The Library of Babylon

          “So, what’re you going to do about Sharona, Tom?” Ed asked me today.

            “Nothing,” I replied, calmly.

            “Yes. I like it mate: a bit of playing it hard to get, treat ‘em mean ‘n’ all that.”

            I said nothing, but simply smiled. Ed was slightly perturbed.

            “You do like her though, right?”

            “There’s no one else.”

            “Good, I’d’ve been doing no picking up of soap for you otherwise. Right, well, I see the tactic you’re taking there, and I do appreciate its merit – it’s truly one of my favourites – but we’re slightly running out of time here. We can’t hang about forever.”

            “Really, Ed?”

            “Oh yes. Very clever. We woke up in each other’s bodies this morning did we? Come on, I’m just trying to help you, this girl is too special to screw up.”

            “It’s okay Ed, relax, fate will bring us back together if we just let it.”

 

*

 

            So while we waited for fate Ed taught me a few chords on the guitar and then I got stuck into Labyrinths, the book Sharona gave me. I’m half way through it now and will get back to it in a moment, but I have to briefly mention one story. It’s called the Library of Babylon. It describes an infinite library made up of adjacent octagonal rooms. In each room are hundreds of books, all exactly as long as one another, several hundred pages. Each book is a unique combination of random characters such that the library contains every possible combination exactly once. Therefore, for those that inhabit the library there must be, somewhere out there, a book that exactly describes their lives, past, present and future. Does this mean their lives are pre-ordained?

Don't Ever Let Off Dreaming About Her...

            We got to Sharona’s club at around eight last night. We grabbed a drink and took a seat at one of the tables below the stage. There was a three piece jazz outfit on stage, a singer, pianist and bassist. I felt like a man in a film, waiting for something important to happen. And it did. Sharona came on stage next and blew us all away. She sang with one guy on the piano as accompaniment. Her voice was serene and the moments during which I watched her were sublime, echoing forward into ever extending memories of my future self.

            In the middle of one song she suddenly fixed her eyes directly on mine and sang two lines straight at me. It was all I could do to resist the temptation to look behind me for the man she must’ve been singing at.

            After the show she disappeared backstage and I bought another drink.

            “She’s not bad then, eh?” Ed said.

            “You’re joking! Not bad?”

            “Haha, I’m pulling your leg mate. You should’ve seen your face, jaw dropped and all.”

At this point Sharona came out to see us. She appeared behind me unexpectedly and hugged me to her. She was still wearing her performance dress. It was so different to anything I’d seen her in so far. It was emerald green, long and sleek, bringing out the green in her eyes and set in attractive contrast with her black hair and dark skin.

            “I’m so glad you came!” she said. She was vivid and vivacious, full of the nervous energy of performance.

            “You were amazing,” I said, barely audible for my own awkward nerves.

            “Thank you,” she said, with genuine humility, casting her eyes downward momentarily. “I want you both to meet my friend Miranda.”

            The four of us talked about this and that for a short while and then Sharona broke the conversation by suggesting we move elsewhere.

            “But first I have to go change. Tom, would you come backstage with me?”

            “Er… I’m not sure,” I replied. “I should really stay here with Ed. Surely I’m not really allowed backstage?”

            Ed kicked me hard in the shin.

            “Ow!” I said. Sharona laughed. “On second thoughts then…” I glared at Ed.

            Backstage turned out to be an extremely messy small room. Sharona went behind a screen to change. She was asking me about the show and I was answering mechanically. I was too occupied by the flickering shadows projecting against the wall. The rest of the time I was fighting the urge to ask ‘Why?’

            She came back around the screen, wearing ripped jeans and an open black short sleeved shirt.

            “Let’s go down to the river,” she suggested.

            “What about the others?”

            “They’ll be fine.” She smiled and took my hand. “Come on!”

            We walked down to the river and enjoyed the still warm evening. There was just enough alcohol in my blood to heighten night-time romantic reflection and I breathed the air with contentment, my troubles briefly lost like the facts of life in a cinema. Sharona sang lightly to herself, the soundtrack to my madness.

            On the bank of the river I asked her about her singing and she played shy. She told me she was tired of being treated one way or another for what she did. I pointed out that she’d invited me to watch her, but I dropped it.

            A warm breeze floated in from the swamps, bringing an intoxicating air. I looked across at Sharona and saw the air brush her face with drifting curls and slow currents. I longed to follow it with the lightest touch of the back of my hand. I knew I could fall in love right there and then. I’d only known her for what? 48 hours maybe? It was all too pre-destined, doomed. I didn’t want to start it.

            Sharona started telling me a vampire story, oblivious. It was about the docks, and she told it masterfully. I listened intently, my grip on reality sliding minute by minute.

            “You almost seem to sympathise with the vampire,” I said, when she was done.

            She smiled wanly and looked out into the river. I looked away.

            “What’s the matter?” she asked.

            “Nothing. It’s just…”

            “Yes?”

            “I… don’t want to have a mere taste of you knowing I can never have it all. You’re sweet poison, the apple of temptation. Pain follows these things.”

            She leant across and kissed me before I could think of stopping her. She ran her hands through my hair, then about my neck and over my chest, forcing me back onto the ground where we sat. I was utterly dominated, destroyed, submitting to her passion willingly blinded and finally, released into spectacular and euphoric oblivion.

            “Screw the Garden of Eden, Tom,” she said, letting me go for a moment. “God didn’t make man for paradise. Follow the lust in your blood, the vampire in your veins. Come, Tom.”

            And she took me by the hand and led me back to her house. We went straight to her bed and fell on top of one another. We lay there kissing and gazing into one another’s eyes. All my awkwardness was gone. We were acting as one. We didn’t make love, but expressed our passion with caress and serpentine embrace until, after hours, we drifted away.

 

*

 

            I woke this morning filled with immediate, if uncertain, joy. By the light of day I saw Sharona’s room: a bizarre con-fusion of gothic and vintage, decadent in either case. Sharona herself continued to sleep by my side, black hair trailing back across the pillow and onto my cheek, one arm across my chest. I felt I could die right there, without one regret.

            Part of me still thought it all ridiculous, but the other part was filled with sense of strange and sure confidence. The Rules of Life say this kind of thing couldn’t happen, but there I was. I’ve never felt more thoroughly distant from reality in the stark light of morning. I looked across at her again and couldn’t make it fit. I got up quietly and left her there.

            Outside the sun shone warmly on my skin and I could barely move for running or speak for shouting. Strangers turned their heads to watch my grin walk past them. I wanted to stop them right there and tell them all about it. My head was spinning. I broke into a run and sprinted straight through a park without slowing down. It seemed as though I had no more physical limitation, I could run forever.

            I flashed past a café on the other side and suddenly stopped. I returned to it and bought a continental breakfast to take away.

            A short while later I walked back through Sharona’s door as though it were the most natural thing. She took the brown paper bag out of my hands and looked me up and down.

            “Thanks for this,” she said, and smiled, apparently unconcerned over my disappearance. “You’re sweating,” she said, and pressed a finger into neck. She ran it down to my chest pressing hard into my flesh. I couldn’t breathe for the tension. “Why don’t you go have a shower?”

            So I did, but I was barely in there thirty seconds before she joined me. She came from behind and ran her hands over my chest again. It was too much. I wanted to wait but this was too much. I turned and lifted her right off her feet, putting her against the wall of the shower. I fucked her right there, releasing every bit of tension and restraint within me. It was the best fuck of my life. Water ran down her black hair and over her breasts as she wrapped her legs around my waist, drawing me further into her. She was divine.

 

*

 

            “So, you looked like you were packing to leave yesterday Tom,” she said to me later, over breakfast.

            “Yes, I was.”

            She looked across at me and paused, hesitantly.

            “Is that why you’re doing all this Sharona, safe in the knowledge that I was leaving?”

            “I never said ‘don’t go.’” she replied, looking away.

            “So, in a minute, you’re gone, I get nothing, and you’re off with barely a sigh.”

            “Don’t go.”

            They were lines. But more than lines, they were lyrics. It’s from a song called This Ruined Puzzle, by Dashboard Confessional. It was contemporary Shakespeare and it connected us on another level. It was beautiful and we needed nothing more. We simply smiled at one another.

            Eventually I put down my cup and walked around to her. I leant down to where she sat and kissed her, ever so gently, full on the mouth. I made to leave but she stopped me. She handed me a book.

            “I’ve hidden a note, it’s pressed between pages that I’ve marked to find my way back. It says, ‘does he ever get the girl?’”

            “But what if the pages stay pressed, the story too dull to unfold?”

            “Don’t go.”

            “I won’t.” I said, smiled, and left. She knew what I meant.

 

*

 

            Back at the hostel this afternoon I met up with Ed.

            “I’ve changed my mind about everything, Ed,” I said, “we’re not going anywhere. I’m in love.”

            “Me too, mate.”

            I started, then remembered the other girl from last night and laughed. I doubt very much he meant it as I did, but mostly I was just glad he didn’t want to go.

            This evening I opened Sharona’s book, Labyrinths by Borges. The note she’d hidden was on the first page of a story called The Circular Ruins. The story started with a quote from Alice Through the Looking Glass:

 

            “And if he ever let off dreaming about you…”

           

            Sharona’s note read ‘Don’t ever let off dreaming Tom.’

            At the bottom of the note she’d scribbled a phone number.

Caging a Wild Bird

          I woke up early this morning, seized with a lust for life. I went to check my email, then I logged onto MySpace. Even though I know that girl, Sharona #1, isn’t for me, there’s still something about her. She looks so… acceptable. Strangely she still hadn’t signed back in since our confrontation. I worried she might’ve come to harm at the hands of that oaf we’d encountered with her.

            Turning to more important matters, I typed ‘Sharona + blues singer + New Orleans’ into Google. I found her straightaway. Her full name is Sharona Sophia. Apparently she’s well regarded, if little known. There was even a video of her on YouTube. It was all somewhat overwhelming. Half way through the video Ed appeared.

            “Christ that chick’s hot. Wait… is that Sharona?”

            Someone behind him stopped and looked. “Ah, she’s great guys, I saw her in a local bar the other day.” He moved on but left me feeling rather beset with pressure. In some ways I was rather sad about it.

“I’m not sure about this, Ed.” I said.

“What are you on about?”

“I mean, how am I, a mere barrister, supposed to countenance even the mere possibility of even dating such a girl, let alone persuading her to come back to England with me? It’s a doomed romance. I couldn’t do it. It would be like caging a beautiful wild bird. I could never be so exciting or entertaining as to keep such a creature for long.”

“Blah blah blah, stop being such a melodramatic fucktard and get on with it.”

“I don’t know Ed. I think maybe it’s time to move on. This adventure’s done.”

“You’re an idiot, Evans.” He shook his head and walked over to the guitar in the corner. He started playing a few chords to some interested girls who immediately crowded round. He smiled at them and sang them a line. They swooned a little. As he continued he looked subtly up at me, eye to eye, and held my gaze. I left to go pack upstairs.

Twenty minutes later Ed entered the room, guitar in hand and told me to stop.

“Come on, Ed, what’s the point?”

At this moment Sharona walked in the room. She was dressed in ripped blue jeans, black t-shirt, and long black fingerless arm warmers. Her hair was full and glossy. She walked right up to me and smiled, holding me paralysed.

“Are you leaving Tom?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked. What was I thinking?

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” she said, with mock offence, “I thought perhaps you might like to see me in my other job tonight.” She handed over two tickets to me.

“Thanks… Sharona,” I said, uncertainly. She nodded slightly, smiled, and departed.

Once was she was safely away Ed came striding over. “Mate, you’re a fucking idiot. This girl clearly likes you but you’re acting like a prick. I know it’s like asking the Pope to turn Jewish, but do you think you could try to be cool?”

Well in truth I was simply flabbergasted. Eventually I pulled myself a little together and agreed at least to go watch Sharona. It’s bound to be a hell of a night…

Sharona

          At 8.30pm last night we gathered with a group of other tourists under the imposing skyline of St. Louis Cathedral. The evening sky was perfectly pink behind the steeple. All at once Sharona appeared from between the large oak entrance doors.

            “Wow,” said Ed, and he wasn’t talking about the ambience. “There she is. That is Sharona.”

            I looked at him carefully and paused for thought. “Listen carefully, Ed, and look at me as I say this to you,” I began, narrowing my eyes. “Sharona is my adventure.”

            Ed regarded me solemnly for a moment and then nodded soberly, before turning back to watch Sharona.

            “Hi there everybody! Can you all gather in a little closer please?” And who were we to refuse? “That’s better. Let me introduce myself. I’m your guide for this evening and my name’s Millarca.” She pronounced ‘Millarca’ as ‘Meyarka’.

            Ed raised an eyebrow at me but I wasn’t worried by the name. I’ve read Sheridan LeFanu. I was more concerned with the appearance of this black angel. She presented herself in the Elvira style, but less 80s. She had on a long black leather coat half hiding a black dress trailing down only as far as her mid-thigh. She had soft flapped black leather boots most of the way up her calves. Her black hair ran down on all sides of her body in a cultured mess. Her skin, surprisingly for one so dressed, was darkly tanned. I could hardly take my eyes off her for the duration of the tour.

            It was a great tour, though perhaps I’m biased, but I can say with certainty that she captivated her audience with confidence and easy charm. I recall only one of her many stories very well. She described a vampire in New Orleans from 400 years ago, around the time of colonial rule. This vampire had been sired alone in his house and had lain for days without understanding his conversion. He had become slowly hungrier and hungrier for blood until suddenly he killed his maid and pierced her neck, drinking straight from the jugular. Sharona described his hunger and subsequent satisfaction with incredible colour and emotion.

            At the end Sharona invited all the guests to join her in the pub for further questions and a friendly chat. Every man on the tour dragged their wives, girlfriends and daughters along but after a long hour, filled with many foolish questions, there were only three of us left with her: the two of us and some other middle aged bloke. We’d been sitting across from her table, nursing a couple of pints at the bar. At this stage we stood and made our way to the table. Sharona spotted us coming and cast her eyes slowly over me. The act paralysed me, as though she really had vampiric powers of mind control. Ed kicked me and we sat down.

            “Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked me.

            “Yes, most certainly, Carmilla.” I replied. Ed raised his eyebrow again and the other bloke looked briefly confused. Sharona knew exactly what I meant.

            “Fantastic! You know my real name!”

            “I thought your first name was Mircalla.” In the story of Carmilla the vampire she has to change her name every so often to avoid detection. She always uses anagrams of her first name, Mircalla. Sharona noted the comment with a slight, almost seductive, smile.

            “Okay, this has been fun,” said the bloke. “Can I getcha beer buddy?” he asked Ed.

            “Sure mate,” said Ed, and retired to the bar with a single wink of encouragement.

            Once alone we launched immediately into conspiratorial delight at an instant connection over so many subjects. With Sharona before me I couldn’t help but indulge in discussing all my darker gothic thoughts. It wasn’t morose or morbid, but intoxicating and beautiful.

            At some stage Ed and the other bloke must’ve left, though we didn’t notice. Sharona pointed it out but it didn’t seem a problem to me, and it was an observation on her part, rather than a suggestion.

            We discussed our respective jobs. She was quietly impressed by mine, but I didn’t know the half of it where she was concerned. She worked every night of the week, half the time as Millarca the tour guide, and the other half as a blues singer in a hotel bar.

            “To chance meetings,” she toasted.

            It was getting late. The pub was closing. Sharona took me by the hand and brought me to my feet. She did everything with such languorous ease that I could scarcely resist her slightest whim. On the outside of the pub we paused opposite one another. She had a black leather satchel thrown over one shoulder. Over the other I could see her waved hair trembling in the warm breeze. She suddenly laughed at me and broke into a run away from me.

            “Come on then!” she shouted behind her, and before I knew it I was running too.

            We came to a laughing, breathless stop a few minutes later, in a graveyard. After a few more I calmed down and became a little reflective, I’m ashamed to say. The surroundings jolted me slightly, but the mood wasn’t gone. We spent an hour there talking of eternal riddles: composition of the continuum, free will.

            At once I noticed how cold I’d become. I yearned for a bed and became worried. What if the hostel closed and shut me out? I told Sharona it was time to go and she appeared momentarily disappointed. Suddenly I thought of Annabell and in the same moment I became just a man standing in a graveyard with a girl. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

            I made to leave but Sharona caught me by the hand. I turned and she looked into my eyes. It was my move, but I couldn’t. I wanted to, but…

            “Your first name, Mircalla, is Sharona,” I said.

            She looked at me wonderingly, mouth slightly parted, and I walked away.

 

*

 

            And all that was only last night. I know I’ve already written a great deal, but, despite the ending, it was one of the most amazing nights of my life. This morning Ed filled me in on the remainder of his night. He’d played darts with the other bloke, aiming at dollar notes and keeping those that he hit.

            “So, when do you see her again then?” he asked me.

            “I’m not sure.”

            “Didn’t you sort anything out?”

            “I don’t have her number.”

            “What?”

            “It’s okay. This whole thing’s fated. It’ll work out, you wait and see.”

            “Are you alright, Evans?”

            “Seriously. This is destiny, for sure.”

            “I don’t know. A real man makes his own luck.”

            “Is that right, Ed?” I said, beginning to enjoy stalking on the other side of the fence. “But it is amazing, how a lark that starts with me hitting a girl outside a restaurant playing Britney Spears could lead me to this point.”

            “Wings of a butterfly mate. We’re just trying to flap them more than most.”

Sweet Sunshine

“I’ve made mistakes, and I know why I made them, but I made that choice. Nobody’s ever made a choice for me.” – Sandra Bullock

 

          I came to slowly this morning and watched Ed sleeping across the room in the hostel. Even asleep there was a certain twist in his face that made me grimace slightly. Perhaps I thought I should apologise to him for the last night. Perhaps I thought he should, but he never would.

            In the end he woke up and we started to talk about the day ahead as though last night had never happened. It was a lovely hot morning and we strolled about town just soaking it up, breathing in the thick swampy air. As we walked about I couldn’t get Paolo Nutini out of my head.

 

Slowly strolling in the sweet sunshine,

And I’m running late,

And I don’t need an excuse,

’Cause I’m wearing my brand new shoes.

 

            We talked about Ed’s challenge, wondering whether he’d ever pull it off. He insisted he would. Eventually we arrived at the Museé Conti Wax, entertaining, but nothing special.

            This afternoon we’ve been lazing about in the hostel. Sharona #1 still hasn’t got back to me. Looks like I’ll have to pin my hopes on #2 after all… We’ll be leaving for warm up drinks in about half an hour, so I’m off to get changed.

It Needs No Assertion, It Simply Is

          I logged on to MySpace this morning with the anticipation of a teenage girl opening a text message from an unknown number. Oddly Sharona hadn’t written a thing on her site. This might be normal for anyone else but this girl had been updating her diary every for weeks, or maybe even months. She hadn’t even logged in. I looked at her picture again and decided that she’s really very pretty, I’m sure I’d get many an envious look with her on my arm.

            “Haha! You fucking loser.” Ed had apparently come downstairs to see what I was doing. “She’ll never write to you.”

            “Just give it time.”

            “I’m not sure I can be bothered, mate. She’s not worth it.”

            “I think she is. She’s pretty.”

            “Ha! Yeah, you are a fucking loser. Right, let’s have some breakfast and then we’ll search for the other Sharona.”

            After breakfast we looked up Sharona #2. Her MySpace hadn’t been updated either. In fact, looking at it again, we realised it had never been updated. It was one of those sign up, write a few details, get bored and never sign in again type accounts. Apparently this Sharona was not a MySpace type girl.

            At least we had one detail to go on: she gave guided tours in the city.

            A short while later we were back in the French Quarter trawling through guide shops trying to seek her out.

            “There’s a lot of leg work in being an investigator,” I said, after another escape from a twenty minute conversation with a tour manager who was far more interested in selling us a package than giving us information.

            “Investigators have phones,” remarked Ed.

            “Ah,” I said. “Phone. Interesting.”

            By this point we had almost finished our trawl of the area, so we agreed to do the final couple before heading back to the hostel to try our luck on the phone.

            Sure enough at the very next tour place we struck gold. The booker knew exactly who we were talking about. In fact he was frighteningly enthusiastic about her.

            “Ah yes, you’re talking about our very best girl there!” he said, in full pimp mode. “You’ve had recommendations right? She sure provides the very best service. Five stars, if you know what I mean?”

            I had absolutely no idea what he meant. One way or another we found ourselves signing up to her next tour, The Vampyr Tour, to start tomorrow at 8.30pm.

            “How fucking sweet,” Ed said, on the way home. “She’s some kind of vampire chick.”

            “Have you forgotten that goth chick from the bus already?” I asked. He laughed.

           

*

 

            Back at the hostel I eagerly checked MySpace to no avail. We therefore settled into a board game or two with a few beers. Ed destroyed me over and over again at Trivial Pursuit; he certainly knows a lot of shit. I took it well enough, he might have the general knowledge, but it’s not like that helped him get a proper job. Eventually I suggested chess again and he protested, wanting to beat me at some game he was sure of winning.

            “You always have to assert your goddamn superiority don’t you?” I said, in a moment of irritation.

            “It needs no assertion,” he replied. “It simply is.” Nonetheless, however, I’d done the job, and he agreed to play.

            I beat him quickly, once, then in three moves in the second game, an old trick but a beauty. He got really riled by that one and demanded another match. I removed half my pieces before we started and we played out a rather longer more challenging game. Even then though I won.

            “Fuck this,” Ed said, “it’s a stupid fucking game anyway.”

            “You’re only saying that because you keep losing.”

            “No, it’s a stupid game, there’s no sense in it.”

            “Listen to yourself, you’re always just talking crap to suit yourself.”

            “That’s fucking rich coming from you, you little posh twat, everything’s always suited you.”

            “Christ, say what you mean, why don’t you?”

            “Why wouldn’t I? That’s always been your problem, Evans, you’re such pussy you have to go around saying and doing the right thing like a little fucking girl. Fuck it.” He shook his head in disgust and walked off. That was an hour ago and I haven’t seen him since. I guess maybe he didn’t mean all that, I think we’ve just been spending too much time together lately. I’m going to bed.

Sleeping with the Fishes

          This morning the Sharona-quest began in earnest.

            We looked online at the two girls’ profiles. One was still missing a picture, but in her profile she mentioned that she was a tour guide. We reckoned she’d therefore be easy enough to find. The other one, a hot blonde, has a fairly detailed diary. We carefully read through the last few weeks’ entries for clues. We discovered that she spends a huge amount of time at a few select locations: the mall, some café in town, the mall, a Bourbon Street club and… the mall. Her diary for today mentioned a rendezvous with the girls. We therefore decided to head for her favourite spot, The Shops at Canal Place.

            An hour later we were wandering about in the said mall, realising that this was in many ways a rather stupid way to go about things. It’s not exactly a movie, we’re not just going to bump into her… We went to a few shop clerks and showed them pictures we’d printed out. Eventually one of them actually did recognise her, and confirmed she’d been there in the last half hour. Ed got very excited at this point, believing himself a true Philip Marlowe.

            Despite this minor success we didn’t know where next to head, so we decided to sit in an open café in the mall and have lunch. We discussed what on earth I’d actually say if we did find her.

            “Go with your heart,” Ed told me.

            After lunch we decided we had to move on, perhaps try again another day with better clues. Ed noticed that we were next to the Aquarium and we went to check it out. Being on the estuary front it had been badly struck by Katrina. It lost 10,000 fish! It is recovering pretty well now though, and is open for business.

            We wandered about looking at various turtles and sharks until we came to a rather spectacular underwater tunnel. As I was gaping at the underside of a stingray Ed suddenly cracked me in the ribs with his elbow.

            “What the hell?” I asked. Ed pointed along the corridor. I looked and saw Sharona!

            “Wow,” I said, “that’s lucky.”

            “It’s fate,” Ed replied. “Now exercise your free will.”

            We sidled up to her and looked into the same part of the tank as her.

            “Hi!” I said, with forced brightness. Suddenly a giant of a man took a step closer to her and looked at me angrily. He must’ve been a college football player or something.

            “Er… Hi,” she replied.

            “Pretty aren’t they, Sharona?” I said, using her name to see what would happen.

            “You know this guy Shar?” said the bloke.

            “No!” she replied, with earnest honesty.

            “How’d you know her name then buddy?” he said to me, squaring up.

            “Her MySpace site, I recognise her.”

             “MySpace? Shar?”

            “Like, I dunno!” she replied. “What’s My…Space?” she added, fake-moronically.

            “Okay buddy,” the guy started again, facing me, “I don’t know what your game is but you’ll be sleeping with the fishes if you don’t fuck off.” A few kids looked over but he was just laughing at his terribly funny bon mot.

            “Alright mate,” I said, then turned to Sharona. “Sharona, fate brought me all the way here from London to see you. If that means anything then take your space and let me know.”

            The bloke didn’t take kindly to this continued communication. He grabbed me by the t-shirt. “I’m gonna knock you dead for that,” he said.

            “No, you won’t,” said Ed, suddenly appearing at my side. “Put my friend down, right now.”

            The two of them stared hard at one another, neither blinking. Eventually the bloke let go of me and we left quietly.

 

*

 

            Back at the hostel I found myself a little shaken by the confrontation. I couldn’t help but admire Ed’s bravery but I wondered if all this was so sensible.

            “What did you expect?” asked Ed, noting my mood. “This sort of thing is bound to happen occasionally when social conventions are pushed.”

            “Hmmmm,” I replied, and sat musing for a while. “I wonder if she’ll get back to me on MySpace.”

            “I don’t think so mate, she’s plainly an air head, and that hint of yours was way too subtle.”

            I think perhaps I’ll try and have a quiet one tonight.

Nanomite Super-Race

          After all the travelling I managed to fall asleep on the youth hostel sofa last night. I woke up in the early hours with a kitten face painted on me. Apparently this is a standard joke around here. I staggered into my real bed and fell asleep.

            Suffice to say I was woken by the sound of Ed’s laughter today. I went to clean the paint off my face. On my return Ed was ready to head out. He wanted to go sight seeing. I protested, suggesting that we needed to find Sharona, that was the point, after all. In the end we agreed to one day’s sight seeing first.

            We spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon wandering around the French Quarter. Again, I was amazed to discover that it seemed relatively unharmed by the hurricane. It was the most remarkable place, so many quaint antique shops hawking random stuff from independence war memorabilia through to voodoo stuff.

 

*

 

            This afternoon we came back to the hostel and relaxed with a guitar Ed found lying around. He was very naturally talented at it; I envied the way he drew small crowds with such ease. A little later we played chess and I decimated him and thus felt a little redeemed. He didn’t take losing too well though, so I couldn’t gloat quite so much as I wanted.

 

*

 

            I’ve just got back from Bourbon Street. We decided to go there for the evening. It turned out to be a very relaxing evening in the end. When we first stepped out there we were swamped with 3 for 1 offers on all kinds of shots and bottles. Cowgirls and apparent whores tempted us with further body shot options.

            At some stage some extremely drunk American girls cornered us and talked our ears off for a while. Even Ed couldn’t handle this, so we diverted our attention to a far more attractive pair of girls in another corner of the bar. Sadly they turned out to be English too, and Ed just wasn’t up for that. He really can’t stand English girls these days.

            At the end of all that we simply ended up alone in a corner, talking about the future of evolution and the certainty of impending destruction by nanomites, which would then themselves evolve over time into a new solar dependant super race.

            In other words: a satisfying evening.

Skin Colour or Clothing Taste?

          Finally there!

            It’s been an epic journey. I can’t believe I’ve just been sitting on a bus for the last 41 hours of my life. Ugh. I’m tired, but want to write down some of the amusing things that we made happen on the way.

            Yesterday we decided that Ed had to try his dare at least once for each leg of the journey. The first leg was to Atlanta, which we didn’t get to until this morning! There was an entertaining selection of options for Ed to choose from: an old black lady, several extremely fat plain looking white women, a past-it cowgirl and a shy bookish girl across from us. Faced with the forced choice Ed elected the girl to our side. I have to say, she was actually quite a sweet looking girl and I almost felt sorry for her.

            “Dude,” I whispered, “don’t use the word ‘Turbonegro’. People won’t get the whole prophet thing here, they’ll just shoot us. That’s what happens in America.”

            “Good point, dude.”

            Ed leant shyly across the aisle towards the girl. “Hello,” he said. She glanced nervously at him out of the side of her eyes, she didn’t turn her head or look up. “I’m… a prophet,” Ed continued, pathetically. He seemed extraordinarily nervous. “I’m out for revenge.” The girl looked back at her book and tried earnestly to pretend Ed didn’t exist.

            Ed sat back against the chair and sighed.

            “Dude, what happened? You totally crashed and burned.”

            “I think I’m in love.”

            Those were the last words of the night. I looked up to the heavens, closed my eyes, plugged in my ipod and forced the world to fade away.

 

*

 

            Waking up in transit is a strange experience. Somehow you expect to wake up in a fixed predictable location. This morning I woke in a sweat. The sun was pouring through the windows superheating me in my jumper. I stripped to a t-shirt and took out my book. It was mid morning and only a couple of hours from Atlanta. With the sun reflecting off the white pages of my novel I felt the excitement and life rouse in me again. I smiled and relaxed.

 

*

 

            At Atlanta we finally got out to stretch our legs. We wandered about, looking at plain, ordinary bus station things that were stationary. We were silent, comfortably so, caught in that slothful travelling state.

            Back in the bus I looked around assessing the new crowd for the next leg. Ed would have to pick one of them.

            “The talent is dire,” said Ed. It was true. There didn’t seem to be a single viable option. Even the shy girl had disappeared.

            We left it for an hour or so, to allow everyone to settle, and then Ed made his choice. He picked a black clothed red haired goth girl sitting just behind us at the back, staring out the window with headphones firmly lodged.

            “At least she’ll be a minx if I succeed,” Ed observed.

            He stood and cautiously turned to face her. If he could’ve had a hat in his hands he’d have kneaded it to a pulp.

            “Yes?” she asked, taking out her headphones and staring at him with fashionable disdain.

            “Er… if I told you I was the prophet of a well-equipped black man with a fast car would you sleep with me?”

            “Is the man black by skin colour or clothing taste?” asked the girl, unfazed.

            “Skin colour, I think… that is, he’s a Turbonegro.”

            “Fuck it then,” she said. Suddenly, though, her eyes popped. “Wait! Turbonegro? You should’ve said! I love those guys!”

            Ed turned to me. “Bollocks, I should’ve known,” he said to me, under his breath. He turned back to the girl. “So, will you sleep with me then?”

            “No.”

            “Thank god.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” he grinned, and retreated back to his seat. “Didn’t much fancy that,” he confided in me, “did you see her? Not pretty at all up close.”

 

*

 

            So it is that we’ve come to New Orleans. I’m staying at the India House Youth Hostel. I’m amazed at how well put together this whole place is. You’d never guess Katrina had ever struck. It seems lovely here, there’s a real thick exotic air to the place.

I'm Also a Prophet

          I’m in the New Jersey airport internet café. It’s been a long day already, as you can imagine, but it’s still only