3:36, itās cold, I know Iām growing old
With lifeās best side on the downward slope
Done it before, do it again
Early morning cold taxi.
ā
Thirty-six, I am too old for this shit.
I open my eyes and look across her bed to my right. Christ, sheās older than Bob Geldof. My head hurts and all I can hear is Roxette belting out āIt Must Have Been Loveā on the stereo. I snort out loud at that jarring un-synchronicity and suddenly worry that sheās woken up.
Nope, sheās sparko. Must be exhausted, poor thing. I wonder what her name is, what her story is? All I can remember is her repeatedly telling me about her forthcoming trip to Turkey. I think I replied about Bernard Matthews, scourge of the turkeys.
Actually, I couldnāt care less. All I can think of now is getting out of here and snaffling some food. From laying in the bed I gently sit up and spy my clothes in a pleasingly neat pile.
Bloody hell though, I need a piss. This means an extra complication in Mission Get-The-Fuck-Out-Of-Here. I decide to prioritise putting my clothes on first before taking a leak. I think I will reap the benefits of this plan.
I take one last look at the snoozing creature (Betsy? Pam?) beside me and edge out of the bed. My silken feet touch the soft carpet and I manage to dress in a well-rehearsed, complete velvet silence.
I look at the clock and itās now past 3. I can feel my head begin to spin as I calmly walk out of her bedroom. Now for the tricky part. I like to shut the door when I retreat from the scene of a hasty post-coital departure. I have a little thing for not letting the door latch catch the lock or bang on the jamb.
The perfect door closure is a wondrous moment. Ā A fleeting glimpse of perfection like a well-executed Cruyff turn or the precision bombing of an alleged munitions site in a packed Middle East urban area surrounded by markets, schools and hospitals.
I close the door with consummate precision. I award myself an inner standing ovation and move on to Mission Take-A-Massive-Piss.
The hallway is cold, a sign that winter is coming. Never my favourite time of year. Thereās enough light for me to reach the bathroom and the switch is a nice quiet flicker, not one of the those pull cords that always seem to turn on the worldās loudest extractor fan.
I sit on the john and itās one of those pisses where you audibly exhale and say āah, that feels goodā. I finish and head to the sink to wash my hands and check I havenāt got the old birdās make up all over my face.
Man, I look like shit. My hair is receding and my nose is blotchy with tiny blood vessels showing everywhere. My beard is turning grey on the sides and around my mouth and my eyes are bloodshot. To be honest, thereās more red in there than the white bits in my eyes. I should probably be quite concerned at Timeās harrowing effect and what is happening to my clearly rotting insides..
My skin is strange mixture of greasiness and paleness that makes me look like a confused teenage vampire. My breath smells of Jack Danielsā arse. I spit in to the sink and it appears that he might have shit in my gob too.
Twenty years of doing this has taken its toll. I donāt know how many times Iāve quit drinking or promised myself not to go back with these old, usually married women. But I can never resist their openness and compliments. Yep, always the compliments. Thatās what does it for me.
āHow are you still single?ā
āYouāve got really nice eyes!ā
āYou listen to me, unlike my hubby,ā
Itās a little dance, an act. I know within a minute or two whether they like me and if they are going to cave in and take me back. Sometimes, if they really love their bloke theyāll stop and go back to their mates. To be honest, they may still love him, but they still drag me back to their gaff.
Somebody once said āremorse is beholding heaven and feeling hellā. Iām always fascinated by these pull factors and the animal instincts at the heart of it. People desire such short term gratification and all of societyās morality and sermonising canāt stop it. In a perverse way thatās what increases my lust to pick away at the scabs of convention.
One last look at my face. One last stare into those fucked-up eyes before I go. I used to enjoy these escapades, the chase and the sex and the getaway. Now I just feel tired; tired all the time.
I leave the bathroom and turn the light off. I donāt even bother creeping downstairs pretending Iām a cat burglar like I normally do. I just walk downstairs, swipe a cheeky twenty quid that I see on the table near the front door and put my shoes on. I hear a rumbling upstairs. A voice perhaps or a good old 180 degree bed spin.
I donāt care anyway. I open the front door and the chill of an early Sunday morning hits me. Itās nice and sobering and I check my phone which states itās 4 on the dot.
Luckily this lass lived two minutes from town so I decide to head back to the high street. This is the bit I like, walking in the early hours. The cold air enveloping my face like a mask. The empty roads and silent houses. I imagine Iām the only human left and the thought exhilarates me.
It doesnāt last too long as soon as I hit the high street. The raucous night is coming to a close in town and the contrast is bewildering. Sirens and lights flash from ambulances and the dibble, girls in tiny dresses are sat on the street munching shit-in-a-tray whilst lads in terrible shirts are are messing about with their mates pretending to be Connor McGregor, hoping the burger-scoffing women notice them.
I head straight for the hackney cabs, bollocks to queueing with the hordes of kebab-munching leaky tosspots. I hail the nearest cab and enter in the passenger seat.
āBusy night?ā I ask in the obligatory manner, after telling him my destination.
āYeah, very busy tonight chief. Bloody non-stop, youāre my last fare though, then back home. I donāt live far from town which is handy,ā
āAh thatās not too bad,ā I respond, āIāll try not throw up everywhere then,ā
The taxi driver laughs and the car speeds off to my end of town.
āBig night tonight?ā he asks.
āOnly a quiet one, met up with a friend. Got a few days off work to recover!ā
āHaha, good stuff. Iām on holiday too next week with the wife. Canāt bloody wait, I tell you,ā
āI can imagine. Going anywhere nice?ā
āYeah, a week in Turkey. Had it booked for ages,ā
āTurkey eh?ā I struggle to focus on the road ahead, for some reason my eyes are watering and my head is hurting. I can only croak āI hope you have a great time mate,ā
āThanks mate. Just down here is it?ā
āYeah, you can drop me off here,ā
I pay the driver and for some reason I stand and watch him drive off, knowing full well where he is going. I feel empty.
I clearly need pizza.
by Martin OāBrien based on Early Morning Cold Taxi by the Who