We Will All Escape?
By Simon Paul Cooper A.K.A SiD
SiD 26 and 33%
“It’s Simple, all I have to do is cross the water.” 26 years and 33 %, and still I’m walking in circle’s. These small towns are magnets for the indecisive. Council estates, border on working class who border on middle class, looked down on by the upper class, rejects who are all imprisoned by the sea. Blue, green, red, stone, brick yellow. The most you can drive is 20 miles. The whole social spectrum all exists within towns of less than 2 miles. The tourists love it, they think it’s an English heaven. This week will be Cowes week, Men with yachts the rich, snotty musto jacket wearing women, all flock for some big fat filthy rich shit smelling parade. This is hell for us, us without money.
I have friends who own everything. I have friends who have nothing. I myself have potentially everything and actually very little. Determined, but suffer from alternating motivation syndrome. I was a sprinter in sports and it seems in life. 12 seconds of a day I’m extremely active. Work shy, but not lazy. So many projects, so little time, so little life.
10:30 Saturday. Stoned with a high, sativa. Usual night. So many projects, drawing, drums, guitar, bass, keyboards, lyrics, writing, a loss of inspiration. Teletext 555 select- Sat select- 6’8’19’23’27* -38. Adrenalin shoots from the heart and the spine. 5 numbers and the bonus ball. “see Ya Later Isle of Wight. See Ya Later Isle of My shite
Suddenly a hot knife, so hot it’s cold, cuts through my spinal cord, severing the buzz. A comedown of the highest order. I only have Wednesdays ticket. “No more shit. This world owes me £140,000” I knew this will happen
Every action, everything that needs to be avenged by me, flashes before my eyes. Like a hurricane’s passed and I’m in the eye. A bubbling rage, liquid metal, SiD is washed away while DiS he takes me over.
£42.57, lighter, weed, tobacco, Rizla, Citric, a 3month old needle and a phone scattered between jeans and a blue camouflage Jacket. I leave my house only to return a few steps later to grab the forgotten spoon stained with subutex, I spit and wash (hygiene went out the window years ago when I banged up the scrapings from a bag I knocked onto my wooden floor, or the times using a public bog or fast food baby changing rooms) then i wrap the spoon in foil. Oh shit, as my hand touches the door handle “Better get a filter, so not to be a pain.”
I walk a mile and a half, from a small village. Northwood. A detached Georgian house on Wyatt’s lane (My parents, I’ve lived here for 22 years, spent a few months with an ex. My position is due to drugs, no doctor or benefits form I mean mental illness.) The well in the garden are on old maps found on the intro net ( i say intro net, Introduction net. Imagine what the real nets like, not this commercialism say what you want shit. I mean the control, the statistics, they know what all our interests are, can they design THE PRODUCT or CONTROL a world). My weed (blue-berry at the mo) seems to appreciate the ancient wells natural filtered mineral qualities, with a hint of pollution, you know it’s the way. I imagine the local farmer and locals coming here many times a day, when I was young I tied a rope to the now dead willow tree and climbed down, in search of the secret tunnel. Down below bricks and roots must of been only 7. Wet feet and a fright was all i found, skeleton of a dead kitten. Pussy in the well, I wonder if pushed or fell. I fuckin hate humans.
My strides are militant, my mind observant, the loss of £140,000 replaced with hunting. Hunting that fix. I pass orange street lights, bright white security lights blind my open pupils, triggered by my motion, and makes you feel like a criminal. Bungalows, semis, detached. Crammed into a space where a year ago u there’d be 1 now there’d be 3. Half my child hood garden gone, i remember the neighbours at the back stealing are apple trees. I pass the village phone box, a post office cut in two, a new Expensive hair salon, I mean a beauty parlour. All opposite a radar factory/ testing site (maybe the waves they touch my brain) well it’s on its way to just being a radar site. I have friends with no jobs and still people migrate to here. I pass new factories. I pass new factories which bury the fields that held some of the roughest and passionate football, refereed and un-refereed, rules and no rules, every game meant the same. Blood, passion, hate, glory, winner takes it all. Yellow brick housing. Clone after clone + a, after clone + a with a blue wooden door. They exist above old asbestos prefabs and on a boggy marsh land, they’ll find out after summer. There’s my old middle school, more football, 3 games at once in a cage. Bullying, fighting, Crazy kid biting. I learnt more, at primary school than I ever did there. Into an older estate, passed some friends flats who saved my life once, the classic accidental valium and gear o.d. But that was 3 months ago and i need some gear. I need a hit. Not focused on what i can lose, the usual rational SiD is possessed by a lost £140,000 DiS. Thieving, lying, you won’t catch DiS crying.
3 minutes away, nervous energies adrenalin, the shakes, excitement. This way. I make the call.
Every ring the energy builds inside.
“Hello” it’s a deep voice, Jimmy’s got gear, and it’s on his throat.
“It’s SiD”
“Aaaaa SiD”
“How’s you”
“Good” I lied. I’m only truthful to this question about twice a year
“You in”
“Yes Mate”
“Be there in 2” A sigh of relief, not from my lungs but my body. It’s already developed a sickness just by setting up the deal.
Every house is terraced, like most towns, if you don’t know the alleys and low fences, you would surely be in a trap. Drift like a ghost, my feet barely tap the ground, I’m in the shadows, feel safe in the dark. Walk behind gardens, through spiders webs (I’m the first person to walk this way for at least 3 hours) over puddles, through rubbish, through an old broken gate. Across the longest grass on the street.
My heart is beating, my chest electric, my legs are stretching, my whole body consumed.
Nock Nock Nock Nock
Anxious second’s minutes Seem like hours
“SiD” through the closed door
“Yes Mate, It’s ME”
Door opens.
“Comin..............How you been.”
“Jimmy. I’ve been good”
“What you after”
“2, is it alright to stay for a bit”
“Clean waters right over there”
The ritual begins.
We Will All Escape?
By Simon Paul Cooper A.K.A SiD
Jimmy 38 50%
Jimmy felt good, he’d already turned over and it was only 2pm. Today could be a profit day. Good food, a treat for his wife, something white for the night, maybe a drink in town before the next big exchange. Jimmy’s avoided the law all his life, he’s did this by having a second sense. He knew who to trust and most importantly when to trust. He knew what to say and what to do. The Isle of Wight’s a playground, for a London born. Country roads that go round to nowhere. A captive audience or an exclusive show. But he wasn’t big-time, i mean he never boasted. Who knows what he did that 23 and a half hours his customers wasn’t present. He used a motorbike, nothing special, cuz cops aren’t very special here. I mean officer the resources are stretched here (doing nothing).
He met his score in a forest, they both had dogs, (which dealer hasn’t [recenty alot of dog attacks on kids, rotweilers, and a staff cross, in less than a week], they walked on a path they had made themselves thru dense pine, past 3 giant oaks to an old burnt out fire. They were friends, this wasn’t an extreme scene of paranoya. Far away from the roads drone and roar. You can hear yourself and friends clearly it’s nice far away.
Money exchanged, drugs received, they walked back a different route and split, The score back to his car.
Jimi flew back to town like water across your computer desk. He couldn’t wait to get back home.
