My particularly deep and peaceful slumber was cut short by an almighty crash, accompanied by some choice curse words and then hysterical laughter. I don't even need to bother getting out of bed to know that once again my flatmate and former best friend has had one too many and is currently inadvertently destroying the place as he lurches around with all the co-ordination of a baby giraffe on ice. No prizes for guessing whose job it will be to clear up his trail of destruction in the morning. I don't even flinch when I hear another door slam shut, shortly followed by the inevitable retching as his body tries to rid itself of a rainbow of fluorescent fluids, nor at the unmistakable sound of his array of shampoos, conditioners, sprays, lotions and potions swiftly assuming their 'end of night' positions, at the bottom of the bath. I mentally add 'tidying the bathroom' to my list of jobs to do before work, although lately it seems it's on the list more often than not.
Once upon a time, I would have jumped up when I heard him come in, made sure he got upstairs without falling, steered him away from the tables, sofas, chairs and ornaments which, cruelly, seemed to jump out in front of him with no advance warning. I would have held his hair back as he vomited, helped him remove his make up and ridiculous boots, put him to bed. I would have kept a watch over him as he slept, fearful of him choking to death in the night. Not anymore though, no sir. I grew tired of the torrent of abuse from the smaller man as I tried to help him. At some point he had changed. Instead of being grateful for my help, he became spiteful and aggressive. He would sneer that I wasn't his father and so didn't need to look after him. Ironic, I thought, as he didn't actually know who his father was, having been brought up by his teenage mother, until he was 5 years old and became 'too much to handle' so was sent to live in a home. He would slam the bathroom door behind him, refuse to let me in, tell me I was pathetic, and then scream at me if he fell, blaming me for not being there. He was a stranger, a raging ball of anger and hate, seemingly blaming me for something that I had no idea about. And then, when he awoke, the anger would be gone, my little man would be back, vain, demanding, but ultimately sweet, and apparently with no recollection of the hurt he had caused. But Howard Moon will not be taken for a fool. So, in the end, I stopped bothering, pretended to be asleep when he came home, pretended not to notice when he didn't.
It's hard though. Pretending I don't hear. Trying not to wince as I hear him crash to the ground. I bite back lectures on safe drinking as I clear up the mess each morning, not wanting to reawaken his nasty night-time alterego. Recently I've found myself avoiding him. It's just easier that way. We have years of good memories, I don't want them to be tarnished by the behaviour of this 'new Vince'. Sounds pathetic, doesn't it? I'm supposed to be a man of action and here I am hiding away. So I've made up my mind, I'm moving out. I think it might be the only chance to save our friendship, if it's not already too late. Maybe there will be a time when his late night drunken rants are forgotten, the hurtful words forgiven, and I can look him in the face again. I've even found a place to move into. It's small but clean, a one-bedroomed flat a few streets from here. I think I could be happy there. Lester lives close by and without Vince around, I can play my jazz and work on my poetry whenever I like. Yes, I think that could be the place for me. Now all that's left to do is to put down the deposit and move in. I inherited some money last year when my Aunt Mabel died. Not much, but more than enough to cover the deposit, the first month's rent, and buy some furniture. I feel a little bit guilty spending it though. I had planned to use it to take Vince to Berlin for his birthday. He'd like Berlin, lots of clubs and bars and, of course, the Bowie connection. I'd even put the money in one of those high interest savings accounts that you have to give notice to take cash out of, just to make sure I didn't waste the money on anything else. Of course, right now the last thing I want to do is go away anywhere with him, so I've made an appointment with the bank to get my money out. Tomorrow, in fact. So I'd better get back to sleep.