Leaving London, Part One

An entry in a collaborative historical fiction project

The first segment of this short story belongs to the CJ Sansom Memorial Historical Fiction Writing Event, organized by Holly at Medieval Musings. Pop over to hers for work set in just about any era you could dream of.

Original archive image taken in the 1960s on 35mm slide film.

June 1968

“Hmm. I fancy you more without the shirt. But you can leave the hat on.”

It was my last night in the city. Tomorrow I’d be on my way home thinking where to throw my vote in November, the frying pan or the fire, but not yet. The guys I was visiting had mentioned this chick’s name a few times over our three weeks, always while drinking, so we swung by and here it was midnight and I’d lost them. It was a party in one of those row houses—she ran all the flats and of course we had to climb all the stairs to get to hers. The air inside kind of stung my eyes. I stepped over more half-clothed bodies than I’d ever seen in one place before meeting this chick. She had a reputation for generosity: the first thing we did was share a joint. Her hair was dark and so short it was like a cap on her head. The way her eyes bored through the thick liner made me think I might as well have left my shirt at the door.

“You’re cute,” she said, and put her hands on my chest. Her nails were long and painted some vibrant color that I couldn’t really see. “How old did you say you were?”

The guys must’ve said something for me. My birthday was only a month away. “Twenty-one.”

She took me around the waist. I tried not to look down. “How about I show you something your first twenty-one years don’t usually teach you?”

“I got an early flight.”

She lifted the hat off my head and plopped it on hers. The wide brim drooped into her face so her eyes peered out like a raccoon’s. “Shame.” Then she ran a hand through my hair, which the heat had made frizzier than usual, and pushed with both hands.

***

The guys and I made it out about eight a.m. We hightailed it home, maybe or maybe not running the odd curb along the way, and giving me just enough time to throw my bags in the boot, swill down a cup of coffee, and splash some water across my face before we raced to Heathrow. The guys were alright drivers, more or less—less when they were hungover, and this one at the wheel least of all. I’d never felt so panicky on either side of the road. Well, we got there and said our so-longs and tally-hos and I noticed how they seemed to be in a giggly mood still. I was off that by now. I made my way into the terminal with bags under both eyes and both arms. The guitar on my back listed to one side. I flashed my passport and headed for customs and that’s where the real story begins.

A word about my airborne experience. My dad knew people all over and couldn’t exactly see most of them. He died last year. I had always known him that way, sick. People came to him. I’d meet them when they stopped by at home or the hospital, and he started shipping me off all kinds of places in his stead, to give them his regards. And I made a fair number of friends myself that way. And our mom worked so much that soon I was looking after myself and my brother and sister. I became what you might call the man of the house. Only I still went to school, and I still got what-for from the toughs on occasion.

So, I’d been flying solo for some time. Meanwhile, I was standing on the line and getting awfully warm in my leather jacket, so I shrugged it off, and when I unzipped one of the bags I almost wet myself.

I didn’t recall packing anything leafy, but there it was wrapped in plastic. Several packages, at least three that I could see. It took me a solid thirty seconds to riffle through my recent actions, decide it hadn’t been me, and come to the realization that I had to stuff my jacket in and pretend nothing was out of the ordinary, which is what I did. Now, I’m no saint, but it’s another thing to smuggle this stuff across intercontinental borders. After I zipped the bag I kept staring at it. I figured all the uniforms must be watching. I was so jangled I tripped over it and toppled into the girl behind me. A big rucksack was slung over her arm, the kind with lots of buckles, and she lurched and I hit the ground hard.

“Whoa, you okay?”

She was American. “Yeah.” I got to my feet with all the dignity I had. “Sorry.”

She shrugged her backpack up over both shoulders. “Where’re you headed?”

“L.A.”

“You’re from there?”

“Well, it’s my mom’s place, but unless I want to pay my own rent, you know.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from there.”

“My dad is—he was from Oklahoma.” For some reason I could feel myself turning red. I’ve always been kind of self-conscious about my voice.

“Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it.” I dropped to my knees, snatched the little pouch from the bag, stuffed it into my sock right along my ankle, and straightened up. I wasn’t in the mood for a talk.

“I’m from Bakersfield. I’m in L.A. now and then, on business.”

I waited for her to fill in, but I guess she was waiting for me to ask. “What business?”

“Art. Workshops.”

“Man, what a drag.” I was joking, but she gave me the side-eye. “Nah, I dig it. Art.”

“Takes one to know one.” She was examining my things. “Music boy.”

“On the side.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “During the day I’m an office boy.”

“Really.”

“Really. I’m a lifetime member of the National Association for the Advancement of Paper Clips, and I’ve been lobbying for a new memo board system where we all leave index card insults on each other’s cubicles.”

She rolled her eyes. “I could peg you for the kind who skips every other Tuesday or after a full moon.”

“Every other Thursday, thank you. That’s when the street musicians come out for the weekend.”

“And you play with them?”

“I’ve been known to jam now.”

She tilted her head. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Right.’

“Honest.”

She pointed ahead. “We’re moving.”

“Oh.” I dragged my things across the gap between me and the guy in front of me. We were closer than I thought. “I was visiting some musician friends here. Pub gigs.”

“Hit the big time, huh?”

“As big as they’re gonna get over here. I’m trying to pull them across to us, they might have more luck at the festivals.”

I might have said something more, but I couldn’t tell you what because my turn came. My hands were clammy.

“No,” she was saying, “I can’t picture you in an office. I’d think you’d walk right out.”

I practically dropped the bags onto the table and then put my guitar behind it. “The guy was a friend of my dad’s. Publisher. He helped”—I tapped my ankle with the other foot, just to be sure—“helped me cut my first record.”

I didn’t mean to get into a whole conversation, but it must have loosened me up. The officer motioned me forward. I walked normally, I think. Even after he let me take my things and I breathed, my chest was tight. I had just shrugged my jacket back on when the girl appeared behind me.

“That’s cool that you have a record out.”

“I guess.”

We wandered off in search of the gate. I know I said I didn’t want to talk, but here I was saddled with something I didn’t bargain for and I wasn’t completely alone. What else was there for me to do?