Are You Experienced?

I have no idea where I was when J.F.K. was assassinated. Witnessing the “one small step for man” was exciting, but nothing really change, in my world. Seeing Jimi Hendrix live on the Lulu show however, was another matter entirely.

A drunken kiss made public knowledge by a friend on New Years Eve !968 had seen me grounded until further notice. I was sixteen and devastated.. It was the first Saturday of 1969 when the glitch in continuity occurred. As if to make herself seem common- or maybe to distance herself from Jimi- Lulu sat amongst the audience to introduce him. Then he appeared, live in black and white, on our telly. The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Mam and Dad liked the Beatles. They laughed at the Stones; said they were “ Nancy Boys”. Jimmi was different. Jimi was black. Anyone who had attended the, God forsaken, secondary modern I had recently been expelled from knew what fear looked like. They shouted obscenities at Jimi never used under their roof before, or since. Dad even blamed Jimi for my waywardness. They directed their anger towards him, but it was me they were frightened of and what further disgrace I could bring to their doorstep. Jimi fell on the knife for me that night and something changed. I spent a sleepless night thinking- in black and white- how to escape my future. It seemed hopeless.

I met Billy and Eric in the tea gardens. Not long after my fifth birthday. Our dads would sit drinking tea, sweetened with dark rum, cursing fish merchants, under a halo of, steel blue, cigarette smoke. We would be told to bugger off and play. This became a regular event. The main event By the end of the summer we had made a camp under a pussy willow tree. The only piece of furniture being an ashtray we had stolen from the cafe. Although we hadn't started smoking yet, it gave the place a homely feel.

When St. Hilda's bells struck twelve we would run to our dads, climb onto their shoulders and gallop to the Queens Head. Our dads would go into the bar. We preferred the snug where Old men would tell us stories about their part in Hitler's downfall. Scarlett women fed us maraschino cherries, dipped in Babycham, and tell us we were beautiful bairns.

On a miserable Monday morning in September we were sent to school. The three of us stood holding hands, staring at the ground, silent but resolute. They wanted one of us to hold the hand of another boy.

“You can make a new friend” they said.

It was too late for that. Eventually the headmistress, a big woman with a moustache, was called.

“Your first day and you're already being naughty.” she said while giving me a push.

We got the giggles.

“Typical. Fishermen's kids.”

She gave up in the end. Everyone gave up in the end. Teachers, relatives, policemen, magistrates, probation officers; They all said bugger it eventually. When we were finally expelled from school even our parents had to admit; we actually were “The wrong crowd”.

We were inseparable, insufferable and oblivious to the carnage in our wake. We thought we had crossed all the lines drawn in the sand by decent people. We were mistaken.

Billy and I were thrown out of the party while Eric was being sick. It was New Years Eve 1968 and we had nowhere to go so we staggered off to the tea gardens. I fell over on the bowling green. Billy fell over helping me up. We lay on our backs watching the stars swarm across the night sky. Without any warning Billy leaned over and kissed me. On the lips. No one had ever done that before. My first kiss. If I had been gay or Billy a woman it certainly wouldn't have been our last. Unfortunately, we weren't so it was. Billy turned away and said he was sorry. I looked towards the north star and searched for words that, like the stars, I knew existed but were out of my reach. I gave up. The moon showed her face and shone a beam on Eric. Standing there, teardrops dangling from his glasses and snot from his nose.

“Bastards” He screamed

“Dirty bastards”

He then ran off to tell anyone who would listen what he had witnessed. My parents found out about “The Kiss” on Friday night and I got to see Jimi on the Lulu show.

Things were different after Jimi. I told my parents I would take the apprenticeship in September. Until then I would mend nets stay out of trouble and give Billy and Eric a wide berth. They had know idea that I meant it. Why would they ? Nevertheless, tensions eased to a tolerable level and I was eventually allowed out. My first kiss had become the talk of the town. Everybody seemed to have a take on it. The long and short of it was. Eric the hero, Billy the victim and yours truly. Middlegate seemed to be lined with people waiting their turn to shout “Nancy Boy” as I walked by.

It started to rain so I headed for the bus shelter. Eric was there H.e had shaved his head and bought some bovver boots. He called me a nancy boy. His little gang of similarly shorn toilet brushes sniggered. I called him a grass. I don't know why, but it hit the spot. There was a bit of a skirmish and we left it at that. I walked away leaving the shelter to him..

The library was one of the oldest buildings in the town. I had leaned against its red brick facade occasionally but never ventured inside. It would have to do. I sat on a hard seat in the lobby and waited for the rain to stop. I would be sitting in Parravani's right now. If we hadn't kissed. Drinking frothy coffee and being the centre of attention. I sat there wishing I could, at least, regret it. My attempt to feel guilty was interrupted by a woman I had seen many times but never really noticed.

“Are you alright ?”

She put her hand on my shoulder.

“Here, take this” She passed me a handkerchief. “Your nose is bleeding”

I took the handkerchief and instead of thanking her I stupidly apologised.

“Don't apologise” she said “It's not your fault”

I'd always known I would cry one day. I had hoped it would be a private affair. Twenty minutes I sat on that bench sobbing. I had no idea what the tears were in aid of.

Miss Philby, the librarian, was a spinster. That's what they called feminists in the days of black and white. When my sobbing had finally stopped, for some reason, I told her everything. I can't recall what exactly, but it felt like everything.

“Why don't you come into the library and I will make you a frothy coffee”

She got up and walked towards the heavy oak doors. I hesitated. Nobody had ever told me I couldn't go in the library. Yet, I felt anxious. I bit the bullet.

Fifty years of smoking has made my nose, more or less redundant. My only regret is that I will never again get the whiff of a library when you first walk in. Then there's the books. Rows and rows standing to attention in alphabetical order. Sitting there for years, with the patience of a saint. Waiting.

Miss Philby directed me to a prickly wing back chair in the recess of a bay window. The window was stained glass. The sun lanced through it creating strips of colour across the parquet tiled floor. Another first. I had only ever seen stained glass windows from the outside. Miss Philby returned with the coffee and a book. She handed me the book.

“I thought you might like to read for a while” she said “ Till you calm down”

I gave her the eyebrows.

“You can read ?”

“When I have to” I said

“Give it a try. It will do you good” she said and walked away.

She was right. Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer rapidly became my soulmate. It was also a relief to spend a couple of hours not thinking about “Me”. Miss Philby shook me. I'd fallen asleep in the prickly wing back. Tom lay on my chest.

“We're closing now. Would you like to take the book home with you. ?”

I sat up straight in the chair and remembered all the stuff I had told her. I never wanted to see her again. Ever.

“No thanks” I said and ran.

I woke up the following morning to the sound of rain. I was feeling guilty about leaving Tom to deal with Injun Joe on his own. I had no option. Dad's jaw hit the floor when I told him where I was off to.

“The library. What for ?”

“To read a book Dad. “

Miss Philby had put Tom under her desk. She handed it to me.

“I'm glad you came back” she said

Another first.

I decided I would keep going to the library until something better presented itself to me. Nothing did. I developed a craving for books and Miss Philby was happy to feed my habit. Sometimes we would sit and talk. The library is a great place to hold a conversation. You have to lean in close and whisper. Make every word count. There was something about Miss Philby- and, perhaps the library itself. They couldn't read my mind but they compelled me to speak it. The words I'd searched for on New years eve were getting closer. Miss Philby gave my feelings a name; an identity. I had often seen them but took no notice. Just like I had Miss Philby.

As the days, then weeks passed without any,sonorous, knocks on the door or sirens in the street my parents became cautiously optimistic. “We think he's turned a corner” they would tell people . They never mentioned the reading. They didn't have to. Everybody knew. I'm sure they had heard the rumours about Miss Philby and myself. They were probably reassured by them in fact. Miss Philby found them amusing and seemed pleased to be getting noticed. It had stopped the shouts of “Nancy Boy” as I walked along the street.

Being young and selfish I hadn't given Billy and Eric much thought. So it came as quite a shock to hear that Billy had tried to kill himself. He'd taken a load of his mother's little helpers and washed them down with Brasso. Plonker Armstrong found him under the pussy willow on a Sunday morning. “ There must be a better means of escape than that” was my first thought. And, there was. I heard about it from a bloke at the bus stop.

I was sitting in the bus shelter waiting for the library to open. I saw him crossing the road. He was dressed in clothes that I'd only seen on the telly.

“What's that you're reading young'un ?”

“A book”

I still had the attitude but my heart wasn't in it. He sensed this, sat down next to me and looked at the book cover.

“Two years before the mast. Good yarn youngun.”

I bit

“Have you read it ?”

He took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from the breast pocket of his Levi jacket and offered me one. I had my first taste of America.

“At least three times” he said

“Do you read a lot ?”

“You could say it's a part of my job Youngun”

“What do you do ?”

I spent the next hour listening to the greatest story never written, about the life of a merchant seaman. His bus came, he gave me a pack of Marboro, told me to read Moby Dick and I never saw him again.

Miss Philby took of her glasses and cleaned them with the hem of her skirt.

“So, in a nutshell” she said “You live on a ship, sailing the world's oceans, spending all of your spare time reading books and listening to old sailors tell tall stories. After arriving at some exotic port, you go ashore, get drunk, fall in love with a beautiful woman who wants nothing from you but the moment and twenty dollars for a taxi home”

I'm sure that's not how I described it. Nevertheless, she was right. In fact, she'd made it sound even better.

I think my parents knew I would never stick to the script. They couldn't hide their disappointment but they loved me. Miss Philby gave me Alice in Wonderland as a going away present.