The Attic

Chapter XV

It was a blue-grey bungalow with white trim along the windows and doorways. I'm not sure how many people were at the party, but I recognised quite a few. Wobbly, as usual, I'd stumbled into a romantic encounter. I was deep into a passionate kiss at the foot of the driveway, just before the road and slightly hidden in the bushes. I didn't know or care who I was kissing. It was just a great experience. 

As the kiss came to an end, I went for my patented suck on the bottom lip manoeuvre. It was my go-to in those days. I sucked gently, then, with a deep breath, a little harder before releasing the lip with a slight snap. I took a minute to savour the moment with another deep breath, then slowly opened my eyes, smiling. 

It was a short-lived smile, however. From satisfaction to shock, I couldn't believe my eyes.

My kissing partner wasn't the beautiful maiden I'd expected, but something far more unexpected. Before me was the backside of a husky. Two felt eyes with accompanying eyebrows had been glued to the fur and were staring back at me with a sinister look. Below the false eyes was a giant, puffy anus, red and swollen from me sucking on it. I was stunned. The husky turned its head to reveal a grinning face, equally sinister to that of its disguise. It seemed pretty proud of itself to have fooled me. Mortified, I cowered under the bushes in disbelief. Had I really just made out with a dog's asshole? 

When I woke up, I took a moment to process the dream before preparing for another day of street promotions. As Chevy and I walked into town from our new accommodation in Amstelveen, I told him about my dream. 

"Ah, Man! You have some crazy dreams, but that one is fucked up." Chevy laughed, his nose wrinkling, indicating a lump of disgust inside his cup of amusement. "A dog's asshole? Really? What the fuck, Mate?"

I've always had intense, vivid dreams, waking up most mornings, reflecting on what I could remember, and trying to find meaning in each one. On the morning in question, however, I was at a loss. It took making out with a husky's asshole to stump me. 

Photo by Ilya Shishikhin on Unsplash

We laughed it off, changed the subject and focused on making money. "Hey guys! What are you up to this evening?" Chevy was straight into it. At the time, we were like machines, never missing an opportunity to promote and try to earn some cash. It took me a little bit to get into, though, so I sat back, trying to forget my raunchy rendezvous of canid anal love while Chevy did his thing. 

"When you turn up tonight, show these cards, alright? It'll get you free shots on the way into each place." 

The shots were included in the price of the Pub Crawl, but how else could we convince people to show our cards at the door? Tourist Brain is a real thing. By getting people to think our cards had monetary or alcoholic value, they were less likely to lose them and more likely to show them on entry. Some of us were more persistent than others when trying to make ourselves memorable. 

"Make sure you bring these cards. Don't lose them. But if you do, tell them Chevy sent ya! Chevy, like the truck! Vroom!" 

Chevy will read this and deny the "Vroom" until his face turns blue. He always did when I busted his balls about it back then. He's full of shit, though. I lost count of how many times he "Vroomed!" his way into the memories of those he'd handed his cards to. Cheesy but effective. His numbers were as high as mine within the first week, often even higher. "Vroom!" worked. 

We were killing it, making good money and partying every night. And we were doing well with the ladies, too. Most nights, one or both of us would invite girls to an afterparty at The Attic. Going to an extra place once the pub crawl was over was an exciting concept for travelling lassies looking to feel special. 

We'd make the long walk toward The Attic and usually, halfway, get asked how much further it was. That's when we'd fess up about what The Attic really was - a loft on the top floor of a four-story flat we were renting. The first floor was the entrance to a manhole-sized staircase. The second was the kitchen and toilet. This had become important and we'd need to lay out some basic instructions. 

"The toilet's behind the kitchen. We live with two angry Russian guys who hate us. One in a bedroom right off the kitchen, the other on the third floor. From the moment we reach the entrance to the building, we need to be quiet. No talking until we reach the Attic, alright? We don't want to piss these guys off anymore than we already have." 

The agony in my voice was contagious enough to gain full attention. 

"We're going to piss in this park here, to avoid using the toilet when we get home. It'd be cool if you did too. If not, you can use the toilet, you just need to be very quiet."

Surprisingly, our guests were always very cooperative. Most would use the park, and a small few would use the toilet. In the latter case, we would escort the ladies of the evening to the loo and stand outside the door in case one of the Russians woke up. This may sound like overkill, but I assure you, these procedures were necessary. Coming home most nights at two or three in the morning, stumbling drunk with company, we'd woken our flatmates more than apologies could make up for. 

"We work fucking hard!" The older, skinnier of the two emphasised his point by hammering his fist on the table. "Ten hours a day doing construction. It's hard. And we need to sleep. You come home drunk, cooking food, stomping your feet and making noise outside my room on your way up the stairs. This is not okay." 

His point was made, and we'd begun tiptoeing past his third-floor room after that. It wasn't enough to keep the peace, though. 

One night, I was hungry and decided to make some food when I got home. The younger, much larger of the two was snoring away in his room off the kitchen, so I figured a little pasta to soak up the booze would be alright. I'd forgotten a pot of water on the stove the previous week and nearly started a fire, so I decided to sit at the kitchen table and monitor the water as it came to a boil. 

Suddenly, I awoke to the blast of an air horn in my face as the Russian mountain, now awake and standing before me, grabbed my wrist and flung me out of the kitchen and into the stairwell. Shocked but uninjured, I rallied from the WWE move and turned to have the kitchen door slammed in my face and locked.

I'll spare the reader the details of my tantrum after that. I'll just mention that Chevy calmed me down and pulled the screwdriver I'd magically produced from my hand before I did any further damage to the hinges on the locked door. 

The following afternoon, I returned home for a break to find the mountain standing in the kitchen, smiling at me. He asked me to sit at the table with him, then pulled out a bottle of Canadian Club, my bottle of Canadian Club, and poured us each a shot. 

"Mike, I like you. You are nice guy. But sometimes, I want to smash microwave on your head."

His thick accent and broken English made those words terrifying enough, but the hand gesture of slamming a microwave down from above his head gave me chills. I was glad Chev had talked me away from the door the previous night. The mountain poured himself another drink, then offered me some of my own whisky. I declined, but that didn't stop him. He drained half the bottle straight while explaining things from this side. 

"Wall doesn't touch ceiling, so light from kitchen comes in my room. It makes me very upset when I can't sleep." 

A fair point. I couldn't argue. 

"And you come home drunk and fall asleep using stove. You almost make a fire one time. What's wrong with you Mike?" 

Another fair point. I listened intently as he swallowed my whisky between sentences. His smile turned my fear into guilt. I'd been inconsiderate, and this gentle giant was much more patient than I'd have been in his shoes.

"No more cooking in night, okay? Stop for pizza on your way home. Please." 

I agreed, apologised, and we shook hands. About to walk upstairs while my new comrade sipped away at my bottle, he had one more request.

"You guys meet many women with your work, right?" I nodded. "Maybe we can come one night." He threw back another shot and smiled. 

There! Do you see now how essential our introduction to The Attic was? We did it to keep things peaceful and respect the Russians. And we had it down to an art, slinking in the front door, creeping up the stairs and welcoming our guests into our one-room loft with a mattress in each corner. Most of the time, the girls we brought home were friends with each other. Not always, but more often than not. And that always made things easier. 

Chevy was a fantastic wingman. One night, I'd focused all my attention on a German lass. When our shift finished, I invited her to The Attic. Halfway there, she stopped, worried about leaving her friend alone at the bar. Just as we were about to turn and head back to find her, we heard a familiar "Pfffrrrppp!" It was Chevy coming up behind us, one hand in the air, the other holding her friend's hand. I was so happy to see him. 

"You fucking legend! How'd you know?" The girls chatted and giggled while Chev explained his Masterful display of wingmanship. 

"I saw you two leave together and remembered she'd shown up with a mate. I knew it might backfire on ya, so I left the girl I was chatting with and thought I'd help ya out. I said her mate was heading to The Attic with you and asked if she wanted to come. How's that, hey? Wingman of the year?" 

And that's how it was with Chevy and I. We promoted, partied and courted together. Even as things progressed back at The Attic, we'd offer encouragement. "Hey Mikey! Need a bib over there, Mate?" 

We'd co-entertain, and then Chev would take a break and sneak down to make himself a bite to eat before returning upstairs for round two. In the morning, Chev would appear too incapacitated to see his guest out, so I'd do it for him. Walking both girls downstairs, I'd hug them and wish them safe travels before returning upstairs to a wide-awake Chevy, getting ready for the day. "Thanks, Mate. It's much easier when you do it." 

We even had a condom tree, which was a tree outside our window we'd decorated with used contraception. But, beyond shade and some leaves, the tree didn’t offer much more in the way of secrecy, so our exploits hadn't gone unnoticed. "There they are! These guys!" 

Our front door was between two businesses: A café full of Jamaicans drinking Heineken and listening to Reggae, and a Coffee Shop owned and operated by two guys our age from Suriname. The Coffee Shop owner had become a fan and wasn't shy about letting it be known, not only that afternoon but every time we saw him. "Man! You guys always have girls with you. You're like a boy band or something." 

He'd brag to his clients like a proud father. "I see these guys every morning saying goodbye to girls. Then, the next day, two other girls! I need to come and party with you guys one night. You have to show me how you do it." 

The truth is, I have no idea why anyone wanted to come back to The Attic. Sure, it was better than living in a hostel, but an old loft with mattresses on the floor and limited toilet facilities is hardly the stuff dreams are made of. It was a wild time but also a seedy one. Our daytime motivation was money. Nighttime, women. Our fuel, alcohol.  A moment in time worthy of reflection but certainly not one I'd choose to relive now. 

I guess the reason I just wrote that is because I want to be clear that neither Chevy nor I, or anyone in these chapters for that matter, are the same today as we were back then. Personally, I lived a fairly wild, irresponsible life. Just because I wouldn't dream of reliving those days beyond writing them down now doesn't mean I regret them, though. I regret nothing because each stage in my life has shaped who I am today. People, places, experiences - they're all part of that puzzle I mentioned in an earlier Chapter. The puzzle of life. If one piece is different, it would change who I am entirely, and I wouldn't want that. I've grown from my past, and by accepting it, I accept myself. That's something I believe we should all do - accept ourselves.

Self-acceptance allows for the acceptance of others, which I believe would make the world a better place. So, I'm doing my bit by accepting my past, learning and growing from it, and moving on toward self-acceptance. And so should you. 

Okay, back to The Attic. 

Well, actually, I won't share much more about that. We had an unspoken agreement to keep most of what was discussed and went on in The Attic between us. Notice how I said most? 

One beautiful morning in early summer, we were about to leave the office to promote. Our team had grown substantially in time for the high season, and the tiny space had become too crowded for our liking. Stuffing cards and flyers into our bags, I'd poked fun at Chevy about something. Honestly, I can't remember what. Something he'd said or done. It doesn't matter. Just some friendly banter between friends. Chuffed that I'd gotten him, I laughed and headed for the door. 

Just then, in an office packed with most of our team, Jimmy piped up, "At least he didn't make out with a dog's ass!" 

The room erupted. Everyone was in tears laughing. Chevy had obviously told them all about the dream when I wasn't around, and they were waiting for the right moment to give me shit about it. Jimmy nailed it! It was perfect timing, and the joke was on me.

Chevy stood proud, laughing as I turned to him. "You fucker." "I shouted, laughing. "So much for secrets!"