Calle Gas 27'
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The overflowing ashtray was sneering at me, my hot coffee wasn't and the morning could've been more inspiring. I sneered back at the fag-ends and found one to choke on while I put the kettle back on. Money came unbidden to mind as the last of the milk refused to fall out of the carton. I hate lumpy milk and I wondered if there might be a few pesetas left in my pockets as I strolled through the foothills of crumpled, unwashed clothing which littered the cold marble bedroom floor. Somewhere in them thar hillocks was my wallet, but the expedition turned up my diary and half a croissant, which rang no bells at all, but no wallet.
My headache became personal as the doorbell buzzed brokenly and I hurried slowly down the hallway trying to see who it was through the heavy frosted glass. Just a dark shape, so, against my clouded judgement, I opened it. It was the landlord.
" It's the landlord" I thought.
" Hola Snr [censored]!"....Spaniards have a problem pronouncing my name, which is actually 'Pines', due to their simplified vowel structure. It happened a lot. Airports could be excruciating.
Jungle training took over and I looked at him vacantly as I stood aside as a preference to being barged through. My mind was split between myself and me and before it could decide who best to serve, I'd invited him in for coffee. My voice must've betrayed none of my feelings cos he accepted and walked ahead of me to what might be described as the kitchen. As I followed him along the linoleum covered halway, my slippered feet made a sound resembling velcro being separated and a hazy memory from the night before started to obtrude. I shoved it back where it could do no harm and grimaced the rest of the way.
I'll say this for landlords, as a breed they have strong stomachs. Optimists they may not be but if anybody could suck out their Granny's gold teeth it'd be a landlord. And this one was true bred. The strangely grey crust on top of the water filling the sink belched spatteringly as I broke through it to the elbow, trying to find the chainless plug by touch. I can think of many unpleasant sensations worse, but prying up a sink-plug through two feet of cold, greasly water comes close to most. Soggy, pale cornflakes clung to my arm-hairs as the sink belched again. (The landlord didn't flinch.) Slowly the water level dropped, slowly revealing a mound of varied crockery and utensils. A group of mugs appeared and strands of what might have been spaghetti floated eerily from their handles like a u-boat analogy until left high and wet by the falling water-line, browned insides colonised by God knows what. Reaching for the square of old blanket which hung on the fridge door-handle, I firmly wiped the strands and fronds into a smooth patina. " Azucar?"
To give him his due, he maintained face, but only just. Shaking his head he glanced at his wristwatch and spoke rapidly for a minute or two about my roof, I think, before going out into the small courtyard, past the two little lemon trees and up the iron stairs to the roof. Before I could decide whether or not to follow him, the doorbell croaked again. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. I velcroed back down the passageway to the door and flung it open a crack. It was my best friend, Willie. He squinted at me with the eye that had the contact lens in that day.
" 'Mornin' Mike."
" 'Mornin' Will."
As it already wasn't, I gestured him in and before either of us could speak, an espadrille-clad foot appeared through the ceiling accompanied by a shower of plaster, dust and ancient roofing material which made itself at home immediately. Willie squinted at me again. " Landlord?" he asked, "Aye" I muttered and led the way down the sticky lino, ignoring the muffled cursing from above.
Willie and I had been friends at first meeting several years earlier and understood each other well enough to share a sense of humour. He fed the plant as I explained what I didn't know about the roof. The plant was pretty bored but showed it's affection for Willie by slowly closing over the feebly struggling fly he'd picked from the ancient fly-paper hanging from the plastic kitchen clock like brown Spotted Dick.
By this time, the landlord had extricated himself and appeared looking like he'd just fallen through a roof. We had the clean mugs stowed away before he got to the kitchen and Willie was sitting with a half-peeled grape up his nose complaining in fluent Spanish about the pain of nasal polyps. As he limped palely through the kitchen, the landlord was saying something about a repairman who he'd send round later, and I accompanied him to the door. He left not looking as if he'd be back.
Midday had become lunchtime, so Willie and I opened a couple of Voll Damms to help us plan the day. Like me, Willie doesn't drink much compared to a sponge but we both expect to live long enough to regret living so long. I went to the bathroom and splashed some water around, Welsh-combed my hair and made a selection from the foothills before setting off with my pal to suss the Pueblo.
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