Jalan Jalan Read Online Free Page A
Author: Mike Stoner
usually share, man, but as youâre new.â
Kim rolls, no tobacco added, and we smoke.
And now I lie in my bed crying, listening to men singing out across the rooftops, welcoming me to the first full day of my new life. Men who may never have met, yet their voices interweave with the others to harmonise as though members of the same choir; which I guess they are. The voices stop and the silence is sudden.
I am lying with my head to the mosquito-netted open window. There must be a hole in it somewhere as a small lump on my thigh asks to be scratched. From where I lie I can see the top of a wall and a thin strip of sky. Day arrives quickly. The room changes from dark to light as the night is edged out. When the arrival of day is complete, Iâm surrounded by varying off-white shades of the walls and floor tiles. I look at my watch: quarter past six. Iâve had maybe six hoursâ sleep. I try to recall the conversation with Kim, but nothing comes. A moment of life lost to magical foliage.
I wonder why Laura hasnât made an appearance yet and then push the thought aside. I get off the bed and busy myself with finding my pants. My bed cover is in a ball on the floor. The sheet I was lying on is damp with my sweat. Something small and bloodthirsty buzzes by my ear, close enough to make my spine shiver. This place is hot. And I want a cigarette. That is a morning need I havenât had for a while. I must have smoked everything to hand last night. The nicotine needs topping up. Re-infected already. Easier to catch than a cold.
I pull on dirty clothes that stick to my body like gritty cling film and leave the room.
The lounge stinks of overflowing ashtray and a sweet smell of burnt exotic plants. Kim has left a packet of Indonesian cigarettes on the table. I accept my re-addiction and take one. Thereâs a lighter down the back of the chair. I go out the front door. A small tiled garden, hemmed in by a white wall and black metal gate, separates the house from the small and traffic-free road. The sun has risen quickly and the sky is white-blue. Lines of silver sunlight pour between the leaves and branches of a tree that holds yellow-green fruit. Mango, maybe. I pick one, roll it over in my hands and take a bite. Whatever it is, it isnât ripe. I spit it out, put the cigarette in my mouth and light it. The taste of clove and bonfires. Iâm not keen on clove, it ruins apple pies, but the bonfire is OK. It sets fire to my lungs and the coughing rattles the dope hangover out of my head.
âKeep it fucking down, man. Fuuck.â
The voice comes from the window behind me. Kim must be in there somewhere behind the mosquito mesh. Thereâs still more coughing to come so I open the gate and step onto the street where I let it out. I look at the cigarette.
âYou evil bastard.â
Putting it back in my mouth, the cloves do their job. The back of my throat is numbing and the cough rolls over and goes to sleep.
Noise is still dormant in this street of white walls and small houses and trees. It is a cul-de-sac that stops at a wall to my right. The sun is already blanching my face and the air is stuffy. Sweat bubbles up on my forehead. Iâm going to like this heat. Itâs going to bake me into something new. I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun. New Me is going to be brown and sun-bleached and blond-haired and careless. Heâs going to smoke and drink and argue and live and Laura will not have anything to say on the matter. Nothing.
âNothing?
âNothing.
âWell thatâs not nice , she says, ignoring the fact that sheâs dead.
âSorry, but me and you were one. We were one and youâve gone. What does that leave? What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to be?
âI donât know.
âExactly. So be quiet. Please.
I open my eyes before she can say more, go back in the house, pull a towel and bag of toiletries from my backpack, take a pee,
Kim rolls, no tobacco added, and we smoke.
And now I lie in my bed crying, listening to men singing out across the rooftops, welcoming me to the first full day of my new life. Men who may never have met, yet their voices interweave with the others to harmonise as though members of the same choir; which I guess they are. The voices stop and the silence is sudden.
I am lying with my head to the mosquito-netted open window. There must be a hole in it somewhere as a small lump on my thigh asks to be scratched. From where I lie I can see the top of a wall and a thin strip of sky. Day arrives quickly. The room changes from dark to light as the night is edged out. When the arrival of day is complete, Iâm surrounded by varying off-white shades of the walls and floor tiles. I look at my watch: quarter past six. Iâve had maybe six hoursâ sleep. I try to recall the conversation with Kim, but nothing comes. A moment of life lost to magical foliage.
I wonder why Laura hasnât made an appearance yet and then push the thought aside. I get off the bed and busy myself with finding my pants. My bed cover is in a ball on the floor. The sheet I was lying on is damp with my sweat. Something small and bloodthirsty buzzes by my ear, close enough to make my spine shiver. This place is hot. And I want a cigarette. That is a morning need I havenât had for a while. I must have smoked everything to hand last night. The nicotine needs topping up. Re-infected already. Easier to catch than a cold.
I pull on dirty clothes that stick to my body like gritty cling film and leave the room.
The lounge stinks of overflowing ashtray and a sweet smell of burnt exotic plants. Kim has left a packet of Indonesian cigarettes on the table. I accept my re-addiction and take one. Thereâs a lighter down the back of the chair. I go out the front door. A small tiled garden, hemmed in by a white wall and black metal gate, separates the house from the small and traffic-free road. The sun has risen quickly and the sky is white-blue. Lines of silver sunlight pour between the leaves and branches of a tree that holds yellow-green fruit. Mango, maybe. I pick one, roll it over in my hands and take a bite. Whatever it is, it isnât ripe. I spit it out, put the cigarette in my mouth and light it. The taste of clove and bonfires. Iâm not keen on clove, it ruins apple pies, but the bonfire is OK. It sets fire to my lungs and the coughing rattles the dope hangover out of my head.
âKeep it fucking down, man. Fuuck.â
The voice comes from the window behind me. Kim must be in there somewhere behind the mosquito mesh. Thereâs still more coughing to come so I open the gate and step onto the street where I let it out. I look at the cigarette.
âYou evil bastard.â
Putting it back in my mouth, the cloves do their job. The back of my throat is numbing and the cough rolls over and goes to sleep.
Noise is still dormant in this street of white walls and small houses and trees. It is a cul-de-sac that stops at a wall to my right. The sun is already blanching my face and the air is stuffy. Sweat bubbles up on my forehead. Iâm going to like this heat. Itâs going to bake me into something new. I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun. New Me is going to be brown and sun-bleached and blond-haired and careless. Heâs going to smoke and drink and argue and live and Laura will not have anything to say on the matter. Nothing.
âNothing?
âNothing.
âWell thatâs not nice , she says, ignoring the fact that sheâs dead.
âSorry, but me and you were one. We were one and youâve gone. What does that leave? What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to be?
âI donât know.
âExactly. So be quiet. Please.
I open my eyes before she can say more, go back in the house, pull a towel and bag of toiletries from my backpack, take a pee,
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