The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 3

I looked forward to going to school today. I couldn't stop smiling at the vendors in the stalls lining Moore street hawking their wares, regaled by cries of "Fresh strawberries... only a pound," as I skipped over a squashed orange, my rubber-soled trainers practically skating over the slippery cobblestones. Passing the fishmongers, I inhaled that distinctive smell capable of rousing Rip Van Winkle from slumber.

I'm not sure what had me in such an excellent spirit. I didn't analyse it as I do with most things in my life. Whenever a good mood strikes, I roll with it. Enjoy the moment.

Robbie stood in the yard, locked in an animated discussion with a long-haired guy. The guy wore an olive green German army surplus jacket, a large anarchy symbol, crudely drawn on with a black felt-tip marker covering the back. Arafat scarf draped around his neck like a radical with a head full of bad acid.

I made a beeline for them.

When Robbie saw me, he grinned. "Here he is, the king of rock."

The puzzled expression on his friend's face told me Robbie hadn't revealed the origins of my name. It was our little in-joke, a shared private reference. It felt good to be involved instead of faking a smile, the sad mime behind his invisible partition.

I bust out the opening lines of Run DMC's King of Rock. Which made Robbie laugh and army guy give me an even funnier look. "Hey," I said to him, "You're Higgins, right?" The teachers called him that. Teachers rarely called students by their forenames. That stopped as soon as you left Junior school. Peculiar, how children are addressed by their first name yet, the closer you get to adulthood they reverted to referring you by your surname? A means of exerting control, keeping us in our place, I suppose.

"No one calls me Higgins—I'm Roley." He swung a doc marten boot at the burlap bag by his feet. Stencilled across the satchel in large black lettering was his nickname. He had made the O in Roley into the CND peace symbol.

"So, you're an anarchist hippy?" I wondered how two diametrically opposed ideas could co-exist. It didn't bother Roley. He seemed happy.

"I'm a punk." His boot nudged toward Minor Threat scrawled beneath his name. Amid the multitude of names were some, like REM and Nirvana, I recognised.

"Green is a great album. I Remember California, cracking song."

"World Leader Pretend is the best track. Rest of it's commercial shite. They sold out when they signed to Warners. Same with Nirvana. Bunch of tossers listening to them now... Who are you into?"

I mentioned The Doors, which garnered an enthusiastic nod of the head. And the one-word ultimate seal of approval. Cool. Run DMC and Beastie Boys gained satisfied grunts. The Pet Shop Boys, however, brought about an altogether different response.

"The arse-pirates? Are yeh serious?"

I tensed up. "Just because the singers got a high-pitched voice doesn't make them gay."

"No, banging other blokes makes them gay. Extremely gay."

"Whatever about the singer, the keyboardist is straight as an arrow."

"His boyfriend would disagree with you there." Roley chuckled. "Well, maybe not anymore—he's brown bread. Had the Aids."

Chris Lowe gay? No way. He always wore smart sportswear. Eyes invisible behind the dark shades he rocked in photos. How often had I stared at the Discography sleeve, admiring his studied cool? "But, he doesn't look gay."

"How does a gay person look?" Robbie asked me with a teasing smile.

"Well, I..." The moustachioed, leather-clad guys from the Blue Oyster bar scene in Police Academy sprung instantly to mind.