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Childhood's End	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 735 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Childhood's End
- 1
Sometimes you need to just shake yourself and realize that it’s all happened. Your life, I mean. When you grow older, the rest of your life seems to have been a dream or like it wasn’t at all your own. I always wake up to reality when I see myself in the dressing room mirror or when my wife rouses me in our posh hotel suite. I look back on this Roger bloke’s life and it doesn’t seem possible. I keep thinking that I’ll wake up in my little Cambridge bedroom to my mother’s voice announcing that it’s time for school. I have fond memories of my old home and of all the people I used to know. I think that the only time in my life that seems real to me was my adolescence. Everything started going funny when I was twenty-two or so, save for a few little wake-up calls here and there.

Dave and I made peace in the summer, or as close to it as we could ever hope to get. Getting past the fallout that comes when you put a slow and unpleasant end to a fifteen year professional and personal relationship is nearly impossible. Especially for stubborn people like us. There are dozens of things that we continue to disagree over. Decisions made in the studio years ago, current world events, and most often, Syd’s departure. Dave blames me for that. I blame the four of us but over the years I’ve seemed to have lost my conviction. I think that Dave has the third party type of insight into the events of early ’68 that I don’t. He points out to me that I was the one who advocated most strongly for Syd’s removal from the band - and that’s true, only it’s taken me a terribly long time to acknowledge it. Dave is also the only person I’ve spoken to about the day I fired Syd. It wasn’t official, but it was essentially to tell him that he shouldn’t bother showing up at either gigs or the Abbey Road studio anymore. A polite sort of “fuck off”.

Naturally, Dave was the one who suggested that I should be the bearer of bad news that day. The others wholeheartedly agreed on the grounds that they didn’t feel like dealing with the silly bastard. But Dave had more significant and personal reasons for electing me; namely that Syd and I had been lovers and therefore probably had the best rapport. That wasn’t necessarily true but I agreed anyway, just to please him. I tend to be rather selfish but I can do amazing things for those I care most about.

Anyway, the last time we argued about Syd, he referred back to this incident, accusing me of being one of the big factors of our old friend’s descent. I obviously tried to defend myself but it seemed that we just kept going around in circles, always back to the same point we started at. I simply couldn’t win against Dave’s third-person logic. That evening, desperate to prove myself, I sat down to think of that day’s events, something I’d been blocking out since they’d happened. And it was all still there, fresh in my mind. I could still feel the cracks in the sidewalk under my periwinkle boots, smell the city. The dialogue was almost word-for-word. Even the tickle of Syd’s hair against my cheek was there. Slightly disturbed, I had to stop momentarily and fix myself a drink, mulling over whether I should continue my inquest or not. I ultimately decided that I had to, if only to face my demons. So I made myself comfortable, knocked back a couple more, and was deep in thought for the remainder of the evening. My unconscious could be likened to the floodgates.

//

On the way up the stairs to his flat, I passed a familiar young girl on her way down. She was quite pretty, an American of sixteen or seventeen with longish blonde hair, another in the succession of groupies who frequented Syd’s place. I suppressed a twinge of jealousy and stopped to ask her how he was doing today. She just shrugged and pushed her big, dark glasses over red-rimmed eyes.

“I don’t know. He’s in one of those moods again, where he gets all depressed, you know? Didn’t even want to have a smoke with me or anything.”

“That bad, eh?”

“He’s straight as hell, too. I don’t think I’ve ever been around him when he was straight. Anyway,” She tucked her hair back behind her ears and smiled. “I gotta run. Tell Syd I hope he feels better.”

“Right, I will.”

“Take care.” She went on her way past me and I sighed, bracing myself for the news I’d be breaking to moody Syd. Oh well. At least I knew that what I had to say would register with him. I reached the door and pushed it open without knocking. No one ever knocked at Syd’s place. There were simply too many people coming and going all the time that there wasn’t any point in bothering. I called ‘hello’ into the darkness and received no reply, but I could sense that he was there. He had these thick curtains and blankets that he liked to hang over the windows to block out the sunlight. Scarcely anything could penetrate them and I must say that if he did anything right in this place, it was stifling the beautiful natural light.

“Well, the lads and I talked and we decided that I’d be the one to tell you about the new arrangements.”

Syd’s eyes remained glued to the wall behind my head, seeming to stare right through me. They were tired but unblinking, rimmed with heavy, dark circles, and yet still so intense that it was all I could do not to turn away. I wondered whether he was even listening or not. I also wondered how long it had been since he’d had a full night’s sleep. The rest of him slumped on a sagging portion of his mattress, unclad and unashamed with a pack of cigarettes clutched in his hands. He kneaded it and the cellophane crinkled loudly in the sparse room so as to add to the awkwardness of the atmosphere.

I was seated on the floor opposite, legs folded Indian style. It was littered with rubbish; cans and bottles, papers and china, so that earlier I had to clear a vaguely tidy space for myself to sit in. The whole flat smelled like a mixture of sex, cigarettes, and unwashed clothes…thank God they were scattered about and not on Syd’s body anyway. It was all a bit overwhelming but I persevered. After all, I had a message to deliver and the sooner I did it, the sooner I could leave this place and get away from my old friend’s ghost.

I had to note that for once, there were no guests. It was quite a rare occurrence when Syd was alone lately and funnily enough, coincided with those rare moments when he was actually sober. Of course, even when he was sober, he’d have these funny turns. That’s what worried me, when he changed unexpectedly even in his most normal of moods. His occasional penchant for violent tantrums was becoming legend among his circle of friends and I must admit that, even with my physical advantage over him, the thought of an angry Syd was not at all pleasant.

“And, em…” I continued, unsure. There was some semblance of a speech prepared in advance and I began to recite it. “In regard to your recent behavior at the shows, we’ve decided-”

“Do you think,” Syd exclaimed suddenly, making me jump at the sheer volume. “That I’m just a child and I’ve got no idea what’s going on?”

“I don’t think that at all…” I half-lied, nervously fingering the hem of my pants.

“Then why don’t you just get to the fucking point?” He tossed the cigarettes onto the bed and grimaced. “I’m sacked, I know.”

I think it was more of a territorial thing than true desire to continue going with the group. Syd hated this whole pop star thing and never wanted any part of it, save in the beginning. But I did, and Nick too. David was concerned mainly with being able to eat, but I had the feeling that he was interested in the affluence as well. Rick was already becoming disillusioned, though not really in the same way or the degree that Syd was.

Something that always made me jealous of him was his ability to simply drop something if he didn’t like it and move onto something else, only for the past year he hadn’t been allowed to do that; tethered to The Floyd and the image that he wanted so desperately to shed. He hated this idol worship, unlike the rest of us, because he was always such a warm, sociable person and enthusiastic about making new connections. In this environment it was impossible for him to do so, and though I honestly did believe that he’d gone off his nut, I thought that much of what he did were protests against this lifestyle.

And now Dave had moved in on his territory. As much as Syd hated the mundane routine of interviews and television shows, The Pink Floyd was still his child. In retrospect, it really wasn’t at all fair to make him leave but we were all aware that he was manning a sinking ship, one which we were all being dragged down with. Changes had to be made and first and foremost, Syd had to go.

Ashamedly, no one was terribly sad about it. He’d become exasperating to work with and by now, unbearable. Skiving on recording sessions for their new record, mucking up live shows, being generally rude to the rest of us when he wasn’t high. Peter and Andrew weren’t helping matters either: building up his ego by insisting that everything he did was just fantastic and allowing him to continue this erratic behavior. Just how much more patience could we extend?

He was silent for a few moments, appearing to be deep in concentration before a bitter, half-smirk spread across his face.

“I’ll bet you’re fucking him.” he said flatly and in obvious reference to Dave. I rolled my eyes, convincingly I hoped, and shook my head.

“Now that is ridiculous.”

“You think so?”

“You’ve been in this flat too long. You ought to open a window or something.”

“Don’t change the subject.” He warned, suddenly very serious.

“I’ll do it for you, shall I?” I stood and he glared daggers at me as I passed by.

“Whore.”

I pushed the heavy, musty curtains aside to allow some light in and the difference was incredible; at least the filth was now illuminated. Syd groaned like a child and curled up to shield himself from the evil sunshine.

“Christ,” he moaned. “You’re a whore and a sadist…”

“Do you have any idea how dusty these things are?” I wiped my hands disgustedly on the front of my trousers. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the window was rusted shut by now.”

“Don’t open it. It’s the middle of bloody February.” I ignored him and was thankfully able to push it open with ease, fresh air hitting me like a rush of cool water. “Have you listened to anything I’ve said at all?”

“I think I heard ‘whore’ a couple times and some general complaints.” I took my seat across from him again. “But we’re probably getting off-topic, don’t you think?”

“You ignored everything I said.” Difficult as it was, I resisted the urge to find his sulky little pout cute.

“Because you were acting like a stupid twat. Do you think I should have to listen to you whining and insulting me? And I’m not even going to say anything more about that Dave comment, ‘cause that’s just pure paranoia on your part.”

“I don’t know why you’re so ashamed about it. It’s not like I have any say over what you put in your mouth-”

“Right! I’m not about to sit here and listen to you make these-” I sputtered and tried in vain to remain calm. “These rude fucking accusations about my personal life!”

“Getting a bit defensive, aren’t we, darling?”

“And regardless of who I’m with at the moment, it’s none of your business. I don’t go messing about in your love life, do I?” He didn’t respond and I sighed in annoyance, sprawling back on my hands. “This,” I gestured at the imaginary battle line between us. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. This is why we can’t work together. One of many reasons.”

“I’m still perfectly capable of playing music. In fact, I play great music. I could be the next John-fucking-Lennon if I wanted to, you know.”

“Oh, come on! This is the most coherent you’ve been for months. And anyway, you’re still acting a right arse. I don’t know whether I like you better when you’re in orbit and totally cut off from reality or when you’re in complete-and-utter-bastard mode. Either way you contribute fuck-all to the group.”

“Regardless, it’s still my group!”

“We voted and the decision was unanimous.”

“And I think you were the ringleader…” he sneered. “You’ve always been an underhanded little shit, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been as good a friend as I could under the circumstances!”

“Do you know what it’s like to be sitting in a room with all of your friends,” he spat that word. “And they’re all talking about you like you’re not there?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that you all think that just because I like to take a few hits every now and then-”

“Or start every day off with some blue sunshine,” I muttered.

“-that I’m entirely gone or I can’t work or whatever. That’s just not true. You’re all so bloody uptight…and why is it that when Dave has a joint-”

“Syd!”

“Okay…why is it that when anyone else has a joint, you don’t piss and moan about it?”

“Because everyone else knows their limits. I mean, they know how much they can smoke and still be able to work.”

“Fine. I’ll swear off acid while I’m working. And it’s bloody huge sacrifice for me, that.”

“But Syd, even when you’re not out of your mind on something, you still act very odd.”

“I don’t!” I suppose he wouldn’t have realized that he’d been acting strange. After all, how many madmen out there actually understand why they’re supposedly mad?

“I’m not about to start another row over whether or not you’ve gone funny.”

“I’ll admit that I’ve done a few things that probably aren’t very normal. I guess I’ve been a bit moody too…” His face softened very much and I could just tell that any moment now he was going to say those dreaded words again. “But I’m still here, Rog. I mean, I know I act a bit wonky sometimes, but it’s still me…”

“You’ve been acting more than a bit wonky. In fact, you’ve been acting awfully wonky. And, you know, this isn’t a personal matter for me; it’s business. If you can’t contribute anything to the band, then-”

“I still love you.” Ah, there it was. He was so quiet and pleading about it, and with a distinct undercurrent of embarrassment.

“Now you’re changing the subject.”

I felt bad. Syd was still important to me, still attractive, but I’d put an end to “us” over a year ago. I couldn’t deal with the instability of a relationship with him anymore and so what could I do? Lie about it? That wasn’t fair to either of us. The truth hurt him, I know, but the only way Syd would take the point was if you were firm and direct. Otherwise he’d consider you a conquest and hound you until he’d gotten his way. I hadn’t the patience to ward off his advances like that anymore.

“Bloody hell, Syd, it’s time you moved on.” It must have been the tenth time I’d suggested it. “It’s been a year now. I mean, we had a good run while it lasted, but I’ve already explained myself to you. Anyway, there are plenty of other people out there you could be with.”

“I’ve been with ‘plenty of other people’ and I don’t give a toss about them.” He scooted off the edge of the mattress so that he knelt before me and forced a little smile. “I want to be with you.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.” I turned my face away but he leaned in, resting his chin on my shoulder. The intense smell of cannabis stung my nostrils but it was somehow alright under the circumstances. A kind of homey scent, I supposed. “No. I mean it, Syd.”

“What if we just, you know, made it? That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? No real commitment there, right?” He kissed the side of my head gently and wound an arm about my shoulder. “You can’t tell me that you don’t at least miss the sex. I think we worked awfully well together there.”

“Ah, I’ll give you that much.” I admitted and turned to smile at him. I made a mistake in doing so because he was staring at me with a familiar look, all of his emotion conveyed in those beautiful, tired eyes. Christ, they were gorgeous…frozen, I barely reacted when he brushed his lips experimentally against my own.

“How about we just…pretend that we’re still together, eh, Rog?” He nipped at my chin and I pulled away without much enthusiasm. “You know, friends do favors like that for each other. And we’re still friends, right?”

I gave him a very serious look and, a bit of the old Syd shining through, he grinned and pulled a silly face to mock me. I couldn’t help but crack a smile again and allow him to tweak my nose, something that he’d always done to make fun of its size. It didn’t bother me because even at his most mean-spirited taunting, Syd had always managed to remain utterly lovable. I had to admit that I missed these stupid gestures, as little as they’d mean to anyone else.

“It’s been awhile since you di-”

He interrupted me with a very keen kiss on the lips and against my better judgment, I remained still and compliant. When he pulled back a moment later, I found myself leaning in after him, unsatisfied with the small taste I’d been given. I knew he’d feel full of himself but I didn’t care. I missed Syd’s kisses. I missed their deepness and intensity, the way he teased me with them, the little bites he gave. He just looked at me knowingly, no need to say anything in order to gloat over his victory.

“Fucking come here…” I took hold of his messy hair and pulled him close again, assaulting his lips with more force than was necessary. He moaned into my mouth contentedly and slipped his arms ‘round my waist to pull me close to his slender body. It felt so nice…I’d forgotten just how lovely and warm Syd’s body felt pressed against my own. We’d always fit together so well. He nudged me away and I took my cue, leaning back and shifting my legs apart to accommodate him. A familiar hardness pressed against my thigh made me smile internally. That felt homey too.

“Looks like I’ve ended up down here again.” I murmured, reaching up to brush his hair back. It was unwashed but nice to touch anyway. Another thing I never minded was dirty Syd-hair; he reminded me of an overgrown shaggy dog. Of course Syd could pull off some of the sloppiest of looks and still remain quite beautiful. “I seem to recall this happening the last time.”

“Well, you look nice on the floor. The rubbish suits you.”

I tugged at his hair playfully and pulled him down for another kiss, biting hungrily at his bottom lip. It was warm, so very warm and comfortable. I reflected on all the awful things I’d said about him in the months prior and instantly took all of them back. This was the sweet, teasing-but-good-natured, animated Syd that I’d always known. I felt him vibrate with laughter against me and eyed him questioningly. Grinning, he pulled back and told me that the last thing I’d eaten must have been curry.

“It’s the Guess the Contents of Roger’s Mouth game!” He laughed. “I bet I could make a dirty joke about that one, eh?”

“Oh, piss off!” I feigned annoyance and pushed half-heartedly at his shoulders.

“So did I win?”

“If you must know, then yes, it was curry.”

“And how about my prize?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Pudding? All expenses paid trip to the Isle of Wight?”

“You cheap bastard!”

“Tell you what, I’ll let the contestant decide what he wants.”

He looked to be in deep mock thought for a moment and though I tried to keep a straight face, it was impossible to keep from breaking up when he pulled faces.

“Then I’d like to have the privilege of giving you a jolly good rogering, Rog old boy!” I burst out laughing.

“That’s the hundredth time you’ve used that one and it never gets you anywhere!”

“I find that hard to believe.” He sighed and looked regretful. “Well, I suppose that means I’ll just have to do it the old-fashioned way and believe me, that’s not pretty.”

“And what might the old-fashioned way be?” My question was answered in the most blatant way possible when Syd pulled my hips up to meet his own and made some awfully suggestive movements. At that moment, all the blood seemed to have drained straight from my head and down between my legs instead. “Nn, you gorgeous bastard…”

We were quite unrestrained that day, but it was relaxed and candid. Ideal Saturday afternoon sex. The sunlight streaming in from the window played against his skin and hair brilliantly. Syd always looked wonderful when he was lit up by the sun, very much in his element. And my favorite part of the day was his lovely moaning. He had this melodic, low moan that held the same hypnotic qualities of a chant. I think I could’ve listened to it for ages and not grown tired of it.

When we finished, he slumped exhaustedly on top of me, his heavy breath in my ear washing over me like a narcotic. For just a little bit, an hour perhaps, I felt completely at peace. My Syd was back just as before and that was the only thing in the world that mattered. I needn’t ever leave this floor. And in my temporary state of elation, I allowed my head loll to the side and catch sight of something glinting beside me in the light. As it came into focus, the glint revealed itself to be a small glass vial, the likes of which Syd always carried around in his pocket. It contained a few familiar pills imprinted with ‘Mx’ and I felt my heart sink indefinitely. Mandrax.

This was the entire reason for my visit, I remembered, Syd’s drug problem and its effect on his increasingly fragile mind and in turn, the band. He seemed normal enough now, yes, but what about after I left? All of his friends would come back and he’d slip right back into the loop, wouldn’t he? Oh God, what if I was right? I was right, I knew I was. He would just go straight back to wasting his perfect mind and body.

“Syd?”

“Hm?” He raised his head and looked at me through sleepy eyes.

“Are you having anyone over tonight?”

“Yeah, a few people. Why?”

“Tell them not to come.” I begged.

“We having a night in then?”

“No. I just don’t want you to have anyone over tonight.”

“What are you playing at?” The realization suddenly dawned on his face. “Oh…this is about the drug thing, isn’t it? You think my friends are a bad influence, don’t you? Well look, Rog, you’re not my mum. I can take care of myself.” Then he gave me a little kiss and laid his head on my shoulder. “You’re always so worried about everything…”

“That’s because I’m the responsible one. It’s my job to worry.”

“Mmm, that’s true. But really, you don’t need to hold my hand all the time. And you know, I think you ought to take a trip with me. Lose control for a bit. That might do you a world of good, Rog.”

“I’ve already told you-”

“I’ve got some tabs. They’re nice ‘cause they just dissolve on your tongue. I really think you’d dig it.” A big yawn. “You’d be so much more fun if you turned on. You’d be so much fun while you turned on…”

Well, that was no shock. Syd thought the whole world would be a much more fun place if it turned on. Stupid bastard, I thought. Stupid, ignorant bastard. And how dare he accuse me of never being able to lose control. I lost control plenty…no specific occasions I could think of, of course, but I was sure…oh Christ, his stupid bloody insight! Stupid, ignorant, clever bastard.

Then as I lie there, I thought of the new Syd again and my stomach turned, sick from the very idea of this unresponsive, oblivious creature. The thought of those empty eyes had a remarkable effect on my psyche and suddenly I hated him again. Suddenly the previously satisfying weight of his body on top of mine disgusted me. I was angry at myself for submitting to him and at him for instigating things. Then I thought of Dave, probably wondering where I’d been all this time, maybe even worrying. Well, it was Syd’s fault. All of it was Syd’s fault. How was I supposed to tell him ‘no’ after the way he manipulated me? How dare he…

I nudged at his chest and he looked up at me, obviously aware of the change in my demeanor.

“Rog?” He touched his fingers to my cheek. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter.” I muttered and he visibly winced at the cold tone. “I’ve got to get up.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to put my clothes back on.”

“I like you like this…” he attempted to nuzzle my neck and I pushed him away, much to his annoyance. “What the hell? Did I do something?”

“Could you please just get off?”

“No. I want to know what’s wrong.”

“I already told you nothing was wrong. I just need to get out of here.” That wasn’t a lie actually; I had a gig soon and I’d already be running late for the sound check if I didn’t leave right then.

“Did-I-do-something?” He repeated. My patience was running low and I began trying to wriggle out from underneath him. Syd would have none of this and stayed planted firmly in place, awaiting an explanation.

“I have a show, alright?”

“Ahh, a show, I see…” His face twisted into the same awful sneer and it became clear that he was about to slip back. “I guess you wouldn’t want to be late for that, would you? Not when he’s going to be there.”

“I told you to leave me alone about that…”

“Do you have plans afterward? Or a pre-show shag in the dressing room perhaps?”

“That’s it! Get the fuck off of me or I’ll throw you off!”

Much to my surprise, he obliged and slipped off to retreat to the other side of the room. Another pile of clothes lay there and he rummaged through them until he found a pair of worn denim trousers. Funny, I thought as I dressed. He hadn’t seemed at all self-conscious earlier. His eyes were cool and accusatory, watching me even as he returned to his mattress and collapsed there. They were making me uncomfortable again and I averted my gaze.

“Could you please stop staring at me like a fucking circus act?”

His look darkened and I could just sense a funny turn…I should have treaded more carefully but in my stupid arrogance I had to encourage him.

“Then why don’t you just get out? Run back to Dave and let him fuck you all better, eh, Rog?”

“Fair enough.” I was nonchalant and I knew that Syd couldn’t take that. If there was one thing he hated, it was not to be reacted to. He grabbed the plastic alarm clock from his nightstand and hurled it at my head, luckily missing by a hair and sending it clattering against the wall instead. I looked back at the fractured remains of the clock, then down at Syd, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. He was shaking with anger now and it would be a lie to say that I wasn’t just a bit frightened.

“What the fuck, Syd?!”

“Get out!” he screamed, rising to his knees. “Get out, get out, get out, get out!” He began to throw whatever was within reach; blankets, clothes, plates, records, books, and an ashtray full of old joints. All the while he repeated his mantra and I expertly dodged almost everything that came my way. The heavy ashtray got me in the shoulder and I cried out in pain, instinctively shielding the hurt area while a manual on transcendental meditation hit me in the side of the head rather hard. Suddenly I heard a sound like a choked cry and Syd shot up in a frenzy, grabbing me about the shoulders and burying his face in my neck.

“Oh God…oh God, I’m sorry, Rog.” He looked up at me tearfully. “I didn’t really want you to go. Let’s sit back down and talk, alright? Let’s talk about what I can do for the band.”

I attempted to shrug him off and shook my head resolutely. I hadn’t the time to sit and console Syd, especially after I’d just been assaulted by the contents of his floor. Anyway, I wasn’t too keen on these rapidly changing moods.

“I told you the decision already.” I said firmly. “Now I’ve got to go.”

He just held me tighter and tried to pull me back down to the floor, but I broke out of his grasp and began to search for my coat. Again he grabbed hold of me, this time my arm and started pulling me back as hard as he could.

“Please don’t go!”

“I’ve got a gig and I have to leave!” I was beginning to grow exasperated.

“I’ll change, Rog! I promise! I’ll flush all my mandies, all my pills! You can watch me while I do it-”

“Let go of me, Syd…”

“I still want to talk!” he insisted, though as he grew more hysterical, his grip slackened and I was able to free myself once more. “Roger, I still want to talk! I still want to talk! I still want to talk!”

Frustrated by this childlike outburst, I shoved him back toward the mattress and turned away again. His final stand came when he threw a glass at my back and missed the astoundingly easy shot. It splintered around my feet and I shook my head at this display, trying hard to block out the new noise coming from behind me. Syd was openly crying now, something that I’d never, ever heard him do. It was a pathetic sound, his gasping and sniffling, and in between he was still entreating me to stay with him.

“Please don’t leave me alone here…” he sobbed.

“Bye, Syd.” I turned back to look at him one last time and opened the door. It made him cry harder and slump deeper into the saggy mattress.

“I need someone to talk to,” he choked thin arms wrapped tight around his heaving chest. I’d walked out and quietly shut the door when I could hear his tone suddenly change from imploring to accusatory, probably audible throughout the whole of the building.

“You’re just like everyone else! You all leave me in the end…you always fucking LEAVE!”

One more dish crashed against the door and I moved briskly down the stairs incase he’d decide to pursue me. I doubted it. Syd hated to leave the cocoon of his flat.

//

That was where I stopped. I recalled going to Dave at whatever club we were playing that evening and sequestering him in the bathroom. I just dropped to my knees in front of him and made very quick work of his zip, desperate for something to cancel out the taste of Syd’s mouth. He had no objections at the time but afterward he asked with much concern what in the hell happened earlier. Eventually he managed to get it out of me. All the while I snarled about how Syd would never change, that he cared more for the drugs than he did for his friends (i.e. me), and a lot of what Dave now refers to as “rot”.

Looking back on all of this in my adulthood, which is to say almost forty years later, things are beginning to come to light. First and foremost that I behaved an utter twat. Being young, stupid, and pretentious, I cared more for my own advancement than my friend’s suffering, a trend that would continue for years to come. I was so deluded by my own dreams of stardom that I could only see him as an annoyance even when he was blatantly crying out for help. I think that we all did for a time, the guilt of which we have to live with now. We’ve had such amazing advances in psychology as of late but I somehow doubt Syd could be pinned with any label of illness. He wouldn’t allow it anyway, hating to be categorized and therefore restricted. And this brings me to my second revelation about that day.

Syd’s behavior then, the “tantrum” that I saw, was that of a frightened little boy. When you get right to the heart of the matter, Syd was just a child trapped in an adult body. He could never really grow up, only make-believe that he did. Unable to deal with the pressures and responsibilities of an adult life, he withdrew into his own little world, one which we, the grown-ups, have since been unable to penetrate. A different kind of self-delusion than mine, I suppose. He even lives in Cambridge now, his childhood home.

I think about our old life there so often that it seems like it happened only yesterday. From time to time I find that I need to remind myself of just how much time has passed since then. But I can still remember Syd at fourteen clearly as I remember what I ate for breakfast this morning: Beautiful and bubbly, extroverted, an ever-ready wit, eager, painting, fiddling with his guitar, warm and slightly-callused hands, mediator, friend, and first love. A jack of all trades, you might say. Everything that I could never be. That’s why I loved him, you know, because he was the opposite of everything I was.

I think that the only reason Syd continued to cling to me into adulthood was because I was one of the last remnants of Cambridge, a kind of living memory of childhood. I still marvel over the fact that he chose me, the awkward, spotty one, over someone more attractive like Dave. Syd remains beautiful to me. He’s old now, bald and overweight, a recluse who wants nothing to do with anyone from his old life. I’ve even heard that the mere mention of The Floyd shakes him. So does that mean that the mention of me would too?

I’ve written him dozens of letters, only one of which I’ve actually sent. That was early in the nineties, and it was an offer to simply drop in and say ‘hi’ while I was visiting some family in town for Christmas. I didn’t receive the reply until half a year later: a very worn sheet of paper, smudged with eraser marks. Scrawled in the top left hand corner was a simple ‘no’ and signed R.K. Barrett.

Once I’d even shown up at his front door. I hadn’t seen him since the rather well-publicized “Shine On” incident and I was dying to speak to him alone, assuming that he’d let me. I’d heard the stories of all of those turned away on a regular basis and was a little scared of being rejected myself. Inside I could hear the telly going, some dishes clattering, and I hesitated when raising my hand to knock. Just then the mailman came walking up the path and smiled at me while he pushed a few things through the letterbox. I panicked then and walked swiftly back to the car before Syd would be able to catch sight of me. Probably better off that way, I think, to leave the bugger alone with his little piece of domestic bliss.

The most important realization I’ve come to is simply this; friends and lovers are much too important to lose over your own petty issues. Pity how long it took me to figure that one out. And I’ll never know if anything could have been done for Syd had we supported him just a bit longer. It’s a characteristically vain thing for me to think of, but I wonder if I had stayed there with him that day, said ‘fuck off’ to the show instead of him, and just lain in his arms the rest of the night, would everything have worked out? Could I have coaxed him into rehab? Or gotten him to stick with psychiatric treatment?

Lately I’ve had this quaint little fantasy of reminding Syd that it’s already ten a.m. and time for his meds. We live in Cambridge together, in his mother’s house. He’s always messing about with his old Telecaster and cracking jokes about the most inane things imaginable. When we go out for walks, no one recognizes or bothers us because we are, after all, just like everyone else.
We’re always very excited when Dave drops by for a drink and so is he. We talk and laugh about The Floyd’s short lived success and speculate about whether or not we had a ghost of chance if we’d lasted into the 1970s. Syd, the optimist, thinks we would have been a great sensation.
We have a ton of cats running about the place so that all of our furniture is a bit hairy.
I cook dinner and inevitably ruin it, forcing us to send out for Indian again. Not that either of us cares anyway because we love curry.
We don’t really give a damn about one another’s grey hair (or lack thereof in Syd’s case) and slightly saggy midsections. We’re both fine the way we are. He calls us “seasoned to perfection, unlike your cooking, Rog”.
By the way, we’ve got no telly. Syd says that it rots your brain.
And each and every day is as unremarkable, yet brighter than the last. Euphoria is just a smile playing over his lips.

But I’d never tell anyone that.
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Childhood's End