32. THE SAVAGE TWILIGHT
Los Angeles: Saturday 2nd June 1990
Time to exit another sewedge pipe......... Goodbye Los Angeles.......
Stepping onto the aircraft, I feel a huge weight lifting from my soul; I feel as light as a feather as I float down the narrow walkway between the seats......
The plane looks bright, clean.... Very welcoming really.....
All I need now is to find my seat and I can settle in......
I glance at my ticket and head down further into the vesille...... ....... The plane feels sparse and empty.
I remove my thick coat and my baseball cap; with a flick of the switch above me, I have air con blowing down on my shorn scalp- My bald head.....
I smirk, thinking about Eleanor when she sees my new look.......
"My god!" She'll say. "What did you do to your hair Antonio?!" Eleanor.......
Hearing her cry on the phone hurt more than anything...... She's always meant more to me than anybody else.......
She's one of the few people in my life, her and Hymie.... And a few other minor acquaintances..... Eleanor..... She knows everything about me......
After my first novel, she approached me constantly.....
She kept digging, despite me trying to keep her out of my pain..... Away from my horror...... She'd say we needed a meeting to discuss my next project.
She'd say:
"We could do it informally over dinner at my house in Hertfordshire........" After six bottles of wine, she'd extract the truth from me....
She told me:
"I can tell by your eyes that you aren't lying Antonio. You should seek help...." I heard her words but never listened......
I'd been paid and threatened by the establishment.....
I would always end up staying the night in her spare bedroom; lying flat on the bed in my suit, cane by my side..... Staring up at the ceiling, watching shadows dance in the darkness......
When Eleanor relocated to Argentina, she begged me to join her.....
She pleaded:
"Antonio, please! Come away from this hell..... A new start....."
I told myself I needed to stay in London to push my career... Keep writing books about psychos who murder people and eat them alive......
Keep writing books about ancient cannibal recipes....
Feed the masses....... Feed the savage populus.........
But who's the one being eaten alive?
When I phoned Eleanor from the airport, she sobbed down the phone line:
"Please Antonio! Come to me! Come here! God please! Let me help you.... Please Antonio......."
There was no way I could turn back after that phone call; the was no way I could have stayed with Hymie- Regardless of how much I may have wanted to.......
Eleanor has already sought a doctor who she believes can help me:
"Please Antonio, Dr Alonso can help you. You're being tortured by these daylight hallucinations...."
My place is now in Argentina, in Buenos Aires.......
It's destiny, no matter how silly or clichéd that sounds.......
Spending time with Eleanor will be good, different from Hymie- No drugs! No craziness! No bad language.........
Just Eleanor and a few bottles of wine; Dr Alonso may have other ideas about me drinking.....
We'll see....
Eleanor is in many ways, the mother I never had......
She's an eccentric, over-emotional, aging hippie... But she cares for me.....
My own mother would do the same if she was still around; she threw herself off the top of a mental hospital when I was sixteen. It was just me and Uncle Frank from that point on......
My stomach churns painfully as I wonder what ever happened to Uncle Frank; I just left Portishead without ever saying goodbye to him. I just left and never looked back....
.......... Maybe its better to leave the past where it is- In the past!
Block all this shit out of my head........
Look to the future...... Move on for fucks sake! Outside, it's raining.......
Looking out of the window, I can see lights reflecting from large puddles on the tarmac; small droplets of rain hit the glass and merge with my reflection......
The pilot is addressing the plane, telling us we are about to take off.......
This is it........ Here we go........
I've already procured a bottle of the very finest Port Of Saint Louis from my hand luggage; I crack the top of the bottle- Any port in a storm.....
It's probably the last thing I need right now- I'm dehydrated as hell! Dryer then the desert......
The mind however, is a terrible thing. I need something to kill the pain- Soothe the soul, deaden the reality of my surroundings....
Port Of Saint Louis- Any Port in a storm......
My throat burns as my head unwinds.......
I've pulled out my walkman from my hand luggage; I have the tape Hymie stole in my pocket..... I turn up the volume on the walkman.....
The walkman with the tape that has only one track.....
The tape that only needs one track. The perfect track........ Looking around the plane, I see peace and quiet...... People snoozing......
People with sleeping kids.....
People drinking and enjoying life........
People like me- Heading towards South America.......
For just a moment in time, I feel right again. A feeling I haven't had since nineteen eighty-two. Before........ Life mutated me........
A flight attendant passes:
"Can you please secure your belt for take off?"
"Ofcourse."
Raindrops continue to tap the window......
Los Angeles is fading..... My madness is fading... No more smoke......
No more..... Choking......
I think about the cassette tape in the walkman; I think about the biro handwriting on the tape's label:
"DEMO."
Life is a fucking demo! One that doesn't work... ...... It's only me in the double sided seats. Argentina....... .... Freedom.
Nowhere to go, everywhere to go...... This period of my life is over.... It can all wait.....
A few hours of rest.....
A few hours of nothing......
My life has felt like a constant storm: I am the boat stuck out in the sea; constantly under threat from the waves and rain; about to capsize at any moment, but never quite secumbing to the forces trying to pull me under; never quite falling through the waves and hitting the bottom of the sea bed; never passing on to the other side; never quite reaching my desired nirvana; never passing to the light... My soul being laid to a restful peace.
Fuck it!
Everything means..... Nothing......
Nothing at all......
Just a few tears rolling down my face in a dimly lit aeroplane heading towards South America.... Any port in a storm........ ......... Any damn port.