Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

“I noticed them when you came in.”
Michael glanced down at the black Levi’s. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m breaking them in.”
“You dye them yourself?”
“No … no, they come that way.”
“Really?”
The upward lilt of his voice was almost Dickensian, and Michael enjoyed being reminded that a man who sounded like that could look like this. Up close, his full lips and broad nose seemed distinctly African, but his unlikely hair (lighter than Michael’s own, he noted) remained a mystery.
“Mine’s just the regular sort.” The kid hooked his thumbs proudly in the pockets of his 501’s. They seemed somewhat out of sync with the rest of his getup, but he looked pretty good in them just the same.
“You don’t see many of those,” Michael remarked. “Not around here.”
“Twenty pounds in Fulham Road. Worth every penny, if you ask me. You fancy this place, do you?”
“It’s … fine,” was all he could manage. The room looked like a pub, at least. Just the same, there was something almost poignant about pasty-faced Britishers trying to pull off a butch biker routine. They were simply the wrong breed for it. He was reminded of an English tourist who had all but lived in the back room at The Boot Camp, but had never uttered a single word. That man had come to grips with the truth: Phrases like “Suck that big, fat cock” and “Yeah, you want it, don’t you?” sounded just plain asinine when muttered with an Oxonian accent.
The kid gave the room a disparaging once-over. “They look like the dog’s lunch to me.”
Michael laughed. “I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not, mate, it’s not. What part of the States are you from?”
“San Francisco.”
“Well …” The kid rocked on his heels. “Poofters out the arse, eh?”
Michael smiled. “I guess you could say that.”
“The Queen went there, didn’t she?”
“Right.”
“Rained like bloody hell.”
“Still is,” Michael said, “as far as I know. Just like here.” Still rocking on his heels, the kid gave him a half-lidded smile. “So … what say we have a go?”
“Uh … what?”
“Have a go, mate.” He banged his pale palms together to show what he meant.
Michael chuckled. “Oh.”
“What say?”
“Thanks, but … I’m off the stuff for a while.”
“Don’t fancy wogs, eh?”
His directness seemed designed to throw Michael off balance. “Not at all. I just haven’t been very horny lately.”
“Well, what are you doin’ here, then?”
“Good question. Seeing the sights, I guess.”
“O.K., then … I’m one of ‘em. My name’s Wilfred.” He extended his hand as an enormous grin spread across his face like a sunrise.
Michael shook hands with him. “I’m Michael.”
For the next half hour, they remained side by side at the bar, but spoke very little. Meanwhile, the legions of would-be leatherettes grew shriller and smokier as rain sluiced noisily through the gutters outside the door.
“You didn’t bring a brolly, did you, mate?”
“Nope. Like a dummy.”
“C’mon, then. I did.”
It sounded like another invitation to “have a go,” so Michael took the easy way out. “Thanks. I think I’ll just hang out for a little while longer.”
“You’ll be sorry,” said Wilfred.
“Why?”
“Look at the time, mate.”
A clock advertising Dane Crisps said ten forty-five. “It’s almost closing time,” Wilfred pointed out. “It isn’t a pretty sight.”
“What do you mean?”
“They turn the lights up. If you think these blokes look grotty now, just you wait till eleven o’clock!”
Michael laughed. “A surefire way to empty the place.”
“They know what they’re doing.” The kid grinned. “In straight pubs they turn the lights down at closing time. Who says we’re just the same, eh? C’mon, now … what’s your next stop?”
“The tube station. I’m going home.”
“Super. So am I.” He took Michael’s arm and steered him through the crowd to the door, then opened his umbrella. “Here, c’mon … get under here, mate.”
Since Michael was at least four inches taller than his escort, he held the umbrella while Wilfred acted as navigator and guide, his right hand snugly planted in the right rear pocket of Michael’s 501’s.
“Princess Diana lived down the way a bit … back when she was a teacher. Think of that, eh? Passing all these leather blokes on her way to the bleedin’ kindergarten. Here! Mind the lorry!”
Michael jumped back onto the