus her voice and mine had about the same range.  Of course, hers was beautiful and sweet - mine was huskier and had seen the insides of these little dives far more than she, I imagined.   Decades of cigarettes and beer, mixed with tears and regret, lowered it even more. 

When it was over, I got up and made my way home.  Morning would come soon and there would be coffee and tea and toast to be made and served and cleaned up after.