Just lately it started happening. Whenever I’m out at night, he turns up. He says his name is “Jimmy Dinamite”, and he is Japanese, with an afro, and always, always, huge sunglasses covering his face. Beneath the sunglasses he has bright white teeth - for he is always grinning - and a goatee beard. I have never seen his eyes.
Jimmy Dinamite works in all the clubs. Sometimes he will suddenly appear at the decks, ineptly DJing; but other times he is just around, either out in the street trying to get people in, or doing his strange dances among the crowd on the dancefloor.
Jimmy Dinamite only comes out at night. He sleeps all day in a squat somewhere in south London. He has few possessions, and little money, and he sells pills for two pounds a pop. When we are in the kebab shop at Camberwell Green, at five a.m., he asks the Turkish man how much kebab he will give him for two pounds.
Jimmy Dinamite knows everyone, and is everywhere, and has nothing. My friend Boris used to live in a squat with him, and says he used to work not in clubs, but as a salesman of vibrators and other sex toys.
He grins and laughs from behind his sunglasses. No, he hasn’t got any plans to go back to Japan.
I have never seen his eyes. I am afraid to see his eyes.
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