Chapter one - Shakespeare on a Litterbin
The first time I saw Sam he was entertaining an audience in a HMV store. Not in any official capacity, he hadn’t been hired. It was strictly voluntary. He was dancing and singing along to a track from the album on sales promotion that week - The Sixties Turn Fifty. The track in question, an upbeat number called 'Boom-Boom' was by The Animals. I think it's fair to say that lead singer Eric Burdon, being a tough Tyneside lad, would never have dreamed of strutting his stuff in quite the way Sam was doing.
The audience was enjoying the impromptu show. Sam had a pleasant voice and a sexy way of moving. From my point of view it made a mundane Saturday a whole lot brighter. He presented an attractive figure: slim, fair-haired, five foot eight or thereabouts. He was dressed in faded black jeans, a white t-shirt and a short-sleeved red-checked shirt. Dark sunglasses completed the look.
I wasn't the only one attracted. A couple of girls in the audience were just as appreciative, discussing Sam's attributes (nice arse) with one of them adding a sorrowful footnote about it being a shame he was gay. Her friend chimed back with, "wish I was a gay bloke. I'd have some of that."
Personally I thought they were being presumptuous with regard to the entertainer's sexuality. It's all too easy to make assumptions based on the way someone acts and looks. That said my gaydar was bleeping some pretty strong signals indicating he was one of my lot.
My amusement at his antics was tempered with concern, and a little conjecture on my own part. Having had a sister who performed similar acts in public when the mood befell her, I was aware such highlights, if they could be so called, were often followed by lows of suicidal magnitude.
My sister Suzie ended her life in a quiet beauty spot after the break up of a fledgling romance; at least we guessed it's why she did it. She left no note. She drove there one fine spring day, locked all the doors of her car, doused herself in petrol and struck a match. The coroner decreed her dental records were sufficient to identify her. We buried what amounted to her cremated remains beneath a headstone bearing her name and the dates of her birth and death.
My parents and older sister were devastated, as was I, but curiously we all experienced a kind of peace as she was laid in the grave. My father grasped my hand, saying quietly, ‘she’s at rest now, son.’ And then he wept, not because she was dead, but because he’d never been able to give her rest in her lifetime. It hurt to his soul that only death could offer peace to his youngest daughter. Why her, he’d say, why did God make her like that, why was God so cruel to her?
I'm not sure about God. Suze was certainly a victim of something, nature perhaps, genetics. She had not wilfully chosen to be afflicted by what amounted to periodic bouts of insanity, which wiped away all trace of the girl we loved leaving a tormented stranger in her place. She was a confused mix of elements that none of us, least of all her, understood. In her lucid best moments she was sweet, funny, clever and loving. She had been an enigma, and in his unique way so was Sam.
The enigma in question was about to be moved on by two thickset security guards who obviously didn’t appreciate him being enigmatic on the shop floor they patrolled. It probably contravened some code of shoppers conduct. ‘Thou shalt not be enigmatic on the premises of a public limited company during opening hours.’
“All right, enough carry on. You’ve had your fun, clear off.” One of them reached out a paw to grasp Sam’s arm.
Sam, being higher than a dry leaf in a cyclone, chose, I use the word deliberately, Sam was in an excited mood, but he was in conscious control of his actions. He chose, much to the delight of the onlookers, to interpret the move as a desire on the part of the guard to dance with him.
Enthusiastically flinging both arms around the man's neck he planted a smacking kiss on his cheek and declared, “of course I’ll dance with you, darling.”
The guard flushed a shade of puce I have yet to see reproduced on any paint colour chart and tried desperately to disentangle himself from the arms of his amorous dance partner. Sam clung like a limpet to a rock.
I must confess to the sin of being amused at the expression on the security officer’s face. His co-worker, much relieved that Sam had nabbed his mate and not him, quipped, “you’ll be all right there, Harry. I think pansy boy fancies you.”
The smile was soon wiped from his face as the person in charge of the music, obviously someone with a misguided sense of humour, changed the disc and Queen’s 'Don't Stop Me Now' rang out.
Sam gave an affected high-pitched squeal. It set my teeth on edge, a premonition of things to come had I but known it. “I love Queen, fabbest band ever. We must dance to this...you too, fat boy. Let’s tone that flab.” Reaching out he grabbed the second guard and pulled him into the arena, so to speak.
Provocatively thrusting his hips forward into the groin of one guard and his bottom back into the groin of the other, Sam attempted to out-sing and out-innuendo the late Freddie Mercury himself. He played to the audience for all he was worth, camping it up outrageously.
The red-faced guards were beginning to lose their cool and when Sam suddenly brandished one of their wallets, which he’d expertly lifted from a pocket, things got decidedly ugly.
Face down on the floor with his arm bent high up behind his back, Sam started to panic, cursing and struggling in vain to free his arm. There was a tone in his voice I recognised from experiences with my sister when nurses (who had missed their vocation as concentration camp officers) restrained her. Fear was beginning to replace excitement.
Before I knew it I’d invited myself to the party. “There’s no need to treat him so roughly. Let him up please.”
“This is nothing to do with you, mate, so piss off!” The guard holding Sam’s arm up behind his back tightened his grip causing him to let rip with another torrent of obscenities.
The other guard began talking about calling the police. I nodded agreement. “I think the police are a good idea. You’re aware of course you’ve committed an assault against this young man. I’m sure all these good people will be willing to testify to it.”
Three quarters of the good people immediately melted away, but the few who remained seemed in agreement. I of course had absolutely no idea of what legal ground, if any, I stood on. After all Sam was making a public nuisance of himself and he had lifted someone’s wallet, even if he had meant it as a joke.
“He was only having a laugh and larking about,” said a girl with phlegm coloured hair and a studded tongue, which clacked against her upper teeth as she spoke. “He didn’t mean no harm, leave him alone.” There was a murmur of agreement.
“Besides,” I said, lowering my voice and jumping in with my unconfirmed theory. “I think he might have a mental health problem, so calling the police would be pointless.” At those words a certain look crossed the men’s faces. I’d seen it all before, fear mixed with contempt.
The guard holding Sam’s arm dropped it as if it were infectious. “Get him out of here. Bloody loonies and queers ought to be locked up away from decent folk.”
I hunkered down, quietly asking Sam if he was hurt. He shook his head and I helped him to his feet. Bouncing back like a rubber ball he gave me a heart-stopping smile, brushed himself down, adjusted his sunglasses and with an extravagant and very lewd thrusting of his pelvis, echoed Freddie's words about being a sex-machine.
“Come on, show queen.” I cut short the chorus, took his arm and towed him towards the exit.
Read the full chapter and preview the second on my website: http://www.fabianblackromance.com
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