Prepare to Slide In
Garden of the Numb chapter 17
My short stretch in prison hadn’t calmed me. If anything, the three weeks I’d spent in Wandsworth watching television, withdrawing from Venlafaxine and writing a diary tightened my coil. Reader, I came out fighting.
After a couple of warm-ups at the Windmill, the stage was set for the mighty Slide In night to open. Or rather, the stage was lying in a heap on the floor the night before the show, having not been erected as promised. We spent the eve of the show building the two-foot-high platform, installing lights, a sound system and the smoke machine. I’d booked one of our friends to DJ. Little Twitchard was coming all the way from East London. On the afternoon of the show, while we were still fine-tuning the equipment, Little Twitchard asked me what mixer we were using. “What do you mean, mixer? Are you on the smoothies?”
Saul was screwing in a loose cable when he heard me. “If Little Twitchard plays vinyl, he needs a mixer. I could have told you that.”
“I borrowed a turntable,” I said. “Nobody said anything about a mixer.”
I clearly didn’t know the first thing about music or equipment. It should have been the venue’s responsibility. But despite its backwoods atmosphere, the Tulse Hill Tavern wasn’t exactly the Grand Ole Opry. At least in the real Deep South, I imagined they’d sort us out with a tumbler of bourbon.
“What do you mean, no drinks tokens?” The landlord slumped over the taps, worn out before the show had even started. “We’ve built you a venue. We’re bringing you a crowd. My mate’s even lending you a mixer.”
“I don’t care, son. That’s not the agreement we had with Simon. What you having, a Guinness?”
“I’ll have a Guinness!” Saul piped up.
“Better make that two.”
“Lester, you’re getting the drinks in?” Nathan appeared as they were being ordered.
“That’s fine.” I gave the landlord my card. “Let’s start a tab. We’ll have six Guinness.”
“One for Simon?”
“No, he can go fuck himself.”
Next week on Garden of the Numb: sound check