It's Lovely To Be Here by James Yorkston

Author:James Yorkston
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571272150
Publisher: The Domino Press
Published: 2011-02-07T00:00:00+00:00

Day 10

We have a day off. Thank the Lord for the day off. I lie about until noon, get up and make my way to a vegan supermarket. Embarrass myself by saying hello to the owner when he waved hello at someone standing right behind me. I buy: salad; fruit juice; water; avocado; bananas. I go up to my room and slowly eat them all, whilst flicking between BBC’s Newsnight on one channel and some horrifically right-wing moustachioed bald man on another. Man, he sure spurts out the hate. Did I just say ‘man’? I’ve been here too long. As the afternoon whirrs by, I slowly begin to feel better. Slowly. I get ready for a shower and make my way out to the corridor, wearing just my boxers and a T-shirt, carrying a towel and my washbag. I am obviously on my way to the shower. When I turn the corner in the corridor, I walk straight into two of the residents – the Herman Munster character and the small, Marilyn transsexual. Marilyn is standing sideways to me and is wearing nothing but a black thong and dark glasses. Unless that’s a wig on her head? They both turn and stare at me. She’s had at least part of the operation done, I note, as she slowly folds her arms to cover her dignities. Beyond them, ten yards, is the shower. I have no energy for anything other than the coward’s route. I say, Hey, and turn back around, back into my room, back to the TV. An hour later, I re-emerge and valiantly make my way to the shower. Have no fear, dear reader, I shall be clean.

That evening, I have an invite to a dinner party over in Brooklyn, with Morgan, his girlfriend and two of their pals. You’re still coming, right? Right. I’m still coming. Looking forward to it, in all honesty. That evening arrives and I’m still feeling decidedly ropey. Doing nothing but watching a static-heavy TV and avoiding the more colourful residents has done nothing for my state of health. I’ve been given directions to the flat in Brooklyn, involving – phew – the subway – but I decide against following them. Fuck that. A subway? No. Although it was my time to shine and experience something real, I decide in favour of the unreality of phoning reception and ordering a taxi.

As a travelling Scottish musician, I am nothing exotic in New York, being as it’s populated with all sorts of oddballs and oliphants and the taxi driver has no desire to question my dishevelled state – although, he does have a desire to talk and does just that – non-stop – about baseball. I know nothing about baseball. I once got sent some T-shirts by the Kansas City Chiefs when I was nine years old, but that’s not baseball*1. I look out of the window, only momentarily escaping my dwam with a, Is that right? Or, Wow! Or, This is a nice bridge, when we go over a reasonably nice bridge.

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