enemy

A man catches my eye. He's staring at me as I breeze by on bike down Brick Lane, mid-morning. I recognise him. It makes me smile.

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The Garage was a mongrel space. Half designer boutique, half discount warehouse, half fashion, half street, out of place on the King's Road but out of place anywhere.

Full of human flotsam. Iranian exiles: shoplifting wives and control freak former bourgeois under the Shah. A couple of giggly Italian girls who smiled and sighed. Gigi, the troll-faced beauty with his mariachi tresses, constantly bewailing a universe that had banished him to this hell. Until Saturday came around and he had a wodge in his pocket. Ros, the only one who got out and made it, used to smoke weed with Marvin Gaye. Tino, the gay Italian count. John, the Scottish pill-popper whose ex-wife was a film producer. Freddie and his crew, the street boys, who brought shotguns in to show off under their well-cut overcoats. And us, white middle class shirt sellers, exploring an aesthetic named dorian grey.

The boredom was intense. The fights were sometimes savage. There were stories of stalls which made thousands, made their owners rich. There were stalls which were dead even before they'd got their stock inside. There was music coming from at least 12 different angles. All there was to do was the quick Guardian crossword, the alert reaction if by some chance a punter came past, a bit of star-gazing (Kylie; Nigel Kennedy; Bros, our finest customers; that guy out of that band whose name you'll never remember; once, famously, Debbie Harry); and chat to your jetsam neighbours.

In the first few weeks, I tiptoed round, feeling out of place, finding my feet. Speaking to the odd neighbours. Sedley was a bit more gregarious, less inhibited than me. After all, he was a London lad.

Freddie had a corner stall. Corner stalls were prized. They had magic commercial properties. He was aloof. Gigi got on with him. We sort of nodded at each other. I thought I should make an effort. As was my style. I'd go and talk to him, clumsy conversations. About what he wanted to do, where he thought it was going. Freddie has a high pitched, squeaky voice. He never gave anything away. One day, he flipped. He told me to fuck off. He said I was spying on him. Got scared I was going to rip off his clothes, his ideas, his corner stall, his way of life? He told Gigi he'd kill me if I tried anything.

I backed off. Went and sat two stalls down. Freddie glared at me for a week. Gigi tried to intercede. Gigi didn't like men not getting on. There was enough trouble in the world with women, men needed to stay cool. Not that he did. It didn't make any difference. Freddie and I ignored one another. He'd talk to Sedley from time to time, and when his mates came down, they'd talk to me. His sister was a performance poet and we had a few chats about art and all that jazz. But Freddie and I were enemies, and the ice never thawed.

We were only there six months. Cleaned up at Xmas and then moved on to other dreams. I went back to the Garage in the New year and sold leather jackets for Gigi on odd days. Then that was it. A year or so later The Garage had gone. Now it's a Conran emporium.

I used to see Freddie around. At Portobello, Spitalfields, here and there. He carried on glaring at me, though he'd probably forgotten who I was. I didn't forget him. Never been too good at accruing enemies. Freddie was a sore thumb in the consciousness.

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Maybe he did remember me. Because it was him, glaring at me today in Brick Lane. Not with undue malevolence. Just that beady eyed look of his. Which made me smile.