I've Never Done This (Before).

I move through the streets of Edinburgh on a grey and windy morning. I wear dirty jeans I bought four years ago. A beanie I got at a dollar store in the US. Muddy shoes my younger brother gave me a few months ago. A shirt from India that I bought in Provincetown for $3. An old sweater that used to belong to my mother.

I wear glasses
so
you won’t look at me
but
I can see you clearly.

Iggy Pop sounds through my headphones. I chuckle to myself. It sounds like a horse’s hiccup. A vision slowly invades my mind. I let my feet take me forward as the vision takes hold.


…Here comes Johnny Yen again
With the liquor and drugs
And the flesh machine
I know he’s gonna do another strip tease.
Hey man, where’d ya get that lotion?
Your skin starts itchin’ once you buy the gimmick
About something called love
Love, love, love…


“ – yah, but whadya wanna DO tonight?” She poses this question to him with a tilted eyebrow. She lights one of his cigarettes. “Gahd, why do you buy these? They taste like cahdboahd.”

“Then don’t smoke ‘em.” He snatches the pack away from her and lights one for himself. They stare at each other for a minute. She daintily holds her wrist high and takes luxurious drags from the tobacco, never taking her eyes off him. He puffs silently, without the aid of his hand, allowing the white stick to hang on his bottom lip. He blows the smoke into her face. She giggles finally. “Ahn’t we gonna open a window?”

“It’s too fuckin’ cold,” he answers.
“Yah, but I hate the smell,” she whines.
“Aright, aright, anything foa muh dahhhlin.’”
He stands up, still smoking, and opens the window. She giggles again.

He sits down with crossed legs. She lies her head in his lap, sending the smoke to the ceiling. “Why is thea neva anything to DO around hea?” she says to his chin. “Oh baby, thea’s plenny tuh DO, just naht much to go OUT foa.” He strokes her head, leans to his far left to stamp out his cigarette in a glass filled with coins and ash. “Can we just watch Trainspottin' tuhnight then?” she flutters her eyelashes. – “Fine but ya just gonna fall asleep as soon as it gets goin.’” – “So what? Ya parents ah at the lake house, right?” – “Yeah.”

She sits up then. He turns around and digs under the ratty orange couch. He retrieves a backgammon case, complete with locks and a handle for convenient traveling. She puts out her cigarette in the dirty glass. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Be back in a minute – oh wait, you got Qtips?” she calls back. – “Uhh…yah.” – “You got cotton balls?” – “That’s yoa shit. I don’t use ‘em.” – “You got alcohol?” – “Yah.” – “You got-” – “What the fuck, just wash ya damn hands!” – “Fuck you! You got wata?” – “Fuck…nah.” – “See! Basics, baby, basics!”

With that, she slips into the hallway and then the bathroom to her immediate right. She closes the door behind her. Looks at herself in the mirror. Feels slightly nauseas. The yellow walls and bright lights bask her in sickliness. She sits on the toilet. Waits. Thinks of the ocean. Swimming. Waves crashing into her belly. She lets a long sigh escape and twists the faucet to her left. She holds her head with her hands and stares at the linoleum floor.

The door swings open, hits the wall behind it with a loud bang. Her head snaps up. “I can’t pee!” she moans to him. “Yes, you can,” he says and fills a glass with water. “Drink it fast,” he tells her. She gulps down the water, feels it sink and splash and slide into her stomach. It feels cool. He takes the glass back and fills it again. “Make it quick,” he says, and shuts the door behind him. Suddenly, she feels the tickle and lets go. What relief, she thinks. It doesn’t last long but it’s enough. She flushes, washes her hands, splashes water onto her face, dries it with a rough yellow towel, applies red lipstick, smiles for a second, fluffs her long, red hair with her hands. She turns around, scoops up a few cotton balls, looks into the mirror once more, and returns to his room.

The smell of the stuff is what always hits her first. A combination of matches, heated metal, and sour flower petals makes for a deathly aroma. She sits on the mattress, which lies directly on the floor, and drops the cotton balls on the black sheets. She gags. He hears her. “Ah you gonna get sick already babe?” – “No, I’m fine, why ahn’t you usin’ the candle?” – “Candle died last night. Only got these fuckin’ matches.” – “Fuck you, we just had a lighta somewhea…” – “Christ, baby! Watch whea ya fuckin’ goin’!” – “Oh gawd, I’m sorry baby…oh! I was sittin’ on the lighta anyway. Can I light some incense?” – “Yah, whateva, gimme that lighta though. Use the matches.”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes never leaving the spoon. She places the lighter in his palm and, striking one of the matches, lights a stick of Nag Champa. Standing up and swaying on the mattress, she holds the incense in front of her face and watches the smoke drift between her eyes. Suddenly, she feels a cold wetness between her legs.

“What thuh fuck? Did you jus squirt me?” she asks him. He laughs at her, syringe in hand. “Yah, so what?” – “That means I get to go first.” – “Fine…anything foa muh dahhhlinn…” – “And I get to pick the music.” – “Fine…but no Bowie tonight.” – “I wasn’t gonna anyway…Iggy?” – “But wea jus gonna hea that shit in Trainspottin’.” – “Yah, so? It’ll put us in the mood.” – “Put us in the mood? What ah you, off ya rocka babe? I got the mood right hea.” – “Come on! We might not even watch the movie an’ you know it!” – “Yah, fine, I’m just givin’ you a hahd time. I like Iggy.” – “I know you do, mothafucka!” – “Hey, is that any way to speak tuh ya man ova hea?”

He slaps her ass. She squeals. “Siddown,” he says. “The music!” she stamps her foot. He sighs. She slips a record out of its sleeve, places it on the turntable, sets the needle, presses Start. “I Wanna Be Your Dog” begins. "Weeee!" she shrieks, twisting her hips and playing air-guitar to the first chords of the song. He smiles back at her. As the drums come in, she plops herself down on the mattress and rolls up her left sleeve. Grabs the glass bottle filled with alcohol, pours some onto a cotton ball and wipes the crook of her arm clean. “Okay, do it for me,” she says. “Please?”

Everything tightens. Tension builds. She growls, Fuck you Fuck you Fuck you, as is her custom. With her right hand, she digs her nails into the flesh of her stomach. She grits her teeth and holds her breath. Nothing in the world moves. Her eyes are fixated on the tiny barrel. Finally, on the third try, a red swirl bursts through the golden brown and she Thanks God. “Loosen the belt, baby,” he tells her. “I don’t want ya ahms lookin’ like mine.” She does what he says. He withdraws the spike. She exhales, a colossal wave mounting up her spine, crashing over her head, drowning the whole room. Everything is warm. She shudders and a deep groan escapes her lips. She leans, falls forward to kiss him for what seems like three lifetimes.

Later, he will lie on his back croaking “that’s – like – hypnotizin’…chickens” over and over through the puffs of smoke he propels to the ceiling. “Let’s go to Scotland someday,” she will murmur from the mattress. “We’ve been trainspottin’ a long time now,” will be his response.


I stop the music as I approach the office of Scottish Literature. Check my phone to discover I am actually a bit early for my tutorial. Must have been walking fast. A hunched elderly man shuffles out of the building and lights a cigarette. He coughs. I cough. After considering the prospect of my own tobacco, I decide to inhale his smoke for a minute instead. I think about Henry James’s “Art of Fiction” and scan the cobblestone street of academic buildings, academic people. My eyes search for the girl I see every Wednesday morning. Her short brown hair always lies so neatly on her head. There she is. Exiting the building across the street. Cheeks pink before her face even feels the wind. She lights a cigarette with those fingerless gloves of lace. A grin creeps onto my face. I turn around, direct the grin at the old man, and make my way up the stone spiral staircase to room 201. Behind the door, a doctor of literature awaits my thoughts. I enter.