Neal Cassady's Evil Twin


Season: mid spring. Situation: working on a building. Deal is thus:
I turn up, one stereo system, at least five 90min audiocassettes,
usually loud shit. Time usually midday. Gain entry into unoccupied
building over site debris of broken concrete blocks and used teabags.
Turn on electricity at switch under stairs. Plug in stereo system
(small) (probably advertised as 'portable' though bought second hand
off Canadian student, the deal made in a university dark room - I pay
25 pounds, she is lightened of load pre-summer). Plug in stereo
system, that was. I work alone. Great line for a revenge western.
Caulking sealant gun into crevasses on day in question. A few hours
work then away. A few multiples of 90min. Good acoustics in an
empty house. Hollering close harmonies to Joni Mitchell makes the
windows shudder.
Clothing: basic work gear. Combatesque trousers caked in old dry
concrete, on day in question, I seem to recall. This all of note
because upon later rendezvous I felt I pulled off a sizeable amount
of workingman Cool. A bit of rough, see. So. Pack up stereo. Head
homeward. Reach junction. Town is left, home is right. Maybe go
pick up cheques from night job, ready for bank town visit the next
day. ie. Bar. ie. Quick pint of 80 bob. A decision.
I park up, having turned left, and step in with expectation of old
boy normalcy. But Solla Sollew and Shangri-La - Antipodean picture
of pure hot no shit barmaidery. She's looking like she'd always
stood there, but I never before seen in my life. Big timeslip scene
of guy waking up to find a venusean mad max amazon queen doing his
job for him only much much better.
Seven out of ten chefs are arseholes - I know this already from my
Orwellian down and out in London and Paris days. New guy coming on
out of the kitchen is no exception on first impression. Hooked up
with this south seas bute now working in the bar. The new chef.
"Ah, Angels and Devils," I think, "Angels and Devils." Solitary
barside old boy beside me quietly predicts him two months tops. I
say we'll see how it goes, but think maybe a fortnight. But as a
rule I don't trust my own first impressions. Been too wrong before.
And I'm mid trying to get back to a more hip frame of being - see the
good in everyone - accept the neuroses and hang-ups, work thru
them... Me currently in such a lull of inertial dismals - Satre's
Nausea - the post-teenage glums of angst and ennieu. How do you
spell that. Dunno. Hence me seeing the firefly big talk sharpness
of this libertytaking bullshitstirring he says testosterone -injected
kid - my age but not balding - freaking racist misogynist loudmouth
pilldropping arsehole, if just in image alone. And an heir to the
throne. So much smells like cow, but on delving, I think at least
half of it is all true. Hung out in blahdeblah. Oh yeah? Yunno
blahdeblah? Yes he freaking does know. Compulsive pissartistry is a
recognizable pychological type, and he doesn't quite fit the type.
But the energy, man. And I the sloth. Failing health. Zinc
supplements and soap. Springtime and still snowing every other week.
I cannot fight a battle with this Tazmanian devil on speed terms.
Even my mind is slow these days. If the tortoise and hare were put
in a ring, I haven't even got the protective shell. And tired. So
freaking tired. Tired even of writing this. Okay. The things I was
going to tell you:

1. Harry Potter versus Lord Voldemort - symbol arrives today - Order of
Phoenix in carrier bag after tryna get cheap for weeks. This whole
potter mythos thing being accepted as legit semiotic quest solely
because in Henry Miller's foreword to Kerouac's Subterraneans he says:
"our men of science, aided and abetted by the high priests of the
Pentagon, give free instruction in the technique of mutual destruction
... make it a readable novel if you can but don't beef about life and
letters if you're a death-eater ... let the poets speak, they may be
beat but they're not riding the atomic-powered juggernaut..."
This mention of Death-Eaters is a phrase I have read no place else
except in Potter - followers of Voldemort. The Miller and the Potter
concur.

2.Where is the fervour? Where IS IT?

Days pass since I scribbled that on scrag-end. Several bar shifts.
Angel Leanne absent with cold to begin, then later shows. The Hare
gets her champagne. Brownie-points I muse. Film crew in, shooting
Alaskan birdseye small-scale trawling ad. This being Alaska and all.
Factory ships are really a bit bigger than the boats here though in
reality. Twenty-odd twentysomethings. Hippies with money. The
director has a goatee and a woollen hat. It's now morning.
Phonecall. It's the bar.
"Cheque awaits, oh and by the way, the Hare won't be with us
anymore."
"Oh yes?"
"Turns out reason Leanne was off work for a week..."
Sould've seen it coming from OTT dark eyeliner on evening she'd shown
again. And the champagne.
Angels and Devils, man. Angels and Devils. I blame the testosterone
injections as a kid. Mothers, you want their balls to drop, just give
them a little more time...

At the time of release, the author is halfway through Harry Potter and
The Order of The Phoenix. The whereabouts of all other characters
herein is unknown...