Simon’s in the kitchen making me poached eggs. I guess he gives a shit about me. It feels nice. After spending thirty-some hours at a sinister acid rave, transforming into a cube and then back again, one appreciates a little love and affection.
“Tea of coffee?” he says, and I say “I love you Simon, I really do. It’s so sweet that you’re making me breakfast. This is amazing, I love you. Did I already say that?” Simon’s wonky Gummo face twists into something that signifies confusion. “It’s just some eggs,” he grumbles. “Chill.”
“Yeah I know but it’s just so nice,” I beam, my body collapsed upon the tattered living room sofa. “I’m really going to miss you when I’m away. I don’t know how I’ll live without—“ but he’s already gone. It’s just two weeks now until I move to New York. I’ve become far too sentimental.
A minute later Simon returns carrying a piece of plywood filled with plates of eggs, mushrooms, baked beans, congealed blood patties and lots of other salty weird shit that British people call breakfast. He sets the makeshift tray down in front of Bunny and me and smiles wide. “Since when are you so generous?” asks Bunny, skeptical.
“How did you afford all this?” I add. “Just yesterday I watched you eat a piece of cold macaroni out of the trash.” Simon says nothing. He face sort of sinks.
“Just tell us and get it over with,” I say. A sudden and severe wave of déjà vu spills over my body.
“I sucked a banker off in the toilets of The George and Dragon last night,” he says, tiny droplets of yolk dripping from his crooked mouth onto his chin. “For £45. With a condom, obviously. I’m not, you know… gross.”
“£45?” says Bunny. “That’s a random number.”
“Well, he said 50 to start with, but then he only had 45 on him. But we were already in the stall by that point so I just thought, fuck it.”
“I guess,” says Bunny. “Was it, like… whatever?”
“Seriously, I don’t even know,” he moans, shaking his head. “I had done a fuck load of K, and was having trouble seeing. It wasn’t so bad though. I guess I was sort of blacked out or something.” This story doesn’t surprise me. Simon has a history of making money in the oddest of ways. When I met him he was one of those people you see in central London, holding giant signs that say things like ‘Comedy Show This Way’ and ‘Bikini Wax £5.’ Last year he worked part-time over-dubbing cartoon Japanese porn. He even worked for a while as a K dealer’s personal assistant. He is now an expert at folding drug wraps.
“So, are you thinking of making this a regular thing?” I ask warily.
“Not sure,” he says, “maybe just until my band gets signed. I know it’s a bit of a shit way to make money, but fuck me, I’ve just been so broke lately. There’s only so many times you can eat canned soup for dinner before life starts to feel seriously bleak.” A housefly buzzes around Simon’s head a few times, then lands briefly on the tip of his nose before being swatted away. “This fucking fly won’t let up!” he shouts, waving his arms wildly. “How do I get it to leave me alone?”
“Put this over your head,” I say, tossing him a nearby plastic bag, “then tie a knot.”