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MEMOIR
Nick, You Fucker
A memoir episode
He looked as if he was on crack cocaine. The twitchy, greasy-haired young man was scratching a blister on his arm as he approached me in Ealing Broadway Shopping Centre.
He spoke quickly, his pupils dilated: “Have you heard about the party at 102 Gunnersbury Avenue on Saturday night?”
“Oh, very funny,” I replied. “Where’s Nick? He told you to say that, didn’t he?”
The stranger walked away, shaking his head.
I looked for Nick, but couldn’t spot him. I guessed he was hiding, probably watching and laughing. The truth never occurred to me.
Some Months Earlier
It was 1990. I was newly divorced with four young children. And about to go off the rails.
I was at a rave in a series of caves set deep in the Berkshire countryside. I remember arriving and walking past a generator powering the DJ equipment and laser lights. I remember walking into smoke-filled caverns and seeing candles carefully balanced on uneven ledges carved into the walls. And I remember Nick.
Oh Nick. Round John Lennon glasses, thinning blonde hair, wonky teeth — there was something about him, something free and untethered, something just this side of dangerous.
