I remember pissing in his face

I remember pissing in his face.

A drunk in some tunnel under the street, wrapped about his precious booze, and I washed the spittle from his mouth. And we left him there like that.

You hit the Cross in stages. It’s not really a hit; it’s more like a grope between the thighs, and you look somewhere else like you’re not really doing what you’re doing. You sort of get there by accident. Like jerking yourself off and suddenly it’s all over the place.

You got there by accident. Yeah! We had jerked our way into the Cross, spasmodically, venturing that little further as we got older. The past months were Teen Canteen months and the time was now. We were ready and that act in the tunnel told us so.

Spasmodic! How could I have pissed in the bloke’s fucking mouth?

William Street was not quite the Cross. A sort of drive-way if you like. But if you were coming from the city, you had to wind up William Street to get to the Cross. We never made it that early morning. We got as far as lee Gordon’s Sound Lounge.

Moment. Pivotal. Turning point. Turn the corner. Change your life. No turning back.