Z Darts ch 24

Chapter 24

I woke up in my own bed back in the Castro. I nudged Seven in his side
and with a stretch he woke up.

"Could you pick up my socks," I said.

Seven looked at me with that fruit seller's look that he sometimes had
early in the morning. I half expected him to say "apples, one pound a
kilo" but he didn't. He smiled and got of bed. I watched as he padded
across the floor and then bent to retrieve my socks.

"Anything else?" he said.

I shook my head. "That's fine."

"Underpants?"

"You can come back to bed now."

"OK."

Seven walked back across the floor and slid in next to me, feet first.
"What was that all about?" he said. "Socks, socks, socks, it's the same
every day. Even when we were on holiday. I don't get it."

I smiled.

"What?" said Seven. He had that look on his face again. "Pineapples.
Buy one, get one free," I thought he was going to say this time. He
didn't.

"It's nothing," I said. I wasn't lying. Really, it was nothing. It was
just one of those little things that can make your day a bit better.
Like a blue sky. Or a cup of fresh coffee.

"Tell me," said Seven.

"It's not a secret," I said.

"So tell me."

"That tattoo on your bum," I said. "When you bend over, it smiles. I
like to see it."
Seven shook his head. "You're making it up. That tattoo never smiles.
It's not in its nature."

"It is," I said. "Wait. I'll show you."

This time I got out of bed. If we'd have been weathermen it would have
started to rain. Then stopped. Finally there would have been a
rainbow.

I went downstairs. First I went into the kitchen and opened the drawer
where I kept my tools. I took out a screwdriver. Then I went into the
bathroom. I unscrewed the mirror off the wall, wrought iron frame and
all. Then I went back upstairs.

"Good idea," said Seven when he saw the mirror.

"There's no time for idle chat," I said. "Shift up."

I positioned myself so I was sitting at Seven's feet. I lifted his
ankles and rested them on my shoulders. I put the mirror on my
knees.

"Can you see?" I said.

"Is that what my arse looks like?" said Seven. "I never knew." He
laughed. "It's not too bad, is it? Perhaps we should go on a retreat.
You know like women do to look at their vaginas. From just a brief
first impression it seems like the kind of thing I would enjoy. I could
probably organise it myself. There's money to be made there. I'm sure.
Gay Men Get In Touch With Your Arses. I can see the flyer. We would
make a fortune."

"What did I tell you about idle chat?" I said. "Now. Watch."

I pushed Seven's ankles forward towards his head and then I pulled
them back. I did it again. And then again.

"See," I said. "It smiles."

"I don't know," said Seven. "I think it's more of a grimace than a
smile. Really."

"You're not looking properly. I'll do it again."

It was on the forth attempt that I heard the tapping. It was
rhythmical. Manmade. Tap tap tap. I turned around and I saw immediately
what it was. It was The Poet. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. He had his hand
up to shield the sun from his eyes and he was peering in through the
glass of the window. Tap tap tap. I was a little surprised. After all,
we were on the third floor.

"It's The Poet," said Seven.

I knew that but I couldn't say anything. I was too shocked.

I rested Seven's ankles back on the bed and I rushed over to the
window and opened it. The Poet climbed over the ledge and he was in the
bedroom. He opened his mouth to say something but I stopped him
dead.

"You have to help me," I said, trying to act as if everything was
normal, as if poets often came through my window. "Watch this."

I raised and then I lowered Seven's legs again.

"Is that a smile or a grimace?" I said.

"The technical word is sphincter," said The Poet.

I was going to say about how, maybe, he wasn't looking in quite the
right place when he fell to the floor. The movement was like a sack of
potatoes leaping from the top of a very tall windmill. The Poet
jittered about for a bit and then went, apparently, unconscious. It was
probably a delayed reaction to whatever had driven him to be knocking
on my window in the first place. Anyway, it looked serious.

Seven leapt up, I dropped the mirror and for a few seconds we ran
helplessly around the room. Meanwhile The Poet didn't move.

"Smelling salts," said Seven. "Smelling salts, that's what we
need."

I waved my arms uselessly in front of me. "I don't have any. I'm right
out."

"What about poppers," said Seven. "Do you think that'll work?"

"It's worth a try," I said. "In the kitchen. In the cupboard."

Seven ran down the stairs and I went over to The Poet and rested his
head on my knees. It was then that I noticed two things. The Poet's
face was blue and he had a rope tied around his waist. I guessed the
two were connected.

I could see the scene. The Poet and AkiMat were in bed. The Poet had
an idea. He had to come and see me and Seven immediately. He tied a
rope around his waist for safety and set off across the rooftops.

I untied the rope and slapped The Poet's cheeks a bit and it was just
as he was waking up that Seven appeared back in the room clutching the
bottle of amyl-nitrate. The Poet looked at Seven and then he looked at
me.

"It is a smile," he said. "You're right. Definitely a smile. Nice
actually."

Seven did a little dance and bent over. There could be no doubt. It
was a smile. I smiled. We all smiled. But I knew something was
up.

It was a bit later. Seven was in underpants and so was I. We were
downstairs in the lounge drinking cups of tea.

"So," I said. "What were you doing at the window?"

"What?" said The Poet.

"You," I said, miming a face looking through a window. "What were you
doing?"

"Oh My God," said The Poet. He leapt up. "How could I have
forgotten?"

Seven laughed. "It's probably that tattoo on my arse." He chuckled to
himself quietly. "It's enough to make anyone forget anything."

"Seven," I said.

"They could but similar tattoos on soldiers' arses. It could stop
wars. Imagine. The soldiers drop their pants and bend over. The enemy
sees lines of smiling arses. What would you do? You wouldn't want to
fight that, would you?"

"Seven," I said.

"It wouldn't even have to be smiles. It could be something else.
Pears, for example." Seven clapped his hands. "Yes. A row of ripe juicy
pears fresh for the plucking."

"SEVEN!"

"Sorry," he said. "Got carried away." He shook his head. "You and your
socks."

"The Poet," I said, ignoring Seven and disowning any part I might have
had to play in the crime, "what is it?"

The Poet stood up. "We got a letter," he said.

"We?" I said.

"Us," said The Poet. "From the secretary of the darts league."

"Oh," I said.

"They want to throw us out."

"Oh my God!" I said.

"Fuck," said Seven.

"Why?" I said.

"Shhh," said The Poet, "I'll read the letter."

The Poet took out a neatly folded square of paper from out of his
pocket. He unfolded it. He cleared his throat. He started to
read:

Dear Mr Loop Garoo, Mr Poet, Mr Captain Vegas and Mr 16,

It is on a serious matter that I find that I am writing to you. A
serious matter indeed. As with other serious matters this serious
matter needs to be dealt with in a serious and proper manner.

In the past two weeks I, as secretary of the darts league, have
received not one, but two complaints about your team.

Complaint number one is this:

That on the night of 5 May 2001 you did turn up at the Fig and Firkin
dressed from head to toe in drag. Every one of you. You are charged
herewith with bringing the game of darts into disrepute.

Complaint number two is this:

That since that night and after you have fielded a number of illegal
players. Upon registering your team only 4 names (see above for said
names) were registered. It has been duly noted and inscribed that your
team now contains others. Namely; one Leia Organa, one Seven, one
Akinobu Matsumoto.

We are not an unjust society. We are not unfair. Every man was created
equal.
However there are rules and you have broken them. You are called to
answer the charges on August 8 in front of me at my office. Until that
time you may continue to play the glorious game that is darts. After
that, well, that is for the judge's opinion.

It is a serious matter.

Yours sincerely,

Herbert Johnson, league secretary.

The Poet stopped reading.

"What do you think?" he said.

"It's unfair," I said.

"Of course it's unfair," he said. "But it's our chance." His eyes were
glowing.

I shook my head. "I don't understand."

"How many matches have we played?" asked The Poet.

"Eleven," said Seven.

"And how many have we won?"

"One," I said.

"Exactly," said The Poet and he clapped his hands.

"Exactly what?" I said.

"We are not going to win the league," said The Poet. "That is not a
bastion we are going to defeat. This is our chance, our chance to beat
another bastion, a bigger one. We can't win, but we can set a
precedent. We've been so busy playing everyone at their own game we
haven't given a thought to the alternative. Now we have an alternative.
We can change the rules, the laws. We have a chance to change the game
as we know it."

"Hooray!" said Seven.

"We can do it," I said, suddenly sure of The Poet's words. More sure
than I had been of anything else in my life before.

"Yes we can," said The Poet.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," I said.

I walked down the corridor thinking of bastions. In my mind temples
were falling, people were marching, cheering. A new order was being
ushered in, a new world of fairness and tolerance, a world were
bastions didn't exist. I opened the door. 16 and Captain Vegas were
both standing there. They were both holding a large suitcase, one
each.

"We've got a problem," they said. "We need your help," they
said.

They attempted to wiggle their hips. They failed.