Trip report - The Doc (part 1)

The Doc and I were drinking in The Cellar Bar one morning. It's the kind of joint you can go when you feel like a little bit of gritty urban edginess to spice things up. By 'edginess', I mean that its clientele is primarily made up of hookers, pimps, drug dealers, alcoholics, off-duty cops and other such pillars of society. It never closes. The windows are blanked out with black masking tape, the toilets have last been cleaned around the fall of the Berlin Wall and you don't look sideways at its habitues, especially the women. We like it and often frequent it after our lengthy poker sessions in the Macao, an underground poker room around the corner.

After dropping the guts of a thousand euro apiece to some kimchi-bespattered Korean chefs, we repaired to the Cellar for some necessary lubrication. It was 7.30am on a Friday and the place was packed as per usual. The Doc wormed his way to the bar and screamed an order at the tattooed and shaven-headed barman. Eventually he returned triumphantly to our seat with two pints of Guinness in his paws and two shot glasses protruding from his shirt pocket. He slammed the beverages on the table and then produced an envelope from the depths of his coat, looking furtively around him. Having satisfied himself that no-one was paying him undue attention, he extracted two large blue pills from the envelope and held one out to me.

"What the fuck is this?" was my somewhat intemperate response. The Doc sniggered. "Horse tranquilisers", he said, "wash 'em down with this tequila and you'll be flying baby." I eyed him doubtfully. I had experienced chemical adventures with The Doc before and was unsure if I was ready for a repeat session. Irritated by my reluctance, The Doc dropped his own pill in his shot glass, saluted me with it and downed the contents in one gulp. "Trust me", he said, leaning forward and fixing me with a sincere gaze, "I'm a doctor". The reassurance of a professional is a powerful force. I reached for my glass and put myself outside its contents. I chased down the evil mixture with half a pint of Guinness, sat back and waited for the Doc's concoction to do its work.

"How long have we got Doc?" I queried, idly watching a gaggle of shrieking drag queens at the bar. He assumed a medical demeanour. "I'd say about one hour. My advice to you is to consume as much liquids as you can now. You're going to need it". I took this on board, The Doc may be a crazed pill-popper but you don't wilfully ignore the advice of your personal physican. I lurched to the bar, shoving through the drag queens. I noticed that I was already starting to perspire heavily. "Give me twelve pints of Guinness, two bottles of Bushmills and a box of Romeo y Juliettas" I demanded. The barman didn't blink an eyelid. "I'll drop 'em over to you" he said. Money exchanged hands and I was free to return to my seat.

The booze arrived shortly after and The Doc and I set to work. We each sparked up a fat cigar and set to work on rehydrating ourselves with the pints. The whiskey was retained in case of emergency. Appropriately enough, the background music was courtesy of The Pogues. Shane McGowan's early work flittered through my brain, further destabilising its fragile balance. The phrase 'the drugged up psychos with death in their eyes' struck a deep chord with me. I looked over at The Doc and suddenly felt myself floating free of my body, my brain exploding like a shower of liquid sparks. The next twelve hours are somewhat of a hazy memory.

I awoke with my head resting in a pool of liquid. Upon further investigation, it transpired to be Bushmills. I sat up and immediately bumped my head off the table that I was lying under. This caused shock waves of excruciating pain to shoot through my cranium. Working on the scientific theory of displacement (The Doc had long ago convinced me of its efficacy), I smashed my knee off the table leg. The resulting pain cleared my head for long enough to note that The Doc was lying face down across from me. I kicked him in the arse. He didn't stir. "Good", I thought, "hopefully the crazy bastard is dead". This momentary hope was dispelled as he rolled over onto his back and began gulping for air.

Once he had recovered his composure, he sat upright and looked about him owlishly. He registered my presence and gave an oddly formal nod of the head. Ever a man for dealing with the necessities of life, he located his bottle of Bushmills, raised it to his lips and drank off about half a pints worth. Apparently revived by this, a broad grin spread across his features. "Some trip eh?" he said. "I wouldn't know", I truthfully responded. He giggled, "I'll tell you all about it later. Now is time for poker".

I looked at him in disbelief. "Doc", I said, "where exactly did you obtain your medical degree?" The Doc smiled. "I studied overseas for many years, in many institutes of higher learning". I was starting to suspect that 'higher' might be more accurate than he let on. "My final qualification was in Advanced Pharmacology. I studied this in Amsterdam for over five years but my research was very practically orientated". "Kindly explain what the fuck you are talking about", I said, in as acidic a tone as I could muster. The Doc looked embarrassed for the first time that I could ever recall. "Er, I mixed batches of acid and ecstacy in a warehouse", he eventually admitted. We sat in silence for a while as I digested this information.

I wasn't suprised that The Doc was a phoney. Hell, who isn't? In any case, it wouldn't do any harm to let him stew for a while. We both sat on the floor of The Cellar for a while, meditating silently and consuming slugs of whiskey. After some time, I glanced over at The Doc. He was smiling in the direction of a couple of mini-skirted hookers at the bar. "You said something about poker?" I queried. His smile broadened. "We are indeed going to play poker" he stated, "but we are not going to play poker as it has ever been played before". He pulled a sheet of what looked like cardboard squares from his pocket. "Oh Jesus", I said. "We won't be needing him", replied The Doc, "I got this recently from an old colleague in Amsterdam and my professional opinion on it is that it's pure gold. Two tabs and you'll be playing poker like a cross between Stuey Ungar and Johnny Moss. You'll be able to read every player like an open book, you'll play like a god".

I stared at his outstretched hand, the two tabs of acid profferred to me. My bankroll had got dangerously low over the last two months (coinciding with the arrival of The Doc into my life) and it was in urgent need of revival. "Fuck it", I said, "what harm can it do?" I reached for the tabs, swallowed them down and chased them with a mouthful of Bushmills. The Doc did likewise. We both rearranged our limbs and manoevured ourselves to a standing position. I looked him in the eye.

"Doc", I said, "let's go play poker".

(to be continued)

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