It was a Friday night. My testosterone burned through my system relentlessly, to have a conversation was torture. Fortunately, all my friends decided to get stoned, so I was left to my own devices. After desperate attempts to masturbate I stopped myself and did some push-ups instead. Then I took a cold shower, put on my jacket and walked to town.
Along the way I whistled loudly to myself, and then paused at a bus station to do calf stretches. A couple of young men passed and encouraged me. I continued walking down the High Street.
A homeless man sat outside the bank yelling at his dog, and groups of young people dressed to party stood milling about with an air of expectancy, occasionally glancing at him. Two police men appeared and started towards the man, so he stood up and began to walk away, his dog in tow.
There was a man on the High Street, I've seen him twice before. He has thinning dark hair which begins a bit late and runs to the shoulders, exposing slightly more of his gentle sloping forehead lined with thick friendly creases. He plays the violin and is always wearing the same suit with ducktails. Tonight I decided to sit and watch. My mind started to drift and I pictured the violinist of 100 years ago, a crowd of listeners, their accumulated feelings of despair, merriment or content all summed up by one man's noodleing.
A man approached him and requested a tune, however he did not know the name of it, so instead he hummed. The violin immediately picked up the melody and the passerby, so happy at hearing this, closed his eyes, dropped his change into the violin case and began to dance a slow swaying tribute to joy.
I arrived at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Soul music was playing, interlaced with some dancehall, so the mood was electric. I befriended an older couple and the woman ordered me a fresh drink. A blonde girl glanced at me whilst another man hit on her, and the bartenders offered brief awkward smiles. After my third drink I walked outside and began smoking and talking with three guys of about the same age. Their names were James, Chrissy and Adam. Adam was a handsome chap with a firm handshake who disappeared home with a woman after 20 minutes. Chrissy was a loud and boisterous Mancunian chef, with a heart as big as his chins. James was the liveliest and youngest of the three, yapping with constant energy and unwavering positivity, and it was because of him that I did not lapse into my usual state of drunken self-pity.
We danced the twist and drank tequila. I approached many women but did not see anything in any of them. Before I could let my head droop James was already pulling me back into the dance floor.
The crowd began to peter out and so we left. We decided to head back to Chrissy's and smoke. A drunken lad vainly tried to stand up to Chrissy after being pushed out of the way for us to get into a taxi. He was being held back half-heartedly by his girlfriend as we all laughed at him through the rear window and drove off. We ended up at Chrissy's by 4am. Chrissy and James began to argue in the endless manner that only close friends do. After a few minutes of it I got up to leave and they apologised and made up. Chris then rolled a joint whilst telling embarrassing childhood stories. I picked up his guitar and plucked something, and then he picked it up and played. He put on a backing track and played along, jamming. I sat upright on a mattress on the floor, with my back to the wall, listening. After a couple of minutes I started to cry. I felt unafraid to show my feeling, just like the man on the street dancing to the violinist, and I could not miss this opportunity to cry to such a beautiful sound. All we're looking for is a release, a release from the horrible routines we have designed for ourselves. I let the tears fall down my face and didn't bother wiping them away. I don't want to try and describe the music he played. It will ruin the memory.
Along the way I whistled loudly to myself, and then paused at a bus station to do calf stretches. A couple of young men passed and encouraged me. I continued walking down the High Street.
A homeless man sat outside the bank yelling at his dog, and groups of young people dressed to party stood milling about with an air of expectancy, occasionally glancing at him. Two police men appeared and started towards the man, so he stood up and began to walk away, his dog in tow.
There was a man on the High Street, I've seen him twice before. He has thinning dark hair which begins a bit late and runs to the shoulders, exposing slightly more of his gentle sloping forehead lined with thick friendly creases. He plays the violin and is always wearing the same suit with ducktails. Tonight I decided to sit and watch. My mind started to drift and I pictured the violinist of 100 years ago, a crowd of listeners, their accumulated feelings of despair, merriment or content all summed up by one man's noodleing.
A man approached him and requested a tune, however he did not know the name of it, so instead he hummed. The violin immediately picked up the melody and the passerby, so happy at hearing this, closed his eyes, dropped his change into the violin case and began to dance a slow swaying tribute to joy.
I arrived at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Soul music was playing, interlaced with some dancehall, so the mood was electric. I befriended an older couple and the woman ordered me a fresh drink. A blonde girl glanced at me whilst another man hit on her, and the bartenders offered brief awkward smiles. After my third drink I walked outside and began smoking and talking with three guys of about the same age. Their names were James, Chrissy and Adam. Adam was a handsome chap with a firm handshake who disappeared home with a woman after 20 minutes. Chrissy was a loud and boisterous Mancunian chef, with a heart as big as his chins. James was the liveliest and youngest of the three, yapping with constant energy and unwavering positivity, and it was because of him that I did not lapse into my usual state of drunken self-pity.
We danced the twist and drank tequila. I approached many women but did not see anything in any of them. Before I could let my head droop James was already pulling me back into the dance floor.
The crowd began to peter out and so we left. We decided to head back to Chrissy's and smoke. A drunken lad vainly tried to stand up to Chrissy after being pushed out of the way for us to get into a taxi. He was being held back half-heartedly by his girlfriend as we all laughed at him through the rear window and drove off. We ended up at Chrissy's by 4am. Chrissy and James began to argue in the endless manner that only close friends do. After a few minutes of it I got up to leave and they apologised and made up. Chris then rolled a joint whilst telling embarrassing childhood stories. I picked up his guitar and plucked something, and then he picked it up and played. He put on a backing track and played along, jamming. I sat upright on a mattress on the floor, with my back to the wall, listening. After a couple of minutes I started to cry. I felt unafraid to show my feeling, just like the man on the street dancing to the violinist, and I could not miss this opportunity to cry to such a beautiful sound. All we're looking for is a release, a release from the horrible routines we have designed for ourselves. I let the tears fall down my face and didn't bother wiping them away. I don't want to try and describe the music he played. It will ruin the memory.
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