The train pushed south and for the first time, perhaps since arriving in the UK, I was alone.
The train was empty, save for an old conductor stopping by every few stops to punch my ticket. I left Stan behind in London, waiting for his tube back to the old pub. I was alone from here on out.
I didn’t have any magazines or books, I had no post cards nor pen. My walkman had been stolen on the ferry back from Amsterdam over Christmas. All I had was the sound of the train, my thoughts—and the deep-seeded internal beat following me down from London.
When I closed my eyes I saw flashes of the night before. The angels of the night, sweaty, moving in slow motion to fast beats, mere silhouettes from the strobing lights behind them, flashing through the dancing crowd…
I heard the fevered shouts from the MC bouncing off the wall of the chill-out room, where I sat with my friend, Stella, feeling her silk pant leg as if it were woven by the hand of god…
“DJ Randall, how much can you handle?!”
As far as normal lives go, lives with direction and a clear path, mine was a failure.
When you’re in high school, they give you a very clear roadmap to the American dream. You go to college, you get a job, and the rest falls into place.
But something always felt like it was missing; it all seemed like an empty, prefabricated goal someone else made for me.
It just didn’t fit me—like a pair of trousers just a little too tight in crotch.