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22 December 2023
21 APR 92 - Machrihanish, The Kintyre Peninsula, Scotland
The single prop plane slides in on a 45-degree tilt, advancing patiently through the rain, wind, and the fog. Nothing but rocks, valleys, and green slopes are visible; no cities or houses to speak of. Touchdown.
I grab my bag and step off the plane out into the miasma, like a condottiere in a spaghetti Western; my leather coat, black jeans, a bashed-up pair of steel-toed boots, and a plain black t-shirt. The apocalyptical Walter Mitty.
In my bag: a notebook, pens, two dog-eared sci-fi paperbacks, my Walkman, and a stack of compilation tapes. There was more gear in the large, battered gunmetal case at my feet; the airport folks had asked me a lot of questions about who packed it.
“Welcome to bomb country,” they said. “Don’t fuck with us.”
My guide approaches me, a hangdog hell-kite covered in tattoos. Cowboy boots, a Harley shirt, and a down vest; eyes hidden behind a pair of Gargoyle’s. He thrusts out a mighty hand; gives mine a solid shake.
“This all your gear?” Just short, sharp, direct. Like a prison shiv. No fucking around. That’s fine. I disdain small talk. Besides, I haven’t eaten in awhile, and I feel like canned shit.
We climb into a large Dodge Ram truck, and go hauling ass down the road. The land goes on forever, deep green and surrounded on several sides by the walls of the valley. It looks like the opening sequence of M*A*S*H*. The road is empty except for us. It’s broad daylight out, and cold.
We get to the outpost, and I drop my gear in my room. It’s a phone booth with furniture; feng-shui for a masochistic midget; no room to move if so much as a cupboard door is opened. A door-length poster of a beautiful girl in thigh-high boots hangs over the bed. The walls are cracked and peeling.
Then we head out for a drink. We take a cab across the Kintyre to Campbeltown, a cross between Rod Serling’s ultimate vision of fear and small-town Mayberry. We sit ourselves at the end of the bar near the bend, and I busy myself with the ethology of the patrons. An hour passes, and I drink until I am good and goddamn convivial.
We shoot a little pool, the drinks keep coming, and soon I’m wearing a path to the bathroom. I sense a tremendous hangover in the mail. A loaded jukebox hangs on the wall, chock-full of Rod Stewart and Queen, the word "surreal" neatly defined.
I decline another round gracefully, and make my way toward fresh air while I’m still ambulatory. Gravitational time dilation settles in, the room is viewed through quantum foam. I feel cracks forming in my head; I am moving out of phase with my own body. The hands on my watch have stopped.
Inside again, I pass a lovely girl shooting pool; good English, firm grip. She knocks the eight ball in with a hammer crisp shot. I stop to chat, but she gives me a withering look, refusing to speak to me.
So I struck up a conversation with a young man at a table. Half-hour later, after I’d kicked gaping holes in his religious beliefs, he was on the verge of screaming tears, and had to be restrained by his friends from physically attacking me. I apologized, ducking an ashtray, and made good my escape.
I head outside for fresh air and my own self-preservation. Moving to the pier at the end of the street, I look out over the water, which blends seamlessly into the night sky, folding itself over and over in some wild mathematical equation for convex matter occupying a concave space. The wind whips my clothes something fierce, and I’m suddenly grateful for my heavy leather coat.
In the coming years, I would be completely oblivious to the L.A. riots, the Rodney King trial, and a now-infamous car chase involving a white Bronco and an ill-fitting glove. I was officially removed from reality. I looked down at my watch; it was ticking backwards.
I look up at the sky and see nothing but stars; the sky is so clear I can pick out the few constellations I know by heart. A satellite leaves a tiny silver trail overhead, and I watch it for some time. It is unbelievably quiet here, and very beautiful. I don’t remember ever getting home that night, but someone got me there and poured me into my rack; I had been in Scotland a total of four hours.
The single prop plane slides in on a 45-degree tilt, advancing patiently through the rain, wind, and the fog. Nothing but rocks, valleys, and green slopes are visible; no cities or houses to speak of. Touchdown.
I grab my bag and step off the plane out into the miasma, like a condottiere in a spaghetti Western; my leather coat, black jeans, a bashed-up pair of steel-toed boots, and a plain black t-shirt. The apocalyptical Walter Mitty.
In my bag: a notebook, pens, two dog-eared sci-fi paperbacks, my Walkman, and a stack of compilation tapes. There was more gear in the large, battered gunmetal case at my feet; the airport folks had asked me a lot of questions about who packed it.
“Welcome to bomb country,” they said. “Don’t fuck with us.”
My guide approaches me, a hangdog hell-kite covered in tattoos. Cowboy boots, a Harley shirt, and a down vest; eyes hidden behind a pair of Gargoyle’s. He thrusts out a mighty hand; gives mine a solid shake.
“This all your gear?” Just short, sharp, direct. Like a prison shiv. No fucking around. That’s fine. I disdain small talk. Besides, I haven’t eaten in awhile, and I feel like canned shit.
We climb into a large Dodge Ram truck, and go hauling ass down the road. The land goes on forever, deep green and surrounded on several sides by the walls of the valley. It looks like the opening sequence of M*A*S*H*. The road is empty except for us. It’s broad daylight out, and cold.
We get to the outpost, and I drop my gear in my room. It’s a phone booth with furniture; feng-shui for a masochistic midget; no room to move if so much as a cupboard door is opened. A door-length poster of a beautiful girl in thigh-high boots hangs over the bed. The walls are cracked and peeling.
Then we head out for a drink. We take a cab across the Kintyre to Campbeltown, a cross between Rod Serling’s ultimate vision of fear and small-town Mayberry. We sit ourselves at the end of the bar near the bend, and I busy myself with the ethology of the patrons. An hour passes, and I drink until I am good and goddamn convivial.
We shoot a little pool, the drinks keep coming, and soon I’m wearing a path to the bathroom. I sense a tremendous hangover in the mail. A loaded jukebox hangs on the wall, chock-full of Rod Stewart and Queen, the word "surreal" neatly defined.
I decline another round gracefully, and make my way toward fresh air while I’m still ambulatory. Gravitational time dilation settles in, the room is viewed through quantum foam. I feel cracks forming in my head; I am moving out of phase with my own body. The hands on my watch have stopped.
Inside again, I pass a lovely girl shooting pool; good English, firm grip. She knocks the eight ball in with a hammer crisp shot. I stop to chat, but she gives me a withering look, refusing to speak to me.
So I struck up a conversation with a young man at a table. Half-hour later, after I’d kicked gaping holes in his religious beliefs, he was on the verge of screaming tears, and had to be restrained by his friends from physically attacking me. I apologized, ducking an ashtray, and made good my escape.
I head outside for fresh air and my own self-preservation. Moving to the pier at the end of the street, I look out over the water, which blends seamlessly into the night sky, folding itself over and over in some wild mathematical equation for convex matter occupying a concave space. The wind whips my clothes something fierce, and I’m suddenly grateful for my heavy leather coat.
In the coming years, I would be completely oblivious to the L.A. riots, the Rodney King trial, and a now-infamous car chase involving a white Bronco and an ill-fitting glove. I was officially removed from reality. I looked down at my watch; it was ticking backwards.
I look up at the sky and see nothing but stars; the sky is so clear I can pick out the few constellations I know by heart. A satellite leaves a tiny silver trail overhead, and I watch it for some time. It is unbelievably quiet here, and very beautiful. I don’t remember ever getting home that night, but someone got me there and poured me into my rack; I had been in Scotland a total of four hours.
artid
1965
Old Image
6_5_arrival.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 05 (jan 2004)
section
pen_think