A New Years Tale (2) “Well old boy, I never actually got off the blasted sidewalk, thought I would be able to. No luck.” We had parked outside the backdoor of the Dutchman, which involved using the sidewalk. “You mean we’ve been driving on the sidewalk all this time? Where the fuck are we now?” “Good news, off the sidewalk. Although I fear we’re out of the proverbial frying pan and ….GET OUT OF THE WAY, you stupid woman, do you want to be killed?” Tim bellowed. I was still thrashing around trying to extricate myself. “TIM! What is happening?” “Well, we’re in the pedestrian precinct.” All was quiet for a moment. A terrible stillness enveloped the inside of the van. It was as if we were both having a moment of Zen reflection on the seriousness of the situation. This oasis of calm was shattered by Tim; “Oh dear God.” Gough lurched violently sideways and then back on course, like we had been struck by a huge wave. I had by now managed to get into a kneeling position, I reached for the back of the passenger seat to pull myself upright after being toppled by Tim’s sudden evasive maneuver. I was completely terrified by what I saw through the windshield. It was New Years Eve, there were many people, all thinking they were safe. In fact someone was almost certainly saying what a good idea it was to motor vehicles from this part of town. They seemed to part in front of Gough, a look of stunned amazement and sometimes panic if we were on them too quickly. Tim was grimly scything through, without even saying a word, I knew it was the correct decision. To falter now and succumb to the Fear would be the end. The adrenalin in me was spent and the vodka once again wrapped its arms around my brain. I started to giggle. Tim started to giggle. The giggles were no longer happy with being giggles and burst forth into grown up peals of hysterical laughter. Then we both stopped, and as is the way with hysteria, and then laughed harder than before. I knew why, Tim and I were both thinking about the pedestrians staring at us. We were lit by the interior light which I had not turned off when I finished with the string replacement, Tim resplendent in his hat and roll up clamped between his teeth, myself with shoulder length curly hair and wild eyes topped with an Andy Capp flat hat, both laughing manically, in a big blue van, plowing through a pedestrian precinct. I knew that the threat of arrest was imminent. But there was nothing we could do except wait for an opening back to the street. “So what do you think we ought to start with tonight?” I asked as casually as I could. “You choose old man.” The van lurched again as Tim managed to miss a man who was not looking out for us, “We haven’t played Helen Wheels for a bit.” “I must admit, that would be very apt. Let’s do that. THERE, left” Tim saw the side street and turned the steering wheel abruptly, and in the correct direction. I couldn’t resist waving at a fleeing pedestrian. Now the reason for Tim’s navigational crisis was that in this city parking had no real order to it. If you could fit eighty percent of you car into a space, you were parked. Tim’s problem was that once on the sidewalk, there was no space for him to get off, reversing just did not enter into the equation, and he just had to carry on until an avenue of escape presented itself. A bit like being caught in railway tracks. However, we were now faced with the same problem. Tim and I glanced at each other, then peered ahead, praying for a gap. Tim saw one and changed our bearing. This night it appeared was not going to let us off easily. The opening was just wide enough to accommodate Gough. A couple of things became apparent remarkably quickly. The first was that if Tim had been in control of his faculties and moving at a much slower speed, the manoeuver would have been deemed ‘effortless’. This was not to be the case. The second determining factor was that the car to the left of the space was painted green and white, was a Volkswagen, had a blue light on top and Polizie stenciled rather boldly on the side. “You’ve seen them?” I asked, the sentence coming out as one word. “Rather unfortunate. We were doing so well. It’s been fun Iain, see you when we get released.” The blue light came to life and the blinking colour illuminated our faces. “Yes, it has been a splendid journey.” Tim began to slow Gough as we approached. Perhaps if Tim showed he was in masterful control of the vehicle, there would be less chance of a shooting. Then, as if our thoughts had summoned some kind of god, the police car sped away, siren blaring. Tim, without missing a beat, ker-chunked us over the kerb and into the path of oncoming traffic. The noise of the car horns was very loud, I think I also heard tyres squealing, but it was nothing to worry about. We were on our way, Tim started to sing ‘The Philosophers Song” at the top of his voice, I joined in on the bits I could remember. An ongoing joke between the two of us was Tim’s unerring faith that he knew his way from anywhere to anywhere. He didn’t, but he had a great sense of direction. When the song was done and we were turning left and right, barreling down side roads, I asked the question I always asked in these situations. “Tim, you do know where you’re going, right?” “Yes, dear boy. We’re nearly there.” A sudden turn, “You know exactly where we are?” “Oh yea of little faith.” “Really.” I took out a cigarette and just as I lit it the van lurched and the whole interior was illuminated in harsh white light. It was like we were being x-rayed by an alien spaceship. “Oh my God!” Tim shrieked. I looked up and realised exactly where we were. We had turned right onto Der Strasse 17 Juni. A four-lane inner city ring road. This normally would have been just fine. Except Tim had turned left, which meant we were facing the wrong way on one of the biggest and busiest one-way streets in Europe. To be completely fair, I think that if I had been driving we would have almost certainly been involved in some kind of collision by this point in time. So there we sat, fortune had smiled on us, and the rabid horde of motorcars were held at bay by a red traffic light. “Do something!” I yelled, snapping Tim out of his rabbit like trance. He gunned the engine, and recklessly spun the steering wheel. Gough rose to the challenge. Tyres smoking and juddering, we completed the turn just as the light turned to green. For a while Tim held the wheel in a vice like grip, I could see the white of his knuckles through his skin. We turned neither right nor left, did not slow down or speed up, we traveled in a very straight line. Once my heartbeat had returned somewhat to normal, I said; “So do you know where we are going?” “My dear friend, of course I do.” “What was that thing with the near death experience then?” Tim was silent for a moment. Casually he flicked on the indicator and we turned off the main thoroughfare. I began to recognise the street we were on. Damn, he did it again. “I really don’t think you should be making such a fuss over one wrong turn you know. Quite hurt my feelings.” I had to smile, we were alive and nearly at our destination. What more could one ask. “Sorry, old friend. It was seeing through time for a brief second that caused me to be so rude. I apologise.” “Quite alright. We’re here.” Tim stopped Gough, opened the door and fell out. There was a silence, then, “I am OK. Just missed my step. I am perfectly fine.” The voice sounded disjointed and a long way away. We gathered up the instruments, they had a small house PA so we didn’t need anything else. I looked back over my shoulder at the van. It appeared that it had been left rather than parked, but I didn’t feel it was worth mentioning. The bar had a two door system, by this I mean, the outside door led into a small vestibule, before the next one led into the bar itself. We had a Laurel and Hardy moment there, our guitars and the two of us didn’t quite fit at the same time. I knew this, but in my state of mind I blindly followed Tim in causing him to get jammed in the opening and myself stuck on the outside door. This evening being what it was, out of all the people wanting to exit the bar at this precise moment, was of course Karl. The owner. Our employer for the evening. We were hopelessly entangled in the small space, Karl stood at the doorway, framed by the smoky atmosphere and a pretty big crowd of rowdy customers. He was all smiles and hello’s until I think he saw just how out of it we were. It was he who extricated us from our predicament. We said our “gruss diche’s” and shook hands awkwardly. We apologised for being a tad late and tried to make our way to the stage. He would have none of it. “We must drink first my fine friends.” Oh no, I thought. At least I hoped it was a thought. “I have been saving this vodka for two years! The finest Russian. Come, we drink!” He herded us toward the four foot section of bar reserved for Karl’s favourites. We felt very honoured, it was the first time. We had seen people expelled from his bar for daring to argue about this oasis of empty bar space. He poured a pair of two finger deep shots and handed them to us. It was as if we had been offered poison. “Drink my friends. You must drink.” He held the bottle to his lips and took a mighty swallow. With brief eye contact Tim and I slammed back the liquid. It evaporated on my tongue. All the protective layers of skin on my throat were peeling off as I felt the liquor lay waste to my stomach lining. It was all I could do not to choke. “Ah, it is good, no?” Karl bellowed. He reached over with the bottle to pour us more, “We,” I hurriedly corrected the pitch of my voice to that of a man, “We have to play, Karl. We’ll come back and see you after the first set.” My brain had begun to receive the first signals from my bloodstream of the impending onslaught of pure grain alcohol. It was not a really great feeling. “I insist! One more. Or..” he paused with great solemnity, “you will never drink in my house again.” He peered at as both, swaying slightly, it was as if his point of balance was the half empty vodka bottle. It hung there at a forty degree angle. The clear potion lazily slushing to and fro. I meekly held up my glass under the open neck. “Nastrovia!” he shouted and tipped up the bottle, Tim followed suit and we threw back the drink that was undoubtedly going to end our lives this evening. After all we had survived this night, to die writhing on the floor, our stomachs stripped of all flesh. Oh well, can’t live for ever. We made our way to the stage and after what seemed an eternity, got our instruments in tune with each other. Whether they were actually in tune, I really don’t know. Tim introduced us with a flourish, “Meine Damen und Herren, we are Ten Miles from Barstow.” We then proceeded to strike the first chord of the first song. This would have been fine had we played the first chord of the same song. We burst out laughing. The audience did not. They stared, stony faced. This made us laugh more. We tried again, this time Tim started the song I started last time and I started the one he started. This was not boding well. We could not help but laugh. My feet had gone numb; the poison had begun to attack my feet. I wasn’t embarrassed or fearful, I would be dead soon. On the third attempt we managed to get it together. Or maybe we didn’t. We played on autopilot for a bit. Tim seemed to be concentrating on a small distant object somewhere in the nicotine scarred ceiling. I was entranced by the patrons. I just kept scanning backwards and forwards. Their faces were harsh. They may have applauded; they may have been singing naval sea shanties. I had no feeling in my shins by now. I saw one of the revelers trying to get up from his seat. I stifled a giggle as he fought vainly for the vertical. He made it and to my horror I saw his internal gyroscope had failed. He stood still for a second and then lurched off on a bearing he had not chosen. I could see by the effort in his glassy eyes he knew his body was being uncooperative. He managed to halt his forward progress and steadied himself on a table. He paused there, the customers seated around the table held grimly onto their bottles, studying the man ready to take evasive action at a seconds notice. With an effort that superseded his apparent physical abilities, he propelled himself into the abyss. For a brief moment in time it looked like he was in command. The instant passed and his legs followed their own unique path. He was headed for Tim. Tim, my valiant friend, was blissfully unaware of his impending doom. I could not warn my friend, the poison had crept up to my thighs now, I was frozen, I watched in horror as the drunkard began to gather speed like a he was caught on an unexpected gradient. He was headed right at my old friend; the night had been so bizarre that I knew something terrible and unexpected would occur. I was helpless. The world slowed down to a blurry crawl, the man inched toward Tim, his empty beer glass held out in front like a lance, Tim was still lost on his musical planet, at least he would not suffer. Inexplicably Tim’s assassin changed course and careened into one of the tables right in front of the stage. Tim looked at me as if inquiring as to the cause of the crash. I saw no point in alarming him. The show went on in a swirling haze. The months of playing day in day out were paying dividends. We were performing on instinct. The time moved on until we were two songs away from completing our contract. I should mention that the drinks had not stopped coming at us. Karl’s ‘special’ vodka had anesthetised my brain, alcohol had no further effect on me, and I suspect Tim was in the same frame of mind. The tension was leaving my body, we were so close to being finished and the proud recipients of 600 marks. Just as we began the last tune and Tim had announced our thanks and good nights, it happened again. There was a commotion at the front door. We looked over and saw a 6’8” blond Nordic man mountain standing in the entrance. He was a wide as he was tall, wearing a cut off jean jacket. His arms were bare despite the minus 15 temperature outside. He was wearing big black boots and a motorcycle chain as a belt. As he moved into the bar we could see that behind him, in single file, were the rest of his gang. All equal in stature, all with the same cut off Levi jacket. “Oh, just fucking peachy, the Hells Angels.” Unfortunately I said this rather close to the microphone and although it wasn’t loud, it was audible enough for Tim to lose track of his lyric. He looked at me like I had just signed our death warrant. Personally I didn’t really mind, I was quite sure I was dying of alcohol poisoning and would be found outside on the sidewalk, curled up comfortably in a snow bank, cause of death severe alcohol consumption. All attention was focused on the men strolling into the club. It was like a scene from every bad eighties hero movie. All went into slow motion. The camera panned to close up of the black leather fingerless gloves, fist clenching and unclenching, then a quick cut to the long blond hair framed by amber backlight, returning to a close up on the menacing blue Nordic eyes. They swaggered their way toward the back of the room where there were two empty tables. To get to that area of the bar they had to pass directly in front of the stage. They drew level with us, we all locked eyes, their distain for us obvious, as the leader passed we could see the name of his gang emblazoned in the typical horseshoe Angel style, as we read the words, we dissolved into complete uncontrollable, tear streaming, hysterical laughter, a perfect end to a very strange and wonderful night, the name of the motor cycle gang was, “THE SHABBY ONES” Despite my paralysis we managed to get off the stage in one piece. Karl, I assumed, paid us, he also probably made us drink with him. I awoke face down and shivering on the floor in the back of Gough. Tim was sprawled over the two front seats. How we survived that night I really have no idea. As I have previously mentioned it did take Tim and I several weeks to piece together what happened. Even now, I’m not sure we recalled it all.
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