A Lyceum Bootleg

A soaked bicycle courier propped his wet rear wheel against the kerb right below my collarbone to escape the downpour. His handlebar phone was buzzing with a tinny, distorted live bootleg of The Clash. I slid my shades down a fraction and called down, 'Strummer hit that chord with an open E at the Lyceum, you know.' The guy paused with one hand inside his waterproof pouch, glancing up and down the alley before his eyes locked onto my stencil. He gave a bewildered smirk, muttered something about London damp getting to his brain, and tapped the screen to nudge the volume up. We stood there sharing the fuzz through the drizzle.