Barbies house

More story
 
Little legs noticed him first, hunched in the rain with a soggy piece of card, once a sign, now serving as a feeble umbrella.
“Poor sod, should we pick ‘im up?”
The underwhelming response, probably due to the thought of having a soaking steaming stranger sat next to them, was ignored and he was duly rescued, everyone recognising that inconvenient as it was they had all been in similar positions in the past.
Little legs pulled up and shouted out the window
“Wher ya goin?”
The figure looked confused
“Destination”
Jer shouted in a kind of Franglais with a touch of German
The figure beamed
“Zurich”
“Op in “ Little legs indicated
Again confusion
“Entre” Jer offered
“Thas wot I sed” Little legs said offended
Everyone shuffled up and the bedraggled stranger settled in smiling, softly steaming and giving big sighs of relief. A sigh is a sigh in any language.
Cigged up and given a can the band slowly and painfully extracted his story.
Emile was from Neuilly, a fancy suburb of Paris. His parents were teachers and his whole background, upbringing and early life was unremarkable. It was after graduating that he surprised everyone including himself by abandoning the plan to follow his parents into teaching and instead maxing out his two credit cards and hitching to Turkey. That was two years ago and since then he had carried on travelling reaching every corner of Europe looking for whatever it was that he was looking for...whatever that was. He knew what it wasn’t; teaching, family, bourgeois Parisian life, basically the trajectory of his parents but it was trickier establishing what it was. In his two years of travel he had discovered he enjoyed sex with Spanish women, weed and making sourdough bread. It was a start.... . It was incredible to him how long Barclaycard and Access continued to extend credit to him since he had not paid anything back for two years. He realised that eventually his cards would be blocked and he would be probably blacklisted for ever but until then despite the desperate exhortations of his family he would continue on his freewheeling way. So.. next destination Zurich with this strange set of English musicians who smelled a bit but were generous with their laughter weed and beer.  
At long last they arrived at the Swiss border.
“Not got anything you shouldn’t have on your person Emile have you?” Jer enquired
Emile looked puzzled
“No drugs?” Jer enunciated miming smoking and taking pills.
“Ah no, nothing” Emile replied making a zero sign with his hands
It was with mild irritation then that everyone was taken into the office, the van emptied and everyone strip searched. It was hardly uncommon but nonetheless surprising, the Swiss officials usually being fairer than most. A long conversation occurred between Emile and the chief border guard in German. An uncomfortable 15 minutes was spent looking at a table with a couple of half made roaches and an empty Anadin bottle. Eventually after checking against the carnet list all the gear in the van they were grudgingly waved through.
“Bastards, what triggered that?” said Jer
“Normally pretty sound in Switzerland” he added.
Border guards, in the Y’s and other bands experience, sat within a broad spectrum. At one end decent officials just doing their job to the other where paid criminals used the opportunity to cheat and steal from as many people as possible. Money, bottles of alcohol, all manner of bribes passed hands. Bands were constantly crisscrossing Europe and as they met information and tips were shared regarding the best and worst places to cross.  The Y never paid bribes for the simple reason that they rarely had any money or anything else to offer.
In the middle of the spectrum existed  a wide range of miserable bastards, jobs-worths who didn’t seek bribes but just enjoyed obstructing people in the most unhelpful and grudging way possible.
“Retournez a Londres” exhorted one such brim hatted moustached fool examining some tiny infringement on a carnet. It was of course with great satisfaction that the Y merely travelled a few miles sideways and crossed at an unmanned post further along the border.
 
Little legs reversed the van into a space exactly the width of the van requiring the pushing back of side mirrors and much shouting and conflicting advice. The large metal doors were closed and The Y were finally back in Rote Fabrik.
Rote Fabrik was originally an old red brick (hence the name) silk weaving mill. Squatted in the 70’s and used as a hub for youth activities it was, without consultation, set for conversion into an opera house in the early 80’s. Predictably riots ensued and a compromise was reached whereby it was converted but instead into a cultural centre housing artists spaces, a gallery restaurant and most importantly music venue. It was a glorious space and like the Villa Zuid and Christiana a must stop for all bands making their way around Europe.
Not that the band ever complained but often food, if it was provided, was usually on the basic but filling side, soups, stews, rice, lentil dishes etc. That could also happen at Rote Fabrik but sometimes incredible fare was produced like today: Sea Trout from Lake Lucerne stuffed with fennel and some amazing thing with cream and dates for afters.
“Don’t know what all the fuss is about” pronounced Brooksie looking at his empty plate
“You’re not supposed to eat all of it, just the ...   never mind” sighed Jer
“Shame Emile’s not here” noticed Steve
“Yeah he looked like he could do with a feed” added Brooksie belching
Emile had disappeared pretty soon after the band arrived, not remarkable in itself, but unusual as most people they picked up tended to stick around for food, beers and any other largesse provided by the venues they could scrounge.
The band busied themselves setting up, sound checking and generally mooching about the building chatting with interesting arty types, assorted punks and other outsiders who tended to gravitate towards Rote Fabrik in the evening.
Little legs missed Walter and wondered how he was getting on with Gina and Archaos. He was pleased for him, things had worked out unexpectedly well. He reflected on the workings of chance. Give it room, be open minded. Stuff happened. This world he had stumbled into seemed full of it, people swimming about in an ocean of possibilities washing up on new shores. Or was it just drift,  a case of not waving but drowning?
 He wasn’t sure and to be honest he felt a little out of his depth in this particular crowd. He missed Walters calming bulk but his own good natured ability to adapt and get along with everyone and anyone held him in good stead.
“Heard about Anarcho-syndicalism? No please tell me about it.....”
Eventually he found himself looking at something he did understand. He had drifted into the area housing artists studios and in one of the rooms spotted an Oxy Acetylene cutting torch. It was very old probably from the 50’s and looked exactly like the one his dad had taught him to use when he was a boy. He looked around and picked it up enjoying the feel and smell and the memories it evoked. He was so absorbed that he had to do a juggling act when a voice behind him said
“It has stopped working”
“Sorry I was just....
“It’s Ok, you know about welding?” said a woman with short cropped blonde hair, a round ruddy face and large tattooed arms. Little legs looked around the room noticing for the first time what the welder had been used for. A range of large curved shapes unmistakably labia like adorned the walls. He blushed furiously and looked intently at the mechanism. The problem was easily solved, a blocked vent. As the evening progressed and one thing led to another he found himself later in Agnethas bed reflecting again on the strange permutations of chance and also on how his welding diploma had finally come in useful.