Greyhound for Breakfast

Even in communal pitches

I had arrived at the following conclusion: even in communal pitches people will claim their portions of space; he who sits in the left-hand corner of one room will expect to obtain the equivalent corner in every room. This is something I cannot go but I felt obliged to conform to standard practice. It was a kind of community I was living in. A veryrichman owned the property. He allowed folk to live in it at minimal rents; the reason was to do with Y being equal to C plus S or I. It was quite noisy but no worse for that, for somebody like myself, just in from country travels. A party had been in progress for the two days I was here; it seemed to move from room to room; those desirous of sleep but without permanent quarters were having to grab a spot here and there, preferably keeping a room ahead all the time. In its own way that was fine and a nice camaraderie always seemed about to exist, although for some reason people only spoke to me in reply to questions about tea and coffee and where was the bathroom etc. It didnt annoy me, I could just lie on the floor and listen to their conversations. Next to me a guy kept going on about medieval conventicles on the southern tip of England; he was with another guy who was having to conceal yawns. Then I noticed they were irritated by my presence. What’s up? I said. But they ignored the question. At this stage I would definitely have been entitled to get annoyed, but I didnt, I was too tired, far too tired; all I wanted to do was sleep. But could I get a sleep! Could I fuck. Then this woman; up she comes: Are you John Myatt?

Who’s that? I says.

Never mind, came the reply, and she moved off on her stocking soles.

That was the kind of place it was. There was this other woman who was friendly, but I made a blunder by introducing the business of that conclusion I had arrived at. And she looked right through me. I was beginning to think: When did you last change your socks?

Gradually it dawned on me they were waiting for something; it was a bloke, he turned out to be a kind of Master of Ceremonies. A get-together had been organized in a semiofficial way so that for this night at least, the party would be taking on a structured form. You were expected to do a turn. Somebody shoved a bunnet under my nose, he was looking for a donation, presumably for a carry-out. I was skint unfortunately but when I explained he got all fucking annoyed and went off in a huff. Eventually I saw he was sitting not far from me, about six or seven spaces away, and he was pointing me out to his neighbours in a really underhand manner. Who cares.

The entertainment began with a series of monologues, one of which was delivered by the guy who knew about medieval conventicles. It was so totally boring you werent sure if you had missed the overall irony, but when you looked about you could see no-one at all was grinning, it was meant by him as dead serious. Other speakers were concerned with recent events in the world of politics. A woman with a big hat got up and sang a song and this was the best so far. But then another woman got up and she recited poetry. Well, it has to be said that she was not brilliant although I dont know but something in the way she did it plus the good hand she got at the end made me think it was all her own stuff she was reading.

Meanwhile the carry-out arrived, such as it was, and it was being guarded jealously; even so but it was finished in what seemed like a matter of moments and everybody began looking at each other as if secretly laying the blame on certain members of the company for drinking more than their fair share. I wasnt involved; I had taken some of the drink but without overdoing it. I was more concerned with retaining the portion of space. And with a bit of luck I would manage to snatch a couple of hours’ kip. A guy got up on the floor with a guitar; and then a lassie joined him and everything was fine and going good till they started on these songs with choruses and we were all to join in; Farewell to the Trusty Rover and so on. What made it hopeless was the way if you werent joining in you felt it was being noted. The only ones okay were couples, it being assumed as valid that your attention could be total elsewhere so long as it was being concentrated on your partner. But not too much later a couple of folk began smoking dope and passing the joints about, then out came the plates of grub — grated carrots and turnips and cabbage, with wee dods of cheese and onion. And that was fine because although the quantities werent up to scratch the actual health-factor made you feel satisfied.

Then one by one people were getting up from the floor, making the move to a new room, a few having a laugh and trying to get everybody to do one of these snake-dances where you hold the person’s waist to the front and somebody holds yours to the back. I had grabbed my stuff immediately and without making it too obvious was keeping into the wall and bypassing folk, heading out of the room and onto the landing where the vanguard had made it already, glancing at each other for signs of where to go, whom to follow, whether it was best to say fuck it and just shoot off in the offchance you would get to the correct room under your own steam. I waited a couple of seconds, not looking at anybody, then strode to the staircase and went on up to the next landing. There were scuffling noises behind but I didnt look back. I didnt mind at all if people were following me; I just didnt want to give the impression I knew where the fuck I was going, cause I didnt, I was just bashing on, hoping for the best. In situations like this the proper method of action often seems to trigger itself off on you without any deliberate thinking beforehand and sometimes I really go for it, setting all the conditions and so on. I wasnt wrong. On the next landing the door on the far side seemed familiar; it was the bathroom. I had been in using it earlier. It was a good bathroom, very spacious; to an L-shape design and I have the feeling it had been used as a small bedroom in years gone by. When I closed and snibbed the door I could hear the sounds of a couple of folk outside on the landing, as if they had been following me and had now realized it was a wild goose chase. Obviously I was a bit sorry for whoever it was but in a sense this was it about claiming your portion of space and I was only fitting in with the conventional wisdom of the place.

I sat down on the toilet and began thinking about the whole carry on, in particular the woman who had recited the poetry; but that other woman kept butting in, her who wanted to know if I was John Myatt. I always find it really irritating when something like that happens. Another thing: it was so long since I had slept with a woman. Aye, gradually that was creeping up on me as well, and I dont know but sometimes you can enter terrible fits of depression for no apparent reason. And this other kind of daydream was beginning to butt in: there I was bashing my way into room after room and then by a fluke I would find myself in this wee closet where the elderly owner would be raking about in his moneyboxes. Aw christ, I dont know, I began opening the bathroom door and was walking downstairs in this really slow slow step by step by step way, with noises of folk coming from somewhere, and muffled laughter as well. And just at that moment came an explosion in my head and I knew there was a change in me, a change in me for keeps. Something had happened and my life had altered in a way that might never have appeared significant to an onlooker, but as far as I was concerned, having to live this life, I knew it could never hope to be the same again, and I started to smile.