his soul burned up too much for him to bear and he had no Cassady saintliness to
save him.
I tell Rac to undress while the bath fills and look round the rest of the flat.
Books are everywhere; books on Christianity, Buddhism, the AA Twelve Steps, little
key fobs celebrating months of sobriety, numbers of councillors on call,
meetings recorded in his diary, enough help without but nothing within. He’s so
darn haunted, but
kind haunted, loving haunted, so darn sweet haunted, but beyond help – why?
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, directing him to pick up the shower gel, flip open the cap,
put out his hand,
squirt out the gel and rub up a good lather over his body. He isn’t engaged by
the task though; he
lathers his body half-heartedly and then steps out of the bath with a soapy
crotch over which he ties
a damp towel.
‘You must brush your teeth; your teeth are lovely. You don’t want those dropping out.’
As he brushes and rinses, blood splatters the sink. A lot of blood. That human beings deteriorate
so rapidly alarms me. His gums are turning white. Just a few weeks of decay
and no ability to wash. Sitting on a pile of empty cans, bottles and self-help books
and life’s simplicity escaping him. The: wake-up, wash, eat, drink, perform some
work, eat, drink, wash, sleep, repeat ad infinitum. Sometimes it feels divine, sometimes it feels like hell, sometimes you feel nothing at all and that’s the easiest roll of
the wheel.
His phone rings. It’s an old school friend.
‘Can you believe the most beautiful girl in the world is standing here in my flat?”
he says, deliriously. I frown.
‘I’m going to put Bob Dylan on to keep her here.’
‘Can I speak to him please?’ I take the phone. ‘Hi, I don’t really know Rac that
well but I’ve just found him on the streets with his pants round his ankles, drunk. I
brought him home but it’s terrible.’
‘Unfortunately this is nothing new.’ The voice is flat but a reassuring maturity
roots out penury;
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