I really couldn’t fathom, looking back, how I hadn’t realised The DJ was a walking hive of scabies.
So, so obvious.
Just his incessant scratching, doing laundry at all hours - it was quite clear, now, you know? So clear, in fact, I could see it in my very own skin. And, I could see it presently, in my glum reflection, in the concave glass of the front-loaded industrial washer of this Lambeth launderette.
I'd packed up anything I’d worn in the last four months and all my bed linen, and decamped to this storefront with streaky windows and powdered detergent caked on top of every machine. Better to just get this over with. And while I had three machines running I began a draft of a text on my phone.
‘Permethrin’
Stopping by the pharmacy, I put on a little skit about how I’d ‘gotten a text’ and that ‘I need some sort of cream, apparently?’
I showed the chemist the SMS I’d actually written to myself; that way I didn’t have to face the shame of blurting it out in front of other patrons.
I mean, really, there’s nothing to be ashamed of and it’s not a big deal. You slather on the cream, and in pretty much one application it’s over. I’d been through it once in LA, after my first car accident. And that was a whole other challenge. It’s one thing to have three slipped discs in your back. It’s another to get scabies from your physical therapy and try to apply Permethrin your every nook and cranny - with three slipped discs in your back.
Charlie had responded in typical fashion.
‘Only you gets an STD without even having sex, mate’.
Yeah, what was the cause? The furry bathmat we share? Was it my towel? Did Crackey use my towel? Actually, more likely one of his army of ‘houseguests’ had done so. God, I’m so stupid. I pulled all my belongings from the shower room, glancing down at my toothbrush, thinking unclean thoughts, and immediately binning it when I got back to my bedroom.
What a way to spend your day off.
And what a way to spend a dinner shift, in constant discomfort and flinching every time you thought someone was about to touch you. It’s not easy to transmit in casual contact, but your mind does go paranoid, particularly when combined with constant irritation and involuntary twitches and starts - the pinnacle of which was Jean walking up to me at the beginning of the dinner service and saying. ‘Paul, I hear you’re very good with the POS system and I’m truly hopeless. Could you help me with a few things?’
Hannah’s warning from a few weeks back echoed loudly in my head.
Who told Jean I was fluent on the system??
‘Now, how do I bring up the running sales of the floor, food vs beverage?’
This was a cheeky question considering I’m on the beverage team; one could posit she’s monitoring our contribution to profits. I clocked into manager functions and highlighted relevant tabs, then pressed ‘enter’. Jean then asked me a couple questions on what figures denoted gross profit vs. net, and after had a few more practical ones; voiding items, firing courses, etc.
‘Well thank you so very much for that, Mister! Very, very helpful’.
A smile started to creep into Jean’s face and she pulled at my stripey sailor shirt, removing a real or imagined piece of lint.
‘People are talking about you, Paul’.
I smiled my hospitality-honed best. ‘Are they?’
‘Oh yes. Lots of great feedback about you. I have a very distinct feeling you’re going somewhere here at Seedling’.
I raised my eyebrows, and was about to respond along the lines of ‘oh, that’s great to hear’ or ‘I appreciate that’ or ‘I want nothing to do long-term with the likes of Seedling’, but instead Jean did what she always does - gave a wink, tossed her hair, and strutted away without waiting for an answer.
The clack clack clack of her leather knee-highs echoed in my mind as I crawled into bed, my whole body tingling, not from Jean’s sensual touch but from the Permethrin sinking its way into my infested skin. Out in the hallway, beyond my giant stacks of laundry, I could hear The Geisha and the DJ chatting by the top of the stairs.
D.J.: Just gonna be a few friends, this time, I swear!
Geisha: Well, it’s fine by me but you might want to run it by Paul
D.J.: Who’s Paul?
Geisha: Our flatmate.
D.J.: You mean Derek?
Geisha: He’s Paul, I’m Derek!
D.J.: Duh, I know you’re Derek, but he’s Derek, too.
Geisha: No…
D.J.: Derek the dentist
Geisha: No, his name is ‘Paul’ and he’s a sommelier
D.J.: Oh.
I really need to look for a new flat.