Vanity. Ares

laying down on the bed, and feeling slightly at odds
with the world — as I had left France in such a
huff and ended up in a place with no chicken or
casual threesomes after football matches; just a
squalid flat full of outsiders, me. Perhaps I fit right
in, but that did not help me sleep at night in those
conditions; all grimy, with dim bulbed lights and a
very loud fridge. The room smelt of dust, though it
was simple; a bed, a desk, a microwave, a kitchen
sink that seemed to make noise when the room
bedside me used theirs, the old T.V set, the dresser
with the red book on it and a cupboard with only
one hanger. It was no fancy chateau by any stretch
of the imagination; no art on the walls or Persian
rugs, but it was okay I guessed.
I wrote down some ideas for scams, and
thought about ways in which I could retrieve
money. I had an idea to start some sort of pyramid
scam, as I still had a suit; a navy blue suit I got from
an alcoholic in Marseille: gambling debts will price
down an expensive suit, even to twenty Euros if I
remember correctly. Perhaps, thirty Euros maybe.
But, I thought I would go down to the Jazz Clubs,
for a start; perhaps give the crime a rest for a
moment. I slept that first night and the next day I
made my way to my old stomping grounds —
Ronnie Scott’s down in North London.
After a few weeks, I played perhaps two
nights a week regularly, but I had also signed-on,
which gave me the feeling that I was slowly dying; a
slow death, full of bad breath and forms. I was
struggling: I only ate twice a day sometimes, and
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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