The first time I met DBC Pierre I was drunk, almost offensive. Well, when I say almost. I don’t know. I guess some people see things differently. I had hit a rough patch. It was a really rough patch. I had been sleeping in shop doorways in the West End for a week now and didn’t smell too good. I spent my waking moments finishing other people’s leftover booze, raiding the trash before the rats got to it and begging for more money for more booze. That particular evening had been very profitable when I found myself outside a huge book store. All of its lights were blazing and inside it was busy. I wondered what all these people were doing instead of drinking. What possible activity could be any more rewarding than ingesting quantities of booze at that time of night? I stared in through the windows to find my answer. Then I noticed the tiny flutes of wine held aloft by some of the ladies. Aha! They were boozing it up in a bookshop! I caught sight of a man sitting behind a table stacked with books. He was wearing a nice suit. He was slightly flushed. I didn’t know I was staring at DBC Pierre. Not then. My own suit had been a nice suit once. It was still a good fit, better now that I had lost some weight. Still, my jacket was torn at the elbows and my trousers were ripped at the knees. I caught his eye. I grinned and waved. He looked away, caught up by a woman at the head of a line that stretched as far as I could see. They were queueing for him to sign books. I watched as he beamed at the woman. She seemed excited. He took a long drink from a wine glass at his side. It was white wine and he had a near full bottle on his table too. I find white wine very refreshing. I was tired and I figured I could do with some refreshment. I expected the door to the store to have security, big stern guys built to stop the trash getting blown into the building, but no, so in I blew. I found the end of the queue and hovered just behind the next person. She was wearing a perfume that sent my head reeling. God knows what kind of poison it was. I got a little closer, aware that my animal stink might be worse. We were standing next to the philosophy section. There was Nagel’s “What Does It All Mean?” and Peter Singer’s “Practical Ethics”. That took me back and got me thinking. I remembered something Nagel wrote about the experience of tasting chocolate and where that registered in the brain. If you were able to lift off the top of the skull of the person eating the chocolate and licked that part of their brain it probably wouldn’t taste of chocolate. If you squeezed mine my bet was that you could fill a shot glass with booze. The queue moved forward. Someone fell in behind me and then took a small step back. I don’t blame them. Peter Singer wrote another book “The President of Good and Evil” about President George W Bush. I was going to read it, one day, before the fire. The queue moved forward again and suddenly perfume lady was at the table with DBC Pierre. I read his name on the display stands either side of him. He was signing his new book for people, “Ludmilla’s Broken English”. He had won the Man Booker prize for something else so the stands said. To his left was the three quarter full bottle of white wine I had spotted from the street. Perfume lady said something that made him laugh. He seemed very happy. Then she walked away and he turned and looked at me. I saw the smile flicker for a moment. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I was embarrassed I had no book for him to sign. “Hi there, can I help you?” he said, I came forward, “I don’t have a book,” I muttered, “No problem,” he said, “I have a spare right here.” “Uhu?” I glanced at the wine bottle, “What’s your name?” “My name? What’s yours big guy? I mean, DBC, what’s that?” “Dirty But Clean Pierre,” I blinked at him. My own initials were CBD. “Write it out to CBD Peterson,” “CBD? What’s that?” “Clean But Dirty!” I laughed out loud. I hadn’t made a joke in years. It felt good. Then, without a second thought, I snatched up the bottle from the table and sprinted for the door. I made it outside with ease, looked about, there was no one in pursuit. I had discovered a new route to free booze! I leaned against the window of the store and took a long pull on the wine. As I expected, it was very refreshing and it didn’t take me long to get to the finish. I crabbed sideways across the road to a darkened shop doorway feeling borne away on a tide of blessed relief. I thought I caught a hint of that noxious perfume encountered earlier in the evening. A platoon of young blades jostled past all of them high on some chemical blast. I made myself comfortable on some bags of office shreddings and half closed my eyes. I remember the lights going out in the bookstore across the way. I can recall the French school party on their way home from the theatre, all laughter and huge eyes. I remember the naked prostitute beating a man with his shoes. She looked like she had done it before. She left him one shoe and an empty wallet. He caught my eye, crossed himself and then dissolved into the night. What I do not remember is how I came to be in possession of a book bearing the inscription ‘To CBD Peterson with best wishes from DBC Pierre’. In the morning the recycling truck arrived to take the trash from my doorway and as I staggered to my feet I felt its unfamiliar weight in my inside jacket pocket. I riffled through the pages. Toward the back I found a fifty and another scrawled note which read, ‘Buy me a drink next time you see me’. I could have dropped the book right there. It would have disappeared with the trash and I would have been properly drunk for at least another week, but then I started reading the damn thing... © Byron Jones All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
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| The First Time I Met... Byron Jones |