964 - Part 1

The story of a gentleman and his intriguing name.

Part 1

He called every female we met "sweetness", and - mostly - they loved him for it. His name was 964, and he was a gentleman.

This story takes place four long years ago, in the summer of 2008. I was towards the end of my second year at a University in the north of England. I was studying what I still consider to be an overrated Humanities subject, and would probably have described myself as a musician first, pot smoker second, with my various careers as a silver service waiter/Chinese restaurant chef/chip shop worker and my obvious choice of studies falling a poor third and fourth, and so on. I was four months into a six month daily Cocaine habit, thanks largely to a large out-of-court settlement from a - as yet - unnameable agency. That is another story for another day. Possibly.

My problem was that I had run out of Cannabis. Also, all of my regular dealers (for weed) were fellow students, and - this being the last week in halls - they had already returned to their father's mansions in the Home Counties for the summer to rest on the laurels, and - eventually - to spend large amounts of what was once my student loan on boys holidays to places I find repulsive, like Ibitha. This is a simple truth of the time and place and not a stereotype, let me assure you.

Maintaining a daily Cocaine habit requires a little something to calm your nerves of an evening. So, I send out the desperate pothead text:

any numbers for football boots man? my guys are all out :-(

Christian the Christian calls back in minutes. Good lad.

"Hey Buddy!"

"Alright dude?"

"Yeah man. I'm back home from Uni now, but I do know a lad who knows lads."

Luckily for the conversational flow, I had taken in a fresh line shortly after sending the text. I was on it.

"Oh aye? What do you reckon my chances are? I was hoping to have at least a kickabout before night falls."

It was early July, the long days. The time was 4pm or something like it.

"I reckon you'd be better getting two pairs of boots mate. More chance of the guy coming out, right? Size ten, yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Could you send me the number man? Maybe send him a text, give me a reference?"

You needed to be careful in our world. A reference oiled the wheels of the business, and made sure we all knew who was on whom's side.

"Yeah man, no problem. It's a lad from church. I'll tell him two pairs of boots, yeah?"

"Class, cheers mate."

Ah, codewords, codewords. Rhymes and riddles; smoke and mirrors. We used them in case a nosy relative read a text or overheard a call. A pair of boots was a bag, size ten was twenty pounds-worth. A kickabout was a joint with mates, a match was a full-on session. 'Church' wasn't code for anything.

"One more thing mate, his name is 964."

"His name, is 964?"

"Yeah mate, just leave it at that though, okay? Gotta go man; missus just got back."

"Alright man, take it easy. Thanks again."

I stretched out in my chair and stared out my thirteenth floor window for a few seconds  Beyond the main quad, the hill ran down and away, revealing the pockets of open farmland spread beneath. It was to be a beautiful evening. I began to roll a cigarette when the text came; what my phone at that time called a business card; just a number and a name. Or, in this case, two numbers.

Time to call the man.

964. Interesting, I thought. But, my mate had said leave it, and - despite his devout religious beliefs - he had a very reasonable and logical head atop his shoulders. Not a man who spoke without thinking. So I resolved to leave it. 

I rang the number.

"Good afternoon, is this my new footballing friend?"

I laughed, as I always do when someone makes me sound the slightest bit athletic. His voice was calm and crisp, reserved yet genial.

"Aye, that's me. What's the plan chief?"

"Haha, 'Chief'. I like it. May I use it?"

I didn't really understand what he meant.

"Erm, sure. No problem."

"Excellent, are you on campus? I'm in C block behind the library. Room 282. Come on over as soon as you care to."

I decided I liked 964, whatever the reasons behind his numerical name. I told him where I was, and that'd I'd be over momentarily. He seemed like a man who would enjoy the word 'momentarily'. Then we exchanged a final round of pleasantries and hung up. 

I lit the cigarette, and took a few deep tokes. Then I stood up, and darted around the room grabbing items one by one and secreting them into the pockets of my suit pants and jacket, toking feverishly between objects as my eyes found the next thing I had already decided to need. Phone, lighter, keys, wallet, tobacco, papers, roach book, a new clay chillum and my 'Gandalf pipe', a long-stemmed huge bowled beast that barely fitted into my inside pocket.

I locked up, took the lift down and stepped into the warm, bright afternoon. Pausing only to slip on my mirrored aviators (small a) I swiftly found my way to 964's flat. The only notable event to occur on the few minute walk over was a graceful smile and a "hey" from my former classmate and current drinking buddy, Danielle; obviously on a date with a small jumpy-looking man with filthy ratty dreadlocks and a bull-ring. Something about that girl always attracted strange men, wearing dark looks and cheap shoes. 

As I arrived at flat number 282, a tall, slim, good-looking young African man with an immaculately trimmed beard was standing in the doorway, wearing just baggy shorts, his towel in one hand and his toiletries in the other. He casually looked me up and down, nodding his head.

"Hello football man. Nice to meet you. I am 964."

He puts all his things under one bare arm so we can shake hands.

He gestures towards an uncomfortable-looking University-issue armchair with a small wooden chest on the seat.

"Roll yourself up one, I will be back in no time."

964 seeming like a genuine bloke, and it's appearance in these parts being somewhat of a rarity, I opted for the hash and rolled myself a 'wee single skinner'. I glanced around the crucifixes, maps, brass sculptures and biblical art adorning the walls of the room for a few minutes, and just-and-so finished the joint before 964 strolled back into the room.

This time, he's wearing even less than before. A short towel is wrapped around his hips, stopping well above the knee. His clothes are in a neat roll under one arm, and his toiletries poke out from each side of the roll.

As he turns, I see it; a large, inexpertly drawn tattoo between his shoulder blades which stretches partway down his spine. Three characters in a clear yet clumsy hand are decorated with simple brown and red stripes.

964

My curiosity was piqued, but I held off asking about how the man had acquired his intriguing moniker for as long as I could. However, in my experience, any man looking for a truth serum to use for information-gathering purposed could do a lot worse than simply getting their intended interviewee very drunk and very very stoned. Intoxicated people no longer mind telling the truth. With this in mind, and after several hours of merriment, I asked him the question that had been there all along. After keeping my mouth shut through getting stoned, picking up more, drinking, kebabs, a spliff in an alleyway, and all the girls named "Sweetness", on the two-minute walk from the bus stop back to the main quad, I gave up on English reserve and asked.

"Mate, you don't have to answer this, but I can't help wondering how a guy gets a name like 964. Sorry to ask, you know."

His smile flickers, then fades.

"That is a difficult question my friend. But don't look so worried, you had to ask. Many men have to ask."

He gripped my shoulder with one slightly swaying hand and looked me fairly directly in the face.

"Something very bad happened. 964, it is a gift. I was given it, and it came to mean the man I needed to be. Do you see?"

I said I did, and we parted after a firm handshake that turned into a kind of halfway hug. 

I'm not so sure I did see back then.