The Pearly King 1

Heading into the centre of town where the main shopping area is, ambling along distractedly.
I have in my hand a flask of tea from which I am taking the occasional swig. I also have with me a short story written by a friend of mine. This friend of mine plays the guitar, and writes, now and then, the odd humorous anecdote-filled story. This one had been neatly printed-out and paper-clipped together. Its title was "The Pearly King".
Onwards I wander beside the busy road, engrossed in the story, flicking over the page to read on. Sipping the lukewarm tea. I should mention also that this friend of mine was perhaps partial to the occasional abuse of a substance, of which substances derived from the hemp plant formed the major part.
Now it seems this friend of mine had embarked upon a fictional narrative, inasmuch as the narrator of the story was not himself... but only some unexplained "I".
The narrator explained how one afternoon, many years ago, he had chanced to roam idly, as I was now doing, toward the centre of town. This I assumed being my friend's fictional creation. But who was the narrator? To that I could only answer: A third party, not my friend, not the author, not necessarily a fiction, but someone more lucid, clearer, less humorous than my friend. He was the un-named "I" channelled through my friend!
The narrative explained how he had wandered around the town, through its commercial centre, from shop to shop, mingling with crowds on the plazas, having not much direction or object. Let's say the fellow was in his 20's, for so he appears to my mind's eye. It was the autumn of the year 1975:
"Being at a loose end, I wandered through the streets, window-shopping, my mind distracted. In those days I divided my time between my girlfriend's house and the occasional trip to the local fleamarket, where plentiful bargains could be picked up, and which had something of a reputation as a converging-point for local characters. The sights I had seen there! I'd come down the road from my girlfriend's flat, having kissed her goodbye in the evening, and seek out the back alley entrance to the fleamarket.
Always a party atmosphere in that chaotic, warehouse-sized room! Always a sense of mystery! There'd be no-one to check you at the door, a mere glance at the patrons who had spilled onto the pavement, something exchanged between the eyes, was all that was required to gain entry. Still, you felt always the vibrant exclusivity and mystery of the place, the atmosphere of solemn comradeship, brewing like a lull before a great storm, like a gasp for breath before a violent fit of laughter..."