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Paulyanna, by PowerpuffGeezer
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First Chapter of my memoirs. Content over quality

Paulyanna

CHAPTER ONE&The Interview

I stepped off the train at Euston Station and joined the throng heading along the lengthy platform towards the exit. Those sombre, newspaper reading passengers I'd journeyed with, were now aggressively barging by me, a comical over exaggerated look of urgency and inconvenience was etched across every face.
For a long time I had felt a magnetic pull towards the Capital. Today it was almost tangible. A subconscious instinct to stick with the pack and avoid the stampede meant that after a gangly start, I stepped to the correct pace. It was as if I were five years old again desperately trying to keep up with my Dad. Mindless of those around, I pretended I was one of them. A confident eighteen year old business man with my briefcase and umbrella, so for prosperity I took an imaginary photograph.
I arrived at the Hotel with time to spare despite an additional two hours added on to my journey. Harrow-on-the-Hill was not as centrally located as I'd presumed. A large ornately framed mirror greeted me as I entered the lobby, so I took the opportunity for a final appearance check.
I still looked smart, my borrowed trousers were not the most comfortable, due to the amount of waist gathering hidden underneath the belt but on the plus side, they easily covered the top of my black ankle-boots making them pass for shoes. My black shirt still appeared pressed, my ultra-skinny red tie was on straight and my brand new, fourteen quid Woolworth's suit jacket looked fine.
I was given an immediate ego boost, when I approached the young redheaded female sitting behind the reception desk. She asked me if I wanted to check-in. I informed her I was there for an interview with the manager. A polite smile masked how thrilled I was being mistaken for a paying guest. To me she had inadvertently confirmed I looked presentable and given me some much needed confidence. I gave her my appointment details which she received with a nervous bite of her bottom lip.
She looked dumbfounded as she stood for a while, visually thinking. Then leaned over an unattended desk to her left to retrieve a large black book. Flipping back and forth through a few pages, she picked up the telephone receiver. I couldn't hear what was said because she spoke with a hushed voice, but I did notice her cheeks redden as she replaced the handset. She asked me to wait in the Lounge, indicating to a set of double-doors. I suspected a mix-up and silently wished in a half prayer that I hadn't come all this way for nothing.
After a while I was offered a cup of tea. It was brought to me in a small pot on a tray, complete with a pocket-sized packet of three Custard Cream biscuits, which I shoved into my case for later.
I 'd just pressed shut the clasp, when an elderly gentleman wearing house slippers and a cardigan approached and perched himself on the seat opposite. I remember how relieved I was that he didnt get a glimpse at the contents of my briefcase.
Egg sandwiches wrapped in an old bread-bag, a walkman audio cassette player and an assortment of tapes, all with hand written labels. Not exactly fitting of the business man, I hoped he saw before him. As I poured my tea, he struck up a conversation. I told him my name and made mention that I had come for a job interview and that I had been waiting quite a while. At the mention of my home-town Wolverhampton, I recognised his quizzical expression so went on and placed its location right next-door to Birmingham. There was not a lot more I could add befitting of our polite chit-chat, other than, the local football team was called Wolves.
"And family? Tell me about them." His interrogatory request for personal information threw me. It sounded less like a chat and more like twenty questions. I was unaccustomed in regard to the fine art of small-talk, at odds distinguishing a line between what I should and should not reveal. I had to consider how to answer, this nosey strangers invasive probe without painting too bleak a picture.
I simply told him I was raised by my Dad, along with four other older siblings. I tried to avoid, plucking on his sympathetic heart-strings, so spoke quickly not wanting to leave any words hanging in the air.
As a child I soon learned that, the mere mention of being motherless would often trigger a nurturing instinct. Women in particular were susceptible to my sad tale. Using the right delivery, most sorrowful eyes and with protruding bottom lip, they found me hard to resist. I could clear up at the local church-hall jumble-sale. The elderly women gave me surplus clothing, sweets and even some spare change.
I still saw a sympathetic glint despite my carefree Cest la vie delivery.
A good ten minutes of general chat passed before, he rose abruptly. He extended his hand in a businesslike manner. I reciprocated and he continued to tell me how nice it was to meet me and that he would inform the manager the position of Kitchen Porter was no longer vacant. He added that I should expect a letter in a few days to confirm that I had got the job.
I was totally flabbergasted and at first slightly confused. I was awash with emotions as embarrassment soon followed only to be swept away by joy, when it finally dawned on me I'd completed a successful interview with the owner of the hotel.
As I rode the tube back into the centre of London, I decided on a spot of sightseeing. I diligently checked I still had my train ticket and inserted it back into my breast pocket before exiting at Baker Street. I listened to Led Zeppelin, Physical Graffiti as I walked here, there and everywhere to visit the various monuments and land marks. In my pocket was a packet, of ten Silk Cut cigarettes containing a one-skin. A joint of hashish made using a single, small sized cigarette paper. It was perfect to enhance my already joyous mood. Smoking joints was a habit that had developed at around the age of fourteen. Cannabis helped to slow down my rapid thinking and kept suppressed some of my unhappier memories. I also thought, by hiding behind the smoke I could mask my sexuality. I figured, people worried about my drug taking werent concerning themselves with the fact, I hadnt had a girlfriend. In my opinion things always seemed more pleasant when I was high.
Although it was early November and bitterly cold, I hardly noticed. 1987 London was bright, fast and alive. Evening crept upon me so quickly, by the time I made my way back to Euston station my pace was sluggish and my feet were sore.
However, my sweet taste victory suddenly turned sour, as I delved into my pockets, briefcase and pockets once again in search of my ticket to ride. As I had actually bought and paid for a ticket, I headed to the ticket office for assistance. If the woman there had a piece of gum, she would have chomped like a cow chewing cud, as she obviously wasnt bothered, nor was she prepared to help me in my plight.
I decided that I was not too proud to beg as I stepped back out onto the concourse. I blocked the path of the first person I saw, a fast approaching commuter. I cupped my hand meekly in an attempt not to appear too aggressive. My timid voice, croaked up.
"Excuse Mmm...."
"Piss Off." Like the crack of a whip. Harsh, final, it was the most clear and concise no I'd ever received. Shaken up by his abrupt flash of aggression, I gave no retort instead I watched despondently as he nonchalantly cruise on, without breaking his stride.
After I brushed off the feeling of dejection, I headed back out onto the streets of London, with a new impetus. Obtain a road map and use my thumb to get home.
I located a shopping centre, it was bright and inviting. The Atrium heaters and glaring lights warmed me as I entered. The area was so peaceful compared to the hectic street I'd exited. In a souvenir shop I thumbed through a copy of a London map book. I couldn't make head nor tail of it. North, south, east and west meant nothing to me without a compass. With no geography lessons to fall back on, I decided there was no point to steal it. Plus I did vow never to steal again. I'd found out, from bitter experience that stealing didn't pay. It had taken me almost two years to complete punishments for the crimes I previously committed. I suspected a fourth offence would probably see me banged up behind bars.
I hadnt a clue what to do. It was a crisp cloudless evening outside on those unfamiliar streets. I sat one of the benches encircling the foyer directly beneath a hot-air fan, I was comfortable so stayed put.
I was joined by a Homeless Black Guy, he smelt rank. I wasn't going to move. I really wanted to but I could never be seen, to be so rude, so snobby. We talked. I relayed the days events. We shared my sandwiches, thought he was too picky for a vagrant. He didn't want a custard cream. I was aware we looked a strange sight. I can recall clearly on another memory Polaroid picture. Me, briefcase on knees, umbrella resting against it. He, wrapped in a blanket. Both deep in debate having what looked like an intelligent conversation. In reality he ranted on about THEM. Them? My Dad, a genuine outsider and arm-chair revolutionist, spent my entire childhood griping on about THEM. Tories, Liberals, the Police and social workers, the rich and middle-classed, basically anyone that wasnt us.
On occasion I sensed hostility from some of the passers-by. An expression of contempt which I told myself masked resentment of our freedom. Their hectic conformist lifestyles had them rushing around, chasing an urbane dream. Thatcherism boom-time had no regard for the poor. Scorn and arrogance was a well oiled toil, greed and an excessive lifestyle, worn like a badge of honour.
I then had a mini eureka-moment, I recognised that those scoffing Yuppies, young urban professionals, that strutted by me carrying their Filofaxes were also THEMS.
Unfortunately the shopping centre had to close and when the security officers asked us to leave, we parted ways. I crossed over the road directly outside the exit, the pavement was crammed with portrait artists. They sat down on milk-crates and camping stools all were busy drawing, scribbling and sketching at great speeds for the paying tourists. I settled in a nearby doorway, my shivers fought against the cold. I watched the sheer happiness of expectantly posing sitters, form into caricatures and lifelike pictures of themselves. Seeing random bold strokes and delicate shading blended to produce a likeness of the subject, captivated me. I lost myself in the scrawling and for a instant became oblivious to time and the cold. After a while, I became aware of a man, he'd already sauntered by me once and looked straight at me. He passed by, once again clocking me. I had an inkling I was being assessed, and wondered if he was checking me out. Before I knew it, he had sidled up beside me. His uncertain smile appeared harmless enough. Then the strangest thing happened, an urge and then a prompt. A voice inside my head said, Quick! Talk to him now." I said the first thing that came into my head.
"Excuse me, have you got the time, please? I suppose I did want to know the time.
Yes, I've got the time and, the money." I must admit, I was so taken aback by his boldness it prompted an immediate almost reactionary, OK. He never did tell me the time, instead we strolled off together down Shaftesbury Avenue.
We walked for about five minutes before stopping at a small hotel. The desk clerk scrutinised me as he checked us in to a room. I told myself he didnt know anything. I could have quiet easily have been this man's nephew, in London for legitimate business reasons. He passed over the room key and surreptitiously raised an eyebrow in my direction. How awkward it was knowing that he knew. In truth the clerk had probably seen this scenario a thousand times, although the younger one was probably dressed differently. As for me, renting was new, I was green and knew nothing. I hadn't even come out of the closet.
The room was a small en-suite twin, it was clean and snug, not a dive at all. Everything you'd expect from a standard mid-priced room, quite ordinary. I had never stayed in a proper hotel before. I lost my composure and sort of forgot myself, opening this cupboard and that door. Marvelling at the tiny bottles of spirits in the mini-fridge. Wondered what the trouser press actually did. I think what I was really doing, was playing for time. Attached to a wall mounted bracket, was a portable television set. I pulled the TV left and then right, it glided in a bouncing motion due to its heavy weight. Although precarious I tested its durability thoroughly as I swung the screen to face the window and then the door. The voiced suggestion, that I could switch it on if I wanted to, broke me from my reverie. In an attempt to quash the growing apprehension in my stomach, I did so immediately, thankful for the distraction, no matter how brief. The screen flashed and the volume instantly blasted out, making me jump. I reduced the sound but didnt bother to choose a channel. I could dally no longer it was time to turn and face the room. The stranger had poured himself a glass of wine and I accepted a Vodka with orange juice, there was no ice. Handing me the glass he suggested we take a bath, to freshen up. I started to feel more relaxed once in the tub, we bathed, drank and talked.
No longer so uptight, we retired to one of the beds. At his first attempt to kiss my mouth I turned away, not confident enough to simply say, I didn't like kissing. The fear of AIDS was never far from my mind. As his torso lowered, I turned my head to the TV which blasted out an appeal from across the room. Children in Need, a lot of celebrity razzmatazz pleading for donations. What about me, I need donations? It was only a half-hearted attempt at self pity and although the ordeal was still ongoing, I concluded things could have been worse. The man didnt press his advances and to his credit, he offered me the unsoiled bed, when it was time to sleep.
Alone in a silence broken by unfamiliar breathing, I didn't feel manipulated or detect any additional sense of low worth. It was a simple business transaction. To imagine I had some kind of value and that someone had been willing to pay for me was in itself a welcome revelation. I did pause for thought on two issues. What to tell my family, eagerly waiting for news and what to say in my prayers. Knowing exactly what I am like, I probably said my standard prayers adding a simple one-liner of gratitude and a plea I make it home safely in one piece. I saw no major issue regarding morals, to me prostitution was a fact of life, besides it was in my blood.
The next morning after a full english breakfast, my customer, untrusting of my hard luck story, insisted he accompany me to the station so he could buy my ticket. I rode the train homeward feeling very fortunate and mischievously triumphant, knowing I'd be heading back to London very soon.

Description: First Chapter of my memoirs. Content over quality

Photo Posted: Mar 26,2013 Photo Viewed: 435

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