Johnny

 It was the smell of cigarette smoke. I think that's what woke me. That or the loud squawking of the nesting seagulls on the roof, piercing my ears. My eyelids struggled to open, glued together by sleep and last night's matted gloss I failed to remove. Finally peeling apart, the blurry, out-of-focus world began to form: mismatched furniture, potted plants, and an occupied futon. Still knackered, a lazy hand reached for my sunglasses, knocking the pill bottle to the floor. Yellow capsules spill everywhere.

“Shit.” My mouth feels dry, and that sickly metallic tang catches at the back of my throat.

Finding my glasses upturned between the lamp and a copy of H.P. Lovecraft's The Shadow Over Innsmouth, I slip them on. I yawn, stretching wide. My whole body aches. My neck is cricked, my back hunched, my fingers locked, and my toes tingling—not the pleasant tingle, but the dull one.

“Shit,” I repeat, cracking my knuckles. Instinctively, I light a cigarette and begin to smoke, huffing in the nicotine. “I need coffee.”

The still-smoking remnants of last night’s cigarette are smouldering in the ashtray as I stub out the orange and yellow stick. Blackened ends and curled-up rollers are lining the already hefty cinders. I am careful as I dab, not wanting to upset and overspill the contents—the last thing I needed this week was burning the carpet. That had happened in my last place thanks to one muppet who shall not be named to save their dignity, but was right now on my futon. 

Throwing off the blanket, I stand up, careful not to step on my meds as I cross the room to the snoring bundle that is Deano Delano, our drummer.

“Oi. Deano? Wakey wakey. Oi. Mate, wake up.” I shake and rock him, only to be met by a solitary middle finger.

“F’r fuck sake, John. Lemme sleep.”

“You know what day it is, divvent you?”

“The day ya let me sleep in?”

“That’s every day, you lazy wanker. Nah, it’s Pride, mate. Howay up and give us a kiss.”

“You can get one when I’m up and not before.”

“Fine. I’ll just kiss Veronica then.”

“Gan dee that then.”

Veronica Turner is draped over the arm of the sofa, still in her black fishnets and spiked denim jacket. Her dog leash and chains trail across the floor like kinky party streamers. 

“Mornin’, beautiful. Fancy a kiss to start Pride?”

“Divvent think I didn't hear you just now with Deano. You’re such a slut.”

“Love ya too.”

“Fine. I warn you now, something may have died in my mouth.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

I lean in and kiss her. She wraps her arms around my head, her fingers running through my hair. Her breath tastes of tomato, Worcestershire sauce, and egg.

The moment is spoiled by the sound of retching from the ensuite. I look over to see the door open. Eric "Ric" Werner has his head in the toilet bowl and, from the sounds of it, is puking up a lung.

“Need me to hold your hair?”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that a…?”

“Get over here and hold my hair if you’re offering.”

I obey, giving Veronica a wink as I go. She rolled over to make herself more comfortable and smiled at the still-sleeping form of Georgiana Snow. Her chest rose and fell peacefully. 

We sit on the bathroom floor for the next twenty minutes. Ric is sick twice. I keep his hair away from his mouth and rub his naked back. His clothes, save for his black Hugo Boss briefs, lie in a pile inside the shower.

“God, that’s the last time I drink.”

“You said that last week.”

“Well, this is the last time.”

“’ K.”

“You divvent believe me?”

“Ain’t my place to say nor judge. I’m not the big man upstairs.”

“Hah. None of us are gan’ upstairs.”

“Then might as well make the most of it before we gan down. Speaking of going down—Happy Pride.”

“Happy Pride, John. Happy Pride.”

“Wanna give me a Pride kiss? Deano’s holding out on me.”

“I said I’d kiss ya later, ya clingy bastard,” Deano’s voice called groggily from the next room. From where we are, I can see he hasn’t moved; his voice is muffled slightly by the pillow.

“Have you seen Gazza?” I ask, gently tousling Ric’s damp hair.

“Out in the garden. I think he shot up. That’s what it looked like he was doing. Then again, I was too busy running in here to notice.”

“I owe him a Happy Pride, too.”

“What’s gotten into you this morning? You’re normally such a grumpy bastard. Now you’re … peppy.”

“No, I’m not.”

“No? Just yesterday, you yelled at the seagulls, and I quote, ‘Quiet down, you flying rats, or I will turn you into hat stands.’”

“Did I really say that?”

“Yes.”

“Hah.”

Ric smiled at me weakly.

“I like this softer side to you. You’re cute when you’re not a miserable sod.”

I get up, helping the shaky Ric to his feet. He leaned on me as we made our way slowly back to the living room. Deano is still face down on the futon, snoring softly. Veronica had taken over the couch completely, sprawled out and was already scrolling through her phone. The light from the screen cast an eerie glow on her face. She looked exhausted, her makeup smudged.

“Coffee, anyone?” I ask, heading towards the kitchenette.

“God, yes,” Veronica groaned, not looking up from her phone.

“Make it strong,” Ric added, collapsing onto my bed.

Starting up the coffee machine, the whirring and grinding are not welcome. In my state, clearly hungover from a night at the best Newcastle bars and clubs we could possibly afford, The End of the World, The Oblivion Bar and The Pain Factory, it sounded like a jackhammer boring through concrete. The smell of fresh coffee filled the small apartment. As I waited for the machine, I cleaned up the spilt pills, carefully picked up each capsule and returned them to the bottle. The last one I swallowed dryly, shuddering with disgust as I felt it slide down my throat. 

The coffee finished brewing, and I poured seven mugs, adding a generous amount of sugar to six of them. I hand the first mug to Veronica. The second goes to Ric, who immediately started sipping. His face was somewhat relaxed. 

"Hmm, so needed." 

I took my own mug and sat on the edge of the futon, nudging Deano with my foot. “Coffee’s ready.”

He grumbled incoherently but finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. He took the mug I offered him, and we all just sat there, sipping our coffee. 

“So, what’s the plan for today?” Veronica asked, breaking the silence.

“The parade starts at noon,” I said. “We’ve a couple of hours to get ready.”

“Think I’m gan to need all of it,” Ric mutters, looking down at himself. “Can I borrow some pants, mate? I didn’t pack any.”

“Bottom right.” I look over to Veronica and ask, “You still got your outfit ready?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wardrobe. Just need to not feel like death warmed over,” she replied. 

"What are you talking about? Death is beautiful." Georgina mused, examining her neck in the mirror. It is covered in love bites and bruises from where Veronica and I had been playing last night. "And also far more gentle than you both... So I hear." 

“Deano, you gan to join us today or sleep through it?” Veronica teased.

“I’ll be there, divvent worry,” he said, stretching and yawning. “Just need to wake up proper.”

"Eric, darling, have you seen my phone?" Ric's wife, Renee, emerged from the spare room where the two of them had been sharing. 

"You put it to charge by the TV."

"So I did. Thanks. Morning." 

 

We finished our coffee and began the slow process of getting ready. Veronica and Georgina disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up, while Ric, with the help of Renee, dug out his outfit from under the bed. I picked up my Bisexual Pride flag from where it was draped over a kitchen chair and started folding it carefully into a bandana.

 

As the morning wound on, the room began to get more and more festive. 

I put on my glam rock playlist, singing along into an empty kitchen roll tube. We played all the classics. Queen. Adam Lambert. David Bowie, T. Rex, Mott the Hoople.

Deano was at the sewing machine, adding the finishing touches to his outfit. Veronica was on the floor making placards. She had done four so far: “Fuck the Government,” “Pride is Forever, Not Just A Month,” “Trans Rights are Human Rights,” and “I put the HOMO in Homo Sapien.” Her hands were slick with glue and glitter. Renee applied Ric's eyeliner with a pencil, impatiently holding his head still as he nodded along to the track. 

Then, like the bad penny he was, Gary "Gazza" Falkner came stumbling in. He was stoned out his mind, the widest grin on his face.

“What’s all this then? Someone’s puked rainbows and glitter.”

“Happy Pride, mate.”

“Oh yeah. Happy Pride. I fuckin’ love you, mate.”

“Oi, Falkner, help me with these placards. We need seven,” Veronica called him over. Some of the glitter has splashed onto her face.

“Coming, love. Let me give ol' Johnnie boy a kiss first.”

He pecked me on the cheek before joining Veronica on the floor.

"Now what are you wantin'?"

"Here for All the Witches?" Renee called over her shoulder before returning her attention to Ric. "There you're done. Never again. You fidget too much." 

"Sorry, love." 

"Hmm." She kissed him on the lips. 

"I can get behind the Witches one."

"Then get making." 

"I'll give you both a hand." 

"Thanks, Renee, babes." 

By the time we were all ready to leave, the apartment looked like a vortex had passed through it. Clothes, card, paper, and glitter were strewn everywhere, and the air was thick with the scent of various perfumes and colognes. We did our final checks. 

“Yep, seven queers. Everyone’s here,” Eric said with a smirk, his arm wrapped around Renee's shoulder.

“Right, you horrible lot. Let’s get this party started.”