Darts - ch 1

Chapter 1

It was The Poet who first called the place where we live The Castro.
But then it would have been. It was just the sort of thing The Poet
would say.
I remember the day it happened was a Tuesday. Everyone was in my flat;
16, The Poet, me. Even Captain Vegas was there. I say even Captain
Vegas because Captain Vegas usually wasn't there. Captain Vegas didn't
live nearby and usually he was someplace else. That was just one of the
ways in which Captain Vegas was different to the rest of us. He was
different in a lot of ways. More of that later.
That day 16 had been last to arrive. I had opened my door to him and
he had been standing on the step red-faced and breathless.

"Sorry Loop," he said.

"What's up?" I remember saying and then The Poet had
interrupted.

"How can you be breathless?" he said. "You only live fifty metres
away."

The Poet's words were like a revelation. They often were, that's how
The Poet had got his nickname. Not only did he write poetry, he also
revealed the truth behind the obvious. Strange as it may sound that day
was the first time I realised that we all lived within a minute's walk
of each other.
I had been the first to move in. One day I had seen the sign outside
the newsagent's. "GARRET FLAT FOR RENT," it had said. Garret was the
word that got me. It was a word that had romantic connotations. I
imagined fresh ground coffee, 19th century French novels, James Joyce
popping over for a cigar. So I went inside and asked about the
flat.
The newsagent had looked me up and down with his one rheumy eye. "Pay
the rent on time and I'll deliver your papers for free," he said.
"Broadsheet or tabloid." He was a canny one and knew how to drive a
bargain. I smiled and said he had a deal. A week later I paid the bond
and I was in.
The flat was everything that I had imagined. Except for James Joyce.
He had yet to visit. I didn't mind. I never had been very keen on
cigars, or their smells.
Next to move in was The Poet. Schliemann, the old German guy who lived
in the flat next door, had died suddenly of a heart attack. It was a
double stroke of luck for The Poet. He had been desperately looking for
a new place to live and the flat was above a Chinese takeaway. The Poet
had a thing for Asians. Not Chinese Asians in particular but as he said
himself, you have to start somewhere.
And finally 16 lived opposite. 16 was the only one of us who lived in
a house and 16 was the only who still lived with his parents. As his
name implies 16 wasn't very old. 16 was only seventeen.
Meanwhile, on that Tuesday, 16 was still breathless.

"This place is like the Castro," said the Poet.
16 tried to take a deep breath and then he said, "What's the
Castro?"

The Poet explained. The Castro he said was an area in San Francisco
that was almost exclusively gay.
"There are gay plumbers," he said. He carried on. "There are gay
lawyers, gay undertakers, gay doctors, gay physiotherapists, gay
psychiatrists, gay removal men, gay shopkeepers, gay dustmen, gay
postmen, gay counsellors, gay schoolteachers, gay shopkeepers, gay taxi
drivers, gay florists and gay reporters."

"Is that it?" said 16.

The Poet shook his head. "That's just the tip of the iceberg. There
are gay nurses, gay zookeepers, gay accountants, gay waiters, gay TV
presenters, gay furniture makers, gay window cleaners and gay
hairdressers."
"Gay hairdressers," said 16. "Wow."

"Exactly," said The Poet. "And when I said we're like the Castro
that's what I meant."

"You're right," I said, nodding my head. The Poet had hit upon the
truth again.

"What about me?" said Captain Vegas. He leapt up and wiggled his hips
in that way of his. "Are you forgetting about me? I don't live here. I
live miles away."

I looked at Captain Vegas unable to believe that he had taken this
line. "You're different Captain Vegas," I said, "you know that. You've
always been different."
Captain Vegas ran a hand over his quiff but he didn't say
anything.
"Anyway," I said, trying to make light of the situation, "would you
want to live in The Castro? What would Leia Organa say?"

"I suppose you're right," said Captain Vegas. He stopped wiggling his
hips. He sat down. "But I can come and visit?"

"Sure," I said.

"The Castro is known for its attraction to tourists," said The
Poet.

"That proves it then," I said. "This place is The Castro."
And that is what we've called it ever since. The Castro.
The Castro is where we live and that's just the beginning of the
story.