Cedric

Being Seventeen....
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((NON-FICTION))

I was playing pool with some blagger when this dark lad came in. He was short, stocky, and Cuban-looking, with cropped black hair on a round head. He spoke fair English with a French accent. When I potted the black he tried to grab the blagger’s cue but the blagger tried to blag him, saying it was the best of three. GIVE ME F**KING CUE OR I BREAK YOUR HEAD, Cedric said.

This was hardcore flophouse attitude. I liked him already. We would go to the local takeaway where he would order something that took yonks to prepare so he could chat up the young Chinese lady working there. I remember his food being stone cold by the time he eventually left her alone. I think she was as intrigued by him as I was.

He was brutally honest with people. He seemed to be anticipating challenges all the time. No one stepped up.

He showed me photos of himself posing by landmarks from various countries, including the top of the Statue of Liberty. He was a fearless roaming vagabond who was prepared to fight. A true lone wolf.

One day he came in with a packet of bacon. I thought he was ready to slap someone silly with it. We went to his room. He locked the door behind us. He sat on the bed and opened a portfolio. In it were erotic demons and beasts scribbled in pencil. Suddenly, I saw him in a different light.

Here’s the trick though. He opened another portfolio, but this was full of women from dirty magazines, carefully cut out and stuck together like jigsaw pieces. A zany collage of indecency. I’m telling, it was an absolute piece of art that must have took years in the making.

He gripped his crotch and howled, imitating an awesome orgasm. Then he opened his bacon and laid the rashers out in strips over his right hand. YOU GO NOW, ANDY, he said, making a w**king gesture.

I didn’t need asking twice! Fooking hell, Cedric!