Curly

There he is, Curly lying among the debris of his life. Sleeping he is, flat on his back. Snoring, but lightly, like a low rumble. Dreaming maybe to judge by the flicker of his eyes magnified by his glasses held together as they are with gaffer tape, glass circles reflecting the pale light from the window, discs among the hair, the moustache and grey curls of Curly, sleeping as he is among the debris of a long life.

What have we got in the litter? Tapes, books, newspapers, empty cups, envelopes, tomatoes, calculator, tobacco, beer bottles, ashtray, TV with silent action, all sorts of rubbish as if tipped from the ceiling and kicked about by children. The state of play as it is in Curly’s life and himself, as he is, on his back, arms crossed on his chest, just another piece of rubbish.

Day before yesterday. It is evening in the Grapes in Shaftsbury Avenue and Curly is there at the bar, not actually much bigger than he was when he was lying down. Around nine o’clock, Act Three in the theatre up the Soho alley. The music bit where the singers and dancers take over and Zorro rests in his dressing room. The moment Curly and I can slip out to the pub.
Curly has a proposition.
“It’s like a touring show,” he says to me. “They want me to build the rig. You could give me a hand if you like.
“To do what?”
“Build the rig and then travel with it.”
“Where?”
“All over. They want to do twelf.”
“What’s that?”
“Shakespeare.”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“Shakespeare?” I say.
“Better than pulling ropes for bloody Zorro.”

Back in the theatre, Act Four going on the stage and me and Curly, in the wings with the flying ballet gear, strapping the harness on Zorro and him making jokes about the strap between his legs, jokes we heard a hundred times like. “Careful of the jewels son, I hope to be using them to-night.”
“What for?” says Curly, “Your sister feeling lonely?”
“Cheeky fuck,” says Zorro.
And then Zorro goes onstage and we keep the tension on the wires as he makes a palaver about some magic dust that was given to him by the Sheik of Araby . He throws talcum powder in the air, we pull on the ropes and Zorro flies up into the lights and over the audience who go ooh.

Yesterday, a Monday, a London Monday, sky as grey as the pavement, blasts of cold coming between the houses, me and Curly in Victoria, back of the station. Ecclestone road.
“This bloke Mike,” says Curly. “Famous geezer. You know that film The Red Balloon?”
“No.”
“French. About this kid and his balloon. Anyway famous film. This guy Mike wrote the script. But the sad part is they nicked it didn’t they, these French blokes, and Mike never got sod all. Tragedy really.”

Ringing the bell on a black painted door. Little man answers. Same sort of size and shape as Zorro really, middle-aged, small and plump, but this one has longish hair and he’s wearing a dressing gown. Worse for wear is what I would say for this one.
“Hello, Curly,” he says. “Who’s this?”
“He’s helping me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Pete.”
“Step into my office,” he says, and leaves us there.

Curly and I sitting there on a red couch, him rolling a cigarette and me feeling sleepy. Pale light from the street, smell of debauchery.
“That’s Mike,” says Curly. “I met him down the pub. Pissed. Going on about touring with a Shakespeare for the schools.”
Nothing to say to that. I got this song by The Incredible String Band going through my head. Every time I look inside my painting box, I seem to see the colour of you. Just keeps going on and on behind my eyes and I wish it would stop.
Mike comes back into the room, , with a little teacup and saucer.
“Right,” says Curly, and pulls a sheaf of dirty papers out of his pocket. “This is the plans,” he says. “This here is a frame structure, like a box, four by three and two and a half high and what you do is hang a painting or a curtain on it and bob’s your what’s it. You could put some lights on it. Reckon me and Pete here could put it up in half an hour. And the beauty is that the whole thing, the set, breaks down and stows in the back of a transit.”
Mike goes to the window and lights a cigarette.
“It’s a regular fit-up,” says Curly. “Cost you a hundred all done and ready to go.”
“What do you think, Peter?” says Mike.
They are both looking at me, Curly a little anxious and the Mike character smiling and smile that is not really a smile. I have nothing to say not knowing what they are going on about and this stupid tune going round and round.

Very soon after that we are out in the street again following Mike round the corner to a pub. He is wearing a baggy suit, looks like he slept in it and walks with a bounce on his suede shoes. Baby Stingers is what he drinks out of fearful little black bottles. Curly and I have pints even though it is a bit early for me. Impossible to refuse.

“Maybe I should explain what my plans are,” says Mike. “You may or may not know that each educational authority chooses which Shakespeare play they teach. The idea is to find out what the schools are studying and then set up in a hall and perform the play and for this purpose I am forming a group of jobbing actors capable of attacking any of the bard’s tragedies or comedies and presenting them in a simple and accessible form for the youth of the nation.”
Curly looks at me. “Clever, eh?”
A couple of hours later and as they say where I come from there’s hell up. Curly is up at the bar threatening the landlord with death and sexual molestation while Mike, or Michael as he instructed us to call him, is crying hot tears into his Baby Stingers.

Lay down my sweet sister, lay down and take your rest.

“Life has overtaken me,” says the weeping Michael, “passed me by. You know who I am, Peter? Of course you don’t. How could you? I had a path of gold laid out before me like you do, my boy. Have you ever seen…? I cannot bring myself… Look at me now. Oh God”
He grabs my hand.
“Don’t let go whatever your name is. Keep a hold on it and fight your way forward. These are the moments you will remember, when the future had the rosy glow of opportunity. Get me another drink for Christ’s sake.”

Curly is at the bar with a man with long black hair and a red velvet jacket.
“This bloke,” says Curly, “is a direct descendant of Charles the first. Ain’t that right Jimmy?”
“James.”
“See what I mean?” says Curly. “He’s a fucking monarch. Show Pete your stick, your Highness.”
“You want to buy a knighthood?” says the man. “A fiver.”
I pull Curly to one side, upsetting the drinks on a table surrounded by women with bags and hairnets.
“I think that Mike bloke is having a breakdown.” I say.
“Oooh,” says Curly. “Better get the dosh off of him first.”

In the taxi after chucking out time on our way to a drinking club in South Ken. Mike and Curly singing; Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end. Me singing; If I was a witch’s hat, sitting on her head like a paraffin stove.

In the club, it’s gins all round and no more singing because we have to keep it down. I want to talk to Mike about the Red Balloon. I want to say that I am sorry he got ripped off even if I have never heard of the film. I mean he’s all right this Mike. A bit moody but he keeps buying. He’s crying again. His little face all crumpled up, his hands gripping the table. Behaving like this seems to be OK here. The place is full of emotional release. Curly has his plans out again and he is explaining how the structure is joined together but he is not making much sense.
“It’s bolts. With wing nuts,” he says.
“Peter,” says Mike. “Have you ever thought of treading the boards? Orsino, that’s the part for you. If music be the food of love, play on. The young duke smitten.”
“Twelf,” says Curly.
“A strong part Peter. Oh God!”
He threw himself at the table and howles into his elbow.
“Curly,” I say. “We should get to the theatre. It must be seven.”
“Fuck Zorro,” says Curly.

Needless to say we are back in the theatre as usual that evening. Act Four, in the wings, strapping little Zorro into his harness. He flies up into the lights with grace. Afterwards we go to his dressing room which smells of greasepaint and sweat. He sits there in his underpants and hears what we have to say. Or rather what Curly has to say.
“We shall be leaving at the end of the week. I am building a travelling set and Peter here is headed of for a life of stage, screen and television.”
“I shall be sorry to see you go, lads,” says Zorro, whose real name is Charlie, “but you can’t stop the engine of progress and change.”
“We have arranged for replacements from the Flying Ballet Company who will take over after the weekend who I am sure will be efficient…”
“You pull a good rope Curly.”
“Well it comes with the experience, Charlie.”
“It certainly does. And what is this star struck career you will be following Pete?”
“Well,” I say, “Orsino.”
“If music be the food of love.”
“That’s the one,” says Curly.
“Well,” says Zorro, “perhaps you would like to join me in an evening of drugs and debauchery?”

Somehow we end up in a flat in Paddington sitting on the floor because the place has recently been emptied by thieves and all that is left is a grand piano someone has painted white that was too big to get through the door. There is a record player and a Jimmy Reed record brought along by guitar player from the Moody Blues who thought he was somewhere else.
“It is not as easy as you think being a magician,” says Zorro. “I used to do this number where I caught a bullet in my teeth. There was a sheet of glass on the stage and a marksman in uniform. We stood on either side of the stage, the glass between us. There was a whole thing about a member of the audience marking the bullet and what not and then he fired the gun, the glass shattered and I had the bullet in my teeth. One night, I don’t know what happened but I swallowed the bloody bullet. It got lodged in my throat and I collapsed choking to the floor. The marksman thought he had really shot me, threw the gun to floor, jumped off the stage, rushed out through the audience, out the front door, into the Strand where he was run down by a taxi. I ended up in the Middlesex in the operating theatre. When I came to, the room was full of lawyers from the army and the theatre and the whole thing cost me a fortune. The bloke from the audience came to see me and I showed him the bullet with the mark he had made on it. He took it away and I believe it is in a pub down in Putney. In a glass case.“
“Pete,” says Curly from the floor. “I think you might have to take me home.

We are in Praed Sreet, five in the morning, trying get a cab which is difficult because we keep falling over and all the time it’s going through my head; I hear that the Emperor of China, used to wear iron shoes with ease. Iron shoes!

Back in Curly’s flat, I put him on the floor and take a seat by the window and there he is, Curly, lying among the debris, dawn coming through the window and life carrying on.