The Life And Death Of Joe Rowley.
The funny thing is, I didn’t know Joe that well.
He was only an acquaintance really, a drinking acquaintance, not a close friend of mine by any stretch of the imagination. A ship that passed in the drink and drug soaked long dark night of my soul. So why was it that when I heard of his death, six thousand miles away, and more than a sober year or two after our last contact, that I was moved to tears? I cannot find a full explanation yet, it remains a teasing and tantalizing will o’ the wisp, dancing on the peripheral fringes of my consciousness. Perhaps in writing this and recounting the facts of the matter, I will be able to find some resolution, as I still get teary, some thirty years later, when I think of Joe, and the manner of his end.
I had moved from London, our English capital city, to Brighton, a small seaside holiday town about sixty miles South, with it’s more provincial ambience. Also, as a holiday resort, it possessed a subclass that derived much of it’s income from the periodic influx of tourists. These people ranged from those who provided legitimate services, such as board and lodging, a well known genera including such sub-species as seaside landladies and hotel workers, to the more exploitative, such as bargirls, and the downright predatory, such as pick-pockets and pimps. Graham Green in his novel Brighton Rock, gives his grim, gray, grainy portrait of these under classes, with their admixture of petty criminality, that populate this underside of Brighton society; and the sordid parabolas of fungal doom that constitute the nightblooming of their lives. Probably not so different from many towns whose income is in some large part derived from similar sources.
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