Trying to scratch your own back.
I’ve got an itch, give me a back to scratch …so I’ll get some back, natch. Look who’s back in town, with a frown ; just turned up with his mouth turned down. Yep, it’s me, rolling around in my pocket a single worn pound.
And it’s raining.
Chap passing by ; I open my trap “Got a match?” and I try to catch an eye…no reply. I take a peek at my cigarette scrap, starting to unwrap and, like my humour, its losing it’s ‘dry’.
And the rain hits the ground like face slaps.
Wander, saunter, from shelter hither, to shelter thither. Me and my ear hear some music inside, a refuge from the deluge? I don’t wait in the snaking line, that big catch of salmon like a wave breaking. The bouncer stems the tide, huge square gristle with a sharks eyes. I throw him the look.
When the look lands : “Hey, I’m with the band” I say, meaning of course that I’m not about to pay. Then a man with a fake tan and a mullet and a mallet in his hand chucks a point to a open van. I follow his gaze and grab an amp, unfazed, and drag it down the ramp. Up the stairs to the gig, and the cramped warmth and the stares and the giggle and the damp leaving me like steam. The Tan Man hands me a smoke and a can, and I choke on a chuckle as I reach back to scratch.
And the girls touch my ears with their hand claps.