1 June 2012
13. Felix
It would be nearly impossible to overstate the enormity of the list of things which I have to do today. So far it looks something like this: Buy puppy for Lola, acquire ten Methuselas of 1992 Cristal Brut for hopefully less than two hundred grand, see a doctor, see Belle, make confirmation phone calls to guests, confirm all progress with Carlo, go for suit fittings with Caleb, pick up shoes at Selfridges and take Ali to see the Tsar’s Bride at the Royal Opera House tonight. Mentally I’m scanning this list as I drive through Battersea trying to find a short-term stay car park which isn’t full and doesn’t cost fourteen pounds an hour. Like in a mathematical equation I try to eliminate the things which will have no effect on the eventual outcome of my day, nothing.
Battersea is a dire place to live, economists may say that it’s on an upswing but what they don’t seem to realise is that shit is shit, irrevocably. Nevertheless over the last few years a smattering of acceptable restaurants have opened in the area, a few boutiques selling handmade soap and neo-vintage couture and on one street four well known hairdressing franchises each scrabbling desperately for custom. Compared to the rest of London, which basks in the monochrome greyness of its architecture, Battersea wallows in it. Every wall darker than the next, every corner dirtier and more menacing than its central London counterpart. Despite these efforts at local regeneration by the generous members of the Wandsworth council, Battersea will only ever be known for two things; the hideous stain on the London skyline of Battersea Power Station and the domestic animal zoo of Battersea cat and dog home.
For the first item on my list, Lola’s puppy, I am not going to the dog home, I have no desire to have somebody else’s discarded mongrel in my house, not to mention I need something that doesn’t need a whole lot of exercise or Ali might kill me. As luck would have it Battersea is also the home to a breeder of Pug’s, a sufficiently toy-like breed which don’t look unlike Yoda, their squished up little faces remind me of Lola when she’s resisting a rude awakening for school. On my third lap of the town centre I finally find a space which I pull the car into fairly askew, but without the patience to realign I simply pull in the wing mirrors and hope for the best. Outside I walk down the street casually smoking a cigarette and examining the Garmin satellite navigation system which I’ve taken from the car, praying that the battery holds out so that I can find this place. I am 0.7 miles away. A man wearing a German parka jacket, faded jeans and heavy steel toe capped boots sidles over to me, in his right arm are a wad of Big Issue magazines. As he comes close I see that under his yellow stained beard his face is covered in burst blood vessels, the pores in his nose are cavernous and his mouth holds four possibly five teeth. “Big Issue?” He offers me hopefully, expectant. As I pass him without acknowledging his presence he says, “Have a nice day, mister.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him under my breath but turning to say it directly to him. I’m in no mood for recovering alcoholic do-gooders today, especially ones in Battersea.
I’m 0.5 miles away from my destination. The wind picks up and blows the right hand side of my jacket open and into the lit end of my cigarette. I stop and spend the next minute trying to brush off the mild burn in the pocket, unfortunately on a deep beige wool blazer this is almost impossible. The streets are filled with lobotomized looking characters, dressed generally in tracksuits, England football shirts, Reebock Classics and sporting facial piercings of one form or another.
I’m 0.4 miles away. A key cutting, watch repairing, shoe repair store is playing a painfully bad version of “Light my Fire” by someone who is not The Doors. I take a side street because a sultry woman’s voice tells me to. The street is a long row of grim looking terraced houses, all identical, individualised only by the different type of curtains in the front windows. In the distance, rising out of the homogeny is a large grey hulking building which according to my guide is my destination, this fills me with something other than glee and I find myself focussing on Lola to get me through it.
I’m 0.1 miles away. The streets are empty now, I check behind me to see if the insulted Big Issue vendor is following me but he isn’t, this doesn’t really relieve me. Upon arrival at my destination I switch off the Garmin and press the required number to be patched through to the flat’s visitor admittance system. A crackling sound comes from the heavily graffitied metal holes behind which is a speaker, and hopefully, a functioning microphone. “Hello? Yes?” Comes the voice gruffly.
“Er yes hi,” I falter, unfamiliar with the protocol. “My name’s Felix Rose..... I er.....called yesterday about the pug puppies?” I inquire, uncertain of if I want to even go into this building.
“Oh yes!” Comes back the voice, followed by a loud buzz and familiar click of the door unlocking. “Come on up, the lift’s out of order but the stairs are just to your right.” Fucking great.
I probably break a sweat about two flights up the eighteen flights which will bring me to my designated floor. The stairwell smells like a urinal from the nineteenth century and more than likely has never been cleaned. Interesting slogans and neologisms have been daubed on the walls, messages professing both love and sometimes hate to various people, races or whoever. By the sixth flight my breathing is heavy and I decide to take off my jacket and take the steps two at a time if only to shorten this voyage. Halfway I have a rest, seeing the doctor gets wiped off the list. Fourteen flights up and I’m half pulling myself up with my arms, covering my hands in whatever shit has accumulated on this banister since the seventies. Then I start feeling how I did the other day, on the floor in the shower, helpless, every breath becomes a knife in the chest, my heart feels like it’s wrapped in thorns. By the eighteenth I’m light headed, leaning forward to stop myself falling back down. I get to the top and have no choice but to sit down, a four million watt bulb above my head making my vision spin and my head pound. To get to here has taken me fifteen minutes, longer than the walk from the car, by now the dog breeders have probably assumed that I’ve been murdered by one of the fucking vagrant savages who use these stairs as a toilet or call this shit-heap home.
My heart rate slows, I start being able to breathe again and have to fight the urge to light the cigarette which found its way into my hand at some point on my way up the stairs. Eventually I use the rusting banister to elevate myself to an upright position, slide my jacket back on, try to make myself not look like I just ran a marathon and open the heavy blue door to the right of the landing. The door opens out onto a narrow, open sided corridor, a sign in front saying 901-918 to the left and 919-936 to the right. Below this someone has written the “the poor will die”. I look over the ledge to the right, a man who looks exactly like my father walks through the grey courtyard below wearing a large brown raincoat, then he disappears under the building. I take a left and head to flat 914 which has a thick white fibreglass door behind a black metal grate.
When I press the doorbell the loud electric dong can be heard through the door which is swiftly followed by rather a lot of high pitched yapping. A man opens the door who is the human equivalent of the dogs which he breeds, stunted to about a foot below my height, portly and slightly red in the face with a thinning mop of greyish brown hair. He’s wearing a tight, unbranded, khaki polo shirt which just about covers his paunch and some stained jeans held up by a cracked leather belt which has been stretched beyond redemption. “Oh, we thought you’d got lost,” he says with surprise. This makes me wonder if a man like this could be married or if he uses the collective “we” to refer to him and his dogs, both possibilities worry me. “Come in, come in,” he beckons, “I’ve got the puppies in the living room for you.” I make my way into the flat with trepidation, the walls are a slightly off yellow and decorated with what appear to be old landscape prints. The smell in the flat is a mixture between processed meats, wet dog and the faint hint of stale urine. I still haven’t said a word or smiled, yet the man continues. “The two pups I have left are seven weeks now and I’ve just about got them housetrained,” he says while standing in the doorway of his miniscule living room, overlooking his litter. “Those two little ones,” he says pointing out two tiny, rodent like dogs which are madly jumping over each other to see the new arrival. “Those are the one’s I’m selling still, so...erm take your pick I suppose.” He takes a step back from the doorway so that I can pass him. I step over the child gate, almost crushing one of the puppies in the process. In a frenzy of competition they struggle to reach my hands as I crouch down to greet them. I can’t help but laugh at their enthusiasm, their little puppy teeth scratching my knuckles.
“How come one of them is black and the other one only has a black face?” I ask turning back to the doorway.
The portly fellow shrugs, “No idea, the mother’s a fawn pug, like that one with the black face you see, so was the father,” he chuckles to himself, “freak of nature I suppose.”
I force a laugh out of politeness, “You’ve made it very difficult to decide.”
“Is the dog for you, sir?”
“You can call me Felix,” I tell him, “and no it’s a gift.”
“Ah the girlfriend,” he says confidently.
“Daughter actually,” I correct him
“Oh well that’s nice, birthday is it?”
I turn back to the dogs, flipping each of them over and tickling their bellies with each hand to subdue them. “No, no occasion I just feel like getti
Daddy's Gone 13.0 • Opuss № I