Free Lucy's Launderette by Betsy Burke

couldn’t help but notice the paraphernalia. Paul caught me staring and said, “The lads like to do a little spliffing-up from time to time.” There was a contraption in the corner that was straight out of Alice in Wonderland. All it needed was a caterpillar.
    â€œSpliffing-up? That hookah’s bigger than me,” I said too loudly.
    He smiled. “C’mon,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me toward the living room.
    His four friends, “the real Bohemians,” were slouched around the dimly lit space and seemed intent on creating a thicker, smokier fug in the room. They all rolled their own from pouches of Drum tobacco. Two of them were seated on the floor, another on a sofa whose stuffing was popping out in several places, and the fourth was stretched full-length in the middle of the floor staring at the ceiling, fascinated. I heard the one on the sofa say to no one in particular, “Yeah, oi fink it’s super ven, really, fabulous, absolutely staggering, yeah, amazing ven, innit?”
    One of the floor sitters, a guy with black hair growing on every available part of his face, noticed Paul and leapt to his feet. “Corrr, Bleeker you ol’ git, where’ya been?” His beady black eyes did a quick tour of my body. “Corrr, ooo’s the bi’a crumpet?”
    I tried not to let it get to me. Nobody was calling me anything edible these days so I tried to take crumpet as a compliment.
    â€œBloody good crack, it is, seein’ you, you ol’ wanka,” said the man on the sofa. He was a superannuated hippy, fiftyish, thin droopy features and long reddish-gray hair, much like an Irish setter’s. He got up, came over and gave Paul one of those self-conscious cool-guy hugs.
    At that point, the others all followed suit, including the prone ceiling-gazer. I had to listen to a lot of corr and blimey and fooching roights and poxy thises and thats before I realized that these guys were part of Paul’s old East Sheen group. It accounted for the garbage dump out the back. Since I had so much trouble following their accents—one was from Liverpool, another from Edinburgh, and the remaining two from “Souf’ London”—I sat back and pretended to drink from the bottle of Guinness that was offered to me.
    I think the conversation turned to art, but I can’t be sure. There was a long argument that seemed to be about belly-button lint as a medium, and then the topic turned to jelly. Jellied everything. As an art form. Using enormous life-size moulds. Beef broth jellied into the shape of a cow, for example.
    At the jelly part, I was finally able to cut through the accents and follow the drift. I saw my chance and leapt in with “aspic?” Unfortunately, it was misinterpreted, and there were a lot of lewd comments and guffaws, so I shrank back into my corner of the floor and kept my mouth shut for the rest of the evening. Who would have thought that suffering for one’s art could take such an unusual direction?
    It was Paul’s success that rescued us. As I’ve mentioned, he was a very busy man. He suddenly looked at his watch, saidquick goodbyes all round and hustled me out of the house, this time through the front door.
    When we were in his van, he said, “Amazing blokes, eh, luv?”
    â€œAmazing,” I said flatly. My backside was numb from sitting on the cold floorboards, my stomach churning from the smoke and the sickly taste of the beer.
    â€œListen, Lucy luv, just a word. These chaps are not exactly living here legally so it might be best not to mention your meeting them.”
    â€œOh, okay. I see. I’m curious though. How do they keep body and soul together?”
    As if I didn’t know.
    â€œOh, they do a little of this, a little of that.” He stared straight ahead and drove faster.
    Â 
    Paul’s loft was in Gastown not far from Rogues’ Gallery, in a huge, old brick building. He