Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Limey is 35


He didn't like me when he met me, really, he didn't, i believe he thought i was a bit of smug prick or a babbling drunk, i might've thought the same of him except that he had a cool accent, of course when some giant moron shows up at the door of your girlfriends apartment drunk off his ass with a bottle of scotch and a couple glasses late on a sunday night to debate the merits of one Hank Chinaski, a moron you've never really spoken to before, a moron who's at your door only because some paranoid schizophrenic gun freak said, "you might like the English guy", what do you expect? then said moron sits down and begins reminiscing about his grandad, problem is he's only met his grandad once and he keeps going over the same story like many a pathetic drunk, i'm sure the Limey was beginning to pray that i'd leave but being hairy and 6'4 he placated me until i stumbled back down stairs and passed out, tears still not dried on my face.
We hung out together mainly because we were there and it was a bit like boxers feeling each other out, in fact i once tried to strangle him for beating on my miniature roommate and after regaining his breathe he promptly dropped trow exposing his buckeye and screamed "don't patronize me you asshole", on another occasion while i was very high on mushrooms he forced me to slap box only to punch me in my face and nearly crack a tooth, then after a few decidedly lopsided rounds in my favor, when he said he was finished, he got up off the floor leading with a overhand right hay maker that didn't make any hay and was met with a short uppercut on the chin which promptly buckled his legs and had me and the roomies hovering over him to make sure he was okay, on this occasion he responded, "you really are a big bloke", needless to say he still invited me to visit him and his lovely wife in Strood, not to be confused with Stroud and if you're an american in a London train station don't ever ask a poofty ticket taker for directions cuz he'll give you directions to his flat, in Stroud.
He still didn't much like me but yet he was there when i got off the plane and he was there in the airport bar with me (for 5 hours?) and got me on a train and got me to his place, and really he still had his reservations, i know, he told me, he told me the two moments that changed things were the day i sat in his house with his lovely wife, we listened to BBC radio, i smoked a boatload of hash and his wife and i drank tea and talked for most of the day, it was she i believe who told him i was just a big lug with a sensitive streak, the other was when i bolted gay Paree early and made my way back to Strood, i had never gotten a hold of him and he didn't know i was gonna be sitting in the Pub where he worked, of course he was off that day and i sat down with a pint and began to talk to the locals, turned down some dinner with the pub owner and his family and drank my way through happy hour, his dad came in and saw me and asked if The Limey knew i was back yet and i said i had left a message but assumed he and the girl were still working, his dad, mon ami, gave him a ring and said, "El Kono's back from Paris, he hates the French" and let out a hearty laugh before shuffling back to his friends and leaving me with my new found ones at the bar, as the Limey tells it he snuck in and observed me for ten minutes or so and said that if it wasn't for my funny accent you'd have thought i grew up around the corner thus somehow solidifying the fact that i may just not be the gigantic moron he met in some 3rd floor apt. in Pittsburgh one fine sunday eve over a few glasses of scotch and one story about me grandad.
That was over a decade ago. He was the first guy i called when i was heartbroken, the first guy i called after me dad when the imaginary boy came bouncing into the world, he was best man at my wedding, we've sang Oasis- drunk on both sides of the pond, we once had martini's made by a man who was abducted by aliens, while taking turns wearing a ceremonial fez, we've seen England at Wembley, Palace at Selhurst and GBV at the 9:30, we've been trapped in elevators with Japanese guys wearing Arsenal kits and that's just the tip of the fucking iceberg.
See this man is my brother, born to different mothers on different continents but through some sort of strange cosmic fate ended up drinking on a beaten up wooden front porch and becoming the best of friends, and when i say that i don't mean it lightly, most people give up when they don't live in the same city or country for that matter and yet we've never lived in the same city and most of the time not in the same country but yet we persevere, we're friends out of love and respect for one another, we're friends cuz it's good to have a brother, know matter how fucked up and crazy they may be, and that goes more for him listening to my stoned rambles on his cellphone early in the a.m. USA time.

See the Limey may be the only true genius i know. Self taught in art and writing and living, incredible artist, brilliant writer, top notch motherfucker, what more is there to say really, other than happy birthday brother, raise a pint for me, light a smoke and turn on I Am the Resurrection and watch out for flaming llama's. It's your birfday.

3 comments:

kid said...

whoa, whoa, whoa...a miniature roomate? like, fucking indian in the cubbird? shit, those was heavy times. cheers the both a yinz!

Gulfboot Johnson said...

Wow! I feel like I've just read my own obituary! Touching though brother. Brought back some memories. That cat with the fez fed us "purple haze" that he'd tasted with his fingers.

Kevin Sousa said...

very little between laugh and cry with you tough guy. all substance.