Last night I experienced something new.
I experienced something awful, that I don't recommend to anyone.
Not even to my worst enemies.
I was working at the pub. Pick up glasses, put them on the tray, fill the dishwasher, empty the dishwasher, put the glasses on the shelves, take them out, fill them with wine, and give them to the costumers to leave on the table: the circle of life. For some strange reason nobody seemed to figure out, instead of being two or three for closing the pub, there was six of us, plus our General Manager, who came without notice, maybe to creep us out a little bit, but in good moment, because we needed her to fix the big mess with the tills after all the system went down. The six of us, and Billie's boyfriend Paul, sailed on our Viking ship to a better place, also known as The Camden Head in the very own heart and nipple of the glamorous and unruly neighbourhood of Camden Town. On the way, outside the Station, we met a friend of Tim's. Actually, I don't remember where he came from because me and Laura were buying fags around the corner. "Why don't you eat some?" asked Laura when she realized I was giving the M&Ms a long concupiscent look. I came back to the world, it was the lack of sugar in my blood that was starting to affect me. "I can't," I said, "I'm on a diet, can't eat any sweets". "Oh," she said, "Is that the Gilliam diet by any chance?".
So, we met the rest. We started walking but, for some reason that I never understood, it is physically impossible to move more than four human beings at the same pace. So, after less than one hundred meters, I looked around and there was only Tim and his -also Australian- friend. "Hello, I'm Harry." "Hey, I'm Sophie." The rest had disappeared. We kept on walking a little bit, but they insisted the wanted to go for a wee. "Sophie, stay here, we're going to a pub over there to the loo, don't move!". "Come on guys, wait a minute, let's wait for the rest, where the fucking shit are they?". "Sophie, we'll be back in a minute, don't move!". They were already gone. Suddenly I was alone, standing on the middle of the street. Not that I mind, I think I'm more used to being alone on the street that with a pack of humanoids to coordinate with by my side.
Far away, from the drunken crowd that was Camden's streets on a Friday night, I could see Billies black fringe. Next to her, Paul, Laura and Rachel-the-new-girl. "We have to wait for the guys, they went for a wee," I said. So, everyone, against their wills, stopped the march for the third time since we left the pub. They were quite engaged in the conversation they were having, anyway, so nobody seemed to care. "Where the fuck are they," asked Laure after five minutes of standing there. "I think they went into that pub," I said pointing at the pub that was literally five meters away from us. "Are you shitting me?" they said almost instantly. So, yes, that was the pub we were going to. The Camden Head.
And we were inside.
Of course, Billie knew the guys on the door. It's not surprising, she's spent all her teenage years and more in those streets, in those pubs. That certainly gives you some benefits. We were heading straight to the loo, with Laura, no stop-offs no train changes, when we saw that Joe, Cristiana, Matteo, Saro, they were all there. The Queen's gang. Not because they have anything to do with the actual Queen, but because The Queen's is the pub next to ours with whom we're good friend's. They're a fun bunch. We're a fun bunch.
When I came back from the toilet, Amy Winehouse was playing (not for real, I mean her music was sounding), and Tim and his friend had already found the rest (nobody mentioned that I had moved from where he told me to stay). Ok, everybody's here, everybody's happy, music's loud, and they're playing Jumanji on the big TV. You know what that means? Lets get some shots! Automatically, everybody moves towards the bar, even me, that I'm not drinking. Of course, they offer me drinks, they buy me drinks, they try to force me like good friends should. I say "No, no thank you, I'm alright, I'm not drinking, I'm on a diet." "Is that the Holloway diet?" Billie asks.
Everybody's dancing, everybody goes for fags every few minutes, everybody drinks shots with one hand while holding a pint with the other.
I'm dying to smoke some weed. I think it's the first time in my life I'm not drinking and I feel really good about it, but I think it would be just perfect to have something to cheer up the existence even more. I think of asking Cristiana, but she seems already baked and she gets quite confused when she's like that. I think of asking Joe but he's on fire with that ugly French blonde girl that Laura and Billie are calling a slut every moment their mouths are free from alcohol.
So I ask Matteo. Lovely Matteo. So clumsy but so adorable. He's leaving the country in five days. That's the way it is, that's our generation. And I don't mean people my age, I mean people like them, that I meet travelling. We are all travellers. We are all away from home, in a weird reality, and none of the locals is understanding that position right there. No one at all is thinking about it, really, but it's there. "I don't have anything," he says, "but Saro is smoking right now, out there." He points out the window.
I don't walk out, I run outside to find Saro who, by the ways, likes me a little bit, the same as Matteo. And yes, he is smoking... tobacco. Miscommunication. But it's alright. I also like tobacco, so I pitch one of Saro's cigarettes and feel happy about being smoking something.
Fate is good and fair, because when I've already given up, I go inside and I find that in our table there's Tim and Harry and they rolling a spliff. Oh, good Heaven, they're trying to roll a spliff, but they're not getting anywhere. Soberer than ever, I approach them and help them with an absolutely confident, trained and experienced professional hand.
To go smoke it, we have to get through the guards. "We're going to buy some cigarettes and we'll be back in a min," I tell -not ask, tell- with my more innocent-but-hot tone. They buy it, or they don't give a fuck, choose one, and we go out, me and the two Aussie whelps.
We went into an alley, like we were selling guns to civil wars in a different continent. and started smoking. The teens -because there it was obvious they were teens, started telling each other how to smoke the "doobie", for how long to keep the air inside your lungs. I was only worried because we didn't have to "take long" (i.e. look too stoned) to come back into the pub. Suddenly, two big pricks approached us. Of course, they came because of the joint, they wanted some. There was the taller one, the alfa-prick, sort of good looking and testosteroney and the short back up one. They talked for a minute or two to Tim and Harry, not noticing my presence, until the formal presentations ("Do you have some to smoke? Where are you drinking? They don't let us there, guys at the doors don't like us") were over. Then, the cocky one talks to me and, maybe because I was really really stoned by that moment, I thought he was talking to me slowly and paused, like I was a tourist, or a fucking idiot or something. He invited me to go to his "loovely" house and smoke some ganja and listen to Pink Floyd, one sentence after asking for my name (reckless teens, none of them's afraid I'm a serial killer until the worst happens). I say: "Sorry, love, I can't, I'm on a diet". "Is that the Atkins diet?" Tim asks.
Back inside, dancing like crazy with Billie and Laura. They're playing "The Eye of the Tiger", and they're dancing, or boxing, or something like that, and I don't understand much anymore. I just smile and let it all through.
The night is going perfect. I'm not drinking, my diet is going great, music's fantastic, they're playing Grease on the big TV, and life's alright.
Suddenly, it happens.
The awful thing.
The horror.
I start noticing something weird in my mouth, like I need to swallow but can't. My tong feels rugged. I realize that my mouth is dry, completely dry. And I don't mean like that time I was about to give my first kiss to that tall kid whatever his name is at school when I was twelve. I also don't mean dry like before presenting my Thesis. I mean dry, Sahara desert, zero liquid, suddenly my tongue, palate, lips, teeth, they all feel the same, like sand, I can touch it, I can tell. I put my fingers inside and I try to find a drop of water in the lower parts, where it usually hides. Nothing.
Immediately, I become absolutely paranoiac. First of all, I'm touching my mouth, probably with a scary look on my face, standing still in the middle of the dance floor. Second, I might die. I mean, this never happened to me before, and I never heard of something similar. Obviously, something very bad happened and now I am certainly going to die. Or not, maybe I'm just stoned and I'm imagining things. So, I start constructing some hypothesis.
First option: it's the weed. Obviously, when I smoke I have normally something to drink. Maybe weed makes your mouth dry and I never knew before because I was always drinking.
Second option: its the fucking diet. I've changed radically my alimentation, I had practically no carbohydrates for more than eight days and I have been living on fried eggs, salad and sausages. Maybe that's why...
Or no. The last option is the worse of all. It's the same thing that happened to him, when he got addicted to water. Should I ask myself? Could it be? Do I have a problem with water? Is it possible that I drank so much water that now I'm dehydrated? I try to calculate in my head how many liters I'm drinking a day, currently. Four? Five? How should I know if it's too much.
All this happens in my brain in some seconds, or minutes, I couldn't say, while my mouth goes dryer and dryer, like a sponge in the sun. It feels awful, I feel I'm going to die any second. The guys are still at the bar ordering drinks, so I ask Laura to please ask for a glass of water for me. I can barely talk, my tongue is sandy, which is fun because they're still playing Grease, and a close-up to Sandy's face is now on the TV screen.
Laura keeps on talking, the drinks are taking forever and, apparently, my water is coming in the end, so I start to panic. I don't know what to do, I must look awful. Paul has been looking at me all this time, he pats me in the back. I think I know what he thinks. "You're not drinking, ah," he says. "No, I say, I'm on a diet". "Yes," he says, "because when you drink you get wild". At first I think he's hitting on me, or something similar, but I don't understand when or how he's seen me go "wild". Then I realize. Of course, I know Paul is an alcoholic. He think's I'm struggling. He think's I'm an alcoholic too and trying to quit for good: "a diet". He pats me again. And that explains why he's been so friendly to me the whole night.
Even after this revelation, my problem's not gone. My mouth is killing me and I'm becoming more and more scared of what might happen. Billie has her beer on her hand. I can't wait. I don't want to, but I just can't. I take it out of her hands and take a tiny sip. Suddenly, I can breathe. It's obvious that the dryness is not solved, and that it will come back after a few minutes, but for now I can relax, and then I'll have my glass of water.
Panic's gone. I still have to drink every two minutes, and my mouth is still not producing any saliva independently, but I'm chilling. We're all dancing, massive amounts of glasses and bottles are being smashed every second, let's have more shots, bell rings, lights on, everybody out, we're closed.
And we're out.
While Billie and Laura have the weirdest longest saddest hug in the history of humanity because they just realized they're not seeing each other in a week, me and Paul look each other really confused because we don't know if they're acting or if they're for real. Doesn't make much difference, they're still crying and talking about how much they'll miss each other and unicorns and shit.
Joe is leaving with the ugly frenchie. Matteo, Cristiana and Saro are long gone, same as new girl Rachel. TIm and Harry are saying goodbye and heading home, hiding a pint under their jackets because they didn't give them plastic cups. They look like two kids stealing a candy from a shop for the first time.
I walk alone my way back home, I smoke one cigarette after the next one and I have the weirdest thoughts... a very creative story, actually, but one for another moment. All I know now, about what happened in the pub, is that if that it's obvious it's a secondary effect of pot, just as paranoia... and the two of them combined, plus a non drinking night, a recent compulsory consumption of water and a new diet, made me freak out.
