Glasgow Mornings

[Enkil]

Short, incomplete, slightly fictionalized memoire of my time spent in Scotland.

The morning sun, a few degrees from Arctic north, breaks through the frosty-dew glazed panes. The flat is cold. Just another Glasgow morning. First thing’s first: the tradition of our days. A cup of home brewed loose-leaf tea, a rollie, well, maybe a few (add a joint on Saturdays,) and a TV show on the computer. Then dressed at 10, out the door by 10:30, bored in class by 11. At 12 comes the time for lunch at the QMU, that’s Queen Margert Union to those not in the know – and a pint if the weather is miserable.

“Bloody American!” My moniker in Glasgow days. Europeans, so uppity about Iraq, about Bush, always taking it out on me as if I was America. I don’t blame them though, they’re just scared of a shrinking world. Besides, it’s popular to hate America these days. I often point out, however, that European soil and European hands are just as blood stained and soaked, and I list off European conquests. Spain’s inquisition, Napoleon, Britain’s bloody empire, and the Germans flee the room when the hear my blitzkrieg storming forth, a sound to familiar for their liking.
But then I smile, and reassure them that not all is lost. All the world has been soaked in blood in countless turns, and now it is Americas turn. We are a young empire after all. Hate all they want, I won’t let them forget their countries pasts so easily.

Knock, knock. “Who’s there?” Comes broken English in a Glasgow-Polish accent surprisingly easy to understand. “Police!” I call in the voice of an Alabama sherrif, “I heard you were selling some reefer boy. Open up!” I grin the grin of grins. The voice from behind the door grows agitated, “Don’t say that shit so loud, man.” An annoyed laugh follows and the door swings open. Hands get shaken, a joint is passed, rolled with skunk rappers have tried and failed to get. Good stuff, but dangerous. Techno beats in the living room. The whole flat stinks of bud and stale British cigarettes. Two joints and 30 minutes later scents from a Polish kitchen start wafting through the air, cleaning up the illicit smell. If only for an hour.