The first step is identifying that you have a problem.
You've woken up in a hospital bed after blacking out behind the wheel of your car, your breath toxic with last night's regret. You turn to your left. Then to your right, expecting your family to be there, their faces taught with anguished concern. They're not there. They stopped hoping long ago for anything to change. The tears start to fall from your cheek to the fresh hospital sheets.
You need to stop drinking.
You've been sitting on the twelfth step to your apartment for almost ten minutes now, trying to catch your breath. You used to play tennis every weekend, but now you struggle to make it up the stairs? Alarmed, you reach for the phone in your pocket to call an ambulance, and out tumbles the mornings near empty pack of smokes. One more to calm your nerves. All too practiced motions string together as if by instinct now. As the flame from the Zippo licks the crumpled end, your jaw slackens, dropping the dishevelled cigarette to the floor.
You need to stop smoking.
These are heartbreaking scenarios. This is no less so.
You've spent close to seven minutes already trying to get your outfit sorted. This is the third hat you've tried on, but nothing seems to match the shirt. Maybe the first one? Maybe you should start from scratch? You know you look good, but do you look good enough? You settle on the fourth hat with the bottle green shirt. No tie, open collar will do. You catch sight of your reflection and freeze.
You may have started to value the take-away dude's impression of you too highly.
How did it get to this? You drift to reminiscence.
It's been building to a level beyond your control for some time now. At first it was pleasant to be greeted with a smile when you walked into his fast food emporium unsure of what to order. You were hungry, and his warm welcome caught you off guard. Bit like a taxi driven conversation when you're not in the mood though. You're here for the food and not the chit-chat so you keep it mostly monosyllabic in response. You'll not challenge his claimed to have the best pizza in town. He's just trying to drum up some business for himself. They all say that. Pakora. That's that "chicken with red" you've heard spoken of so highly of late.
"One chicken pakora with chips, please."
It's 2am, and you've been drinking since you got off work a few hours ago. You know you should have eaten in advance of all that alcohol consuming lark, but you're in no bad state considering. Trying those yoga positions in the gardens was probably a rookie mistake though. Oh, hey, Pakora Guy's still open. Result. A hint of recognition in his eyes. Perhaps just a trait learned to provide the illusion of familiarity.
"Chicken pakora please. With chips. No salad. Just salt and vinegar....bit of chilli sauce, thanks."
You're running late for The Boy With Tape On His Fae at Pleasance. Shit! You need to get some food into you quick and....pakora? He's calling you his "friend" now.
"I'll have....yeah, the usual."
You've got a usual now. You're a regular. Over the next couple of months, you revisit the place with alarming frequency, yet you've never caught his name. Pakora Guy is still just the nameless, happy dude who is slowly killing you with his delicious edible monuments to grease.
"Ahhh hello, my friend! Usual?"
"Yeah, cheers. What about that weather, eh?"
You're beginning to get far too comfortable with wandering down to this take-away spot. It's just a few doors from the entrance to your flat, so the convenience really is overpowering. And he's so friendly! It was nice to hear a kind word every now and then from this pleasant stranger. He's getting you drunk on compliments and chicken. It started small.
"Usual, my friend?I like your hat, my friend. Very cool. And this? What is this on your wrist? Very cool, my friend."
It's been said that you tread a fine line between outfit and costume at times. You weren't sure if you'd overstepped that line the other day, but then you spoke to Pakora Guy.
"Usual? I saw you yesterday, my friend, walking down the street in your hat and sunglasses. Shades. Very cool, my friend. All the ladies were looking at you. And why wouldn't they? Handsome man, my friend."
The compliments arrive in a constant stream as you wind down the days along the banks of time.
"Very tough, my friend. Some people, they come in here in their hoodies, their big coats. Freezing. Shivering. You, my friend, always in t-shirt. Tough man. Usual?"
"Usual, my friend? You're intelligent man, my friend. Always considerate. People come in here, they throw the money at me. 'Give me pizza!' they say. You, my friend, always exact change. Very considerate man, my friend. Generous man."
Then there was the time you went out with for a few drinks with a mate. Walking past, giving some consideration to calling in to satisfy your slight hunger, and introduce your friend to this place she'd heard so much about, you pause in front of his window just long enough for him to catch sight of you. The only time you had seen excitement like that before was when you were collecting the dog after a three week stint at a kennel. She rattled her bones loose with glee. The same shine was in his eyes that night.
"My friend. I see you last night with pretty girl. She your girlfriend?"
"Nah, man, just a friend."
"Well, you never know. Girls change their mind. You're a handsome man, my friend. Usual?"
Then you went in their with another girl. Once again, nothing more than a friend. Once again,the next visit brought a debrief.
"Ahhh hello, my friend! Usual for you today? Pretty lady with you yesterday? Girlfriend?"
"Nah, just a friend."
"Smart man, my friend. Wait til after Christmas to get girlfriend. Save money on present."
You've well passed the point of being able to enquire as to his name by this point. He will call you "friend". You will call him "man". Hell, you can't even pin down his ethnicity. You've talked it over with your flatmates on more than a few occasions. Your standard, all-purpose accent has fluctuated between Italian, Spanish, Indian and that one bizarre occurrence of accidental Jamaican. Each more racist than the last. Another flat discussion on the issue down, and between you you're pretty sure that you've got it nailed down to Turkish or similar. Better head down to grab one for yourself, and one for one of the guys.
"Ahhh hello! Usual, my friend?"
"Yeah, but make it two of them this time, please."
Muldoon didn't stop dead on a dime this sharply when he clocked that Raptor clever girling him on Isla Nublar. He swivels to catch your eye, a sly grin creeping across his face.
"One for the girlfriend, yes?"
"Er....yeah, sure."
"Ah, my friend. I tell you what. What is your name, my friend?"
"Er....David....I guess. I never did catch yours actually." (words cannot do justice to the begrudging manner in which that was given as the name)
"Daivd? I am Pedro. I write your name on this pakora. Little extra for you, my friend."
You could not bear to disappoint him. That twinkle in his eye made you ashamed to do anything other than create this fictional female. Even is she was a bearded barista also going by name David. Still, we knew his name now. And he is only Turkish in so much as most Spanish people are secretly Turkish somehow.
"You are a cool man, my friend. You dress very cool. You walk cool. I say, one day I hope my son is cool like you. This is picture of my son."
He is the ultimate wingman. He's friendly, upbeat and always talks you up. He does talk about Jimmy Saville a little too much, but you can overlook that. If you could manufacture some unlikely scenario whereby bringing a girl to Pedro's Pakora Palace (patent pending) would be the height of romance, then he will inevitably have that girl in love with you before your arteries start to clog. He's even been known to extol your virtues to anyone who will listen when you're not there to hear.
"Oh, you are friend with my friend, yes?"
"Yeah, we live together, actually."
"He is a very cool man."
"He walks like a cowboy."
"HE USED TO BE A COWBOY!?"
Back in the present, you allow the straw cowboy hat to drop to your feet. This may be a touch too far. That cowboy hat could tip things over the edge. You don't want to kill Pedro. And fuck knows he's been talking about death a lot lately.
"My friend, for as long as I'm alive, you will never have to pay full price for my pakora. For perhaps another 20 years I live."
Still, you've started to believe that maybe one day you could be his apprentice.
"My friend, the money on these fireworks they spend is ridiculous. £3.5 million for this Hogmanay. They could give you and me this money. We could do better. We could make magic with this £3.5 million."
And just when you start to believe in magic. Just when you start to believe in miracles. Just when you start to believe that Pedro provides pakora, plus probable prestidigitation, potions, prestige....*PRESTO*
He's fucking closed, and you're bloody starving.
