The Smack House (an approximate introduction)
(In a town not so far away from South East London's New Cross, but at a time rewound some, a young South Indian in origin woman by the name of Amrani, shoulder barged a doorframe. It is not easy to see straight when with poor vision and the 6pm facing of a winter evening. It is also not easy to walk straight after inhaling heroin.
"Wish wash! Stay the night and tell me more about thee." The words (or an approximate variation) floated by the back of her long, curly and jet black hair.
Of course tempted she was, but then who could afford a poor trinket of lovelessness for her loved-less-nest? Not her parents for sure; they troubled seeing through the equally (or more so?) troubled light brown eyes of their daughter. No, she had to leave here to return back to them for her family's arms showed unwanted love yet contained wanted funding. To the bus stop, dear.
Amrani stumbled and made her way to wait. She was not alone. Another charmer with offering, though this time an also amateur sleuth; he let his line of questioning fire. "You're fucked aren't you?" He raised his Caramel skinned, shaven headed head and face up. Then down. The gesture to rhetoric.
"What's it to you? Fuck off." An offer of peace.
And so the conversation took rhythm. The house of infame, whose (its) front door boarder shaken in only fresh moments past had also been the point of interested for the young Caramel too. He had braved and tasted the intoxication of both substance and now freedom. Her bloodshot light brown eyes told his self that she was not entirely beyond scope (as too he felt to himself). To fuse saviour as the connection of two, Caramel offered his hand and in that moment of desperation and visualised reconstruction to many years of despair — she took it.)
Approximately Marvin
On leaving the estate gate, Marvin looked back at his flat. The charming small place shared by his soul and comical mere of a woman who liked to call herself his mother. Rather, she was not. She became such after a game of hop-scotch almost twenty-five years ago. The comedic bit; she had gone to the medical kit, to find a bandage for his knee. With it, in hand and watered tissues in the other, his 'mother' wiped the bloody blood away — leaving Marvin slightly (but never fully) dazed.
(There was no rhythm to her swabbing. The bloody blood, however, kept on leaking. It seeped uncaring unto the efficiency of pink tissue use.)
Dingle dangle went her gold chain that was solid through in a rope like fashion; beaming three and equal solid coin type objects at the front — the neckline. The blouse that she wore was v everything. V neck, V low V shape... v show off. The garish piece along with other (ahem) should be hidden assets. To Marvin, the blouse floated at the precious angle in showing the boy his mother's bosom. He could make out the outline of a white bra... hey! Matching blouse and bra!
So he should not have been looking. Yet what else was he to do? Sit and think about things? He was seven years young for Christ's sake!
Later he awoke on the brown bobbled wool type sofa to a wavy light blue ceiling (coloured like so owing to a lack of white paint). He had holes where cotton should have been in his brown trousers (that matched his lay and skin tone). Magic clothing that slipped to come back, reinvent... after he brushed daydream and walked.
Did I leave the gas on? Hopefully I did! What a wickedly funny thought! The whole of the Cromwell Estate exploding and raining brick and mortar on the girls playing skipping games, innocently counting rhymes to one hundred in the courtyard. Boys scoring goals in the FA Cup final, poured on by shrapnel. Except, it was not the FA Cup — no Wembley, no grass, no football kits, no men, no crowd and no sponsors! The Cromwell Estate FA Cup sponsored by the Phoenix National Brickies.
No such luck; so Marvin bid temporary farewell to the cage and made his lonely way down further into pseudo-town. The air was fairly wet with dew though the sky was clean as new. Cold enough for hands in his pockets you couldn't talk it out; even if you knew the language to do so.
Hood up. Grey concrete disappearing on account of footsteps with direction. The purpose of a haste (the one with him) was to relieve the mind from the strain of situations. In one particular that had held. (If all to explained now then there would be none for the romance of the story.)
Anyway, he walked. Down to the junction. What once was a one way carriage now a two way circus. Marvin's cold eyes caught a driver drumming four fingers on his black rubber gripped steering wheel. The windows were right up — blocking the sounds of his music. Not even loud enough to leak. White man = Rock 'n' Roll... of course it does! Come on, Marvin, that is politically incorrect of you to believe in such silliness. (Even though he had on a black t-shirt, long and pony tailed hair and with facial features in gothic credulity.)
Marvin smiled. He deserved to smile. Why? — he had not smiled for approximately three point two years. This occasion; his half sister, Jasmine, told their shared father that her ambitions of becoming a primary school teacher were coming true; and therefore that course in biological sciences at the university of [cannot remember] had to be a discounted subject i.e. — a waste of money and a waste of the other thing — time. Instead she now wished to pursue new: childhood studies. The target reference... She thus needed more time and more, the other thing... money.
Her shaped paternal care giver (Ref: J. Bowlby, if alive, 2006) slapped the delicate flower. Twice. One for each cheek. There was a re-balance of earrings which dangled and rattled left, then right and so on. Her eyes were widened to light and her also light, yet mocha skin went bright red, exactly the few milliseconds after impact. She looked like... what's the word Marvin would use..? Oh yes, she looked like shit.And he smiled. Upper cheek bones raised, top lipped straightened, bottom — elongated, eye bags and skin lines accentuated under growth (not to mention the hairs that formed beard of a week long stubble). Nobody saw this smile as it was brief. It felt good. And so too the present day grin. Maybe he should smile more often. Supposedly, a person looks better when s/he smiles.
Marvin turned right almost bumping into the corner shop owner. He could have said 'hello' yet chose not to. One to many, many to one. This one-to-many had the distinction of dry and coarse hair with side parting leaving the man's head square as can be. He was going grey and so was his thickly bristled moustache. Even his shirt was grey! A very standard fit, his black trousers swayed slim by his ankles leading to the view of thin cotton socks under clumsy, soft leather and laced black shoes.
The pharmacy was opposite. 'Steadfirst' pharmacy. If Stead was first then who second? Ha! So funny! Now the shutters are up; business booms. Marvin could remember another time when it was not quite so. Steel shutters down; vandalised with the words of angry citizens; "Squatters out." Or "Fuck off back home Niggers and Pakis". Should I make an apology for the past?
A Black girl exited the launderette. Marvin eyed her and recognised her as the woman of a girl he once knew. He spoke.
'And what of you? Since we last interacted we both had retracted to a moment under the illusion of a mathematical solution... as the wonder of tri — go — no — me — try; and if by chance our geography had encountered the two of us in co-existence again.'
[What? Is the colloquial what you want? How about the ers and ums? I'll give you the mannerisms that I wish to describe but no more, reader! — It's my story!]
She situated her basket onto her right hip, pushed it out to Marvin's left and held it balanced with her right hand. The almost last of the two's encounter was a detention after conversing across one paper page from a pad in class where numeric wonder was the object (and then some!). The page contained silly questions and equally silly answers written for the other by the two; contrary to Mr Knight, who had a lesson to run and this was too the distraction he did not want for his pupils. Indeed, none of the gibberish written on the page was taken as math. Marvin could hardly remember any of it; except, he writing 'Xena Warrior Princess' diagonally against the lined rule. (A product learnt from a dark skinned Sri Lankan boy who, at the time, he played amateur football with. This child would hum aloud the theme to 'Live and Let Die' then immediately boo other dark skinned players as they received the ball. A key phrase of his, attributed to weaker players who displayed freak moments of strength: 'You are power... you are... zee-naa... warrior prin-sess.')
The current conversation, unlike the paper page, flowed tropically. I have been here... you been there? When was the last... and good to see... he visualised the area where her bra strap may have been, tight underneath the blue track-top and puffy 'Michelin' like yet figure hugging overcoat (which was not zipped). Marvin did not usually think about breasts, though he did not despise them. With regard to sexuality, he thought mainly about the moment of penetration seen from a view not of his own; a camera showing detailed pornographic viewing of his penis piercing the lips of the vagina of the woman who is lying on her back. That's how he would vision it. The lens picking up a calf (the right leg) and the shape of her right buttock along with Marvin's left and also lower torso. He has that dark mocha skin tone.
And back. To the Black girl's breasts. Each (and in unison) are looking nicely shaped but in the bra world — how knowledge? None — guess. Dark brown nipples for dark brown skin (no — very dark brown nipples with dark brown skin). Gently round, firm yet soft (along too; the falsifiable nature of such oxymoronic? The skin, the squeeze... No. Human nature — accept it. Each is soft and firm).
"What is the assortment of your digits?" She queried with a facial contort (meant?). OH YES! The converse. It still existed in reticence. A fob here and there. A thought (or two) also. Etc. etc.
***
Out of the event was the grasp and onto the next he roamed. Flight for feet to the opposite side of the road. And he passed? A network of print manager queries, finance controllers controlling, fruits in shacks in stalls (and also on hooks) altogether thrown into an inverted open prison 'two for a pand, larve.' Convenience; chapter two-three and now the status.
Of yester-year, one would tear a piece of fabric. So tragic with wicker. If I could be any quicker, it would be told that in years gone rather stale; and old and frail.. This fortified interest followed the gasp swallowed fellows. What's the name you bellow? Wicker (as stated earlier) and hear (happy in your smile? Could teeth be any pearlier?)
