Every man desires to live long; but no man would be old.
-- ALIVE - The Final Evolution.
.
.
He's in footsie pajamas - the orange one - snug as a rug in his bed, and star of his very own spaghetti western, when something prods at his side. The last golden nugget eludes his grasp as the kingdom falls to bits and pieces.
He snorts, groans, then cracks open an eyelid, "Yeh?"
It is only when he registers the disheveled hair and watery eyes that realization dawns.
Her hands are trembling.
No words need to be said; he rolls over to make room.
She smiles gratefully, then wriggles beneath the covers.
"Thanks, Wally."
"Pft, whatever. Get to bed already."
Her hand snakes into his.
He holds firm.
-
It is only when her grip slackens that he allows himself to drift off. He wonders faintly, as sleep descends, whether she minded his clammy hands.
--
i.
When they are eleven they stand vigil at Chubbo II's grave: she digs deep the hatchet and he holds high the umbrella, unable to stop the rain.
(They spend the rest of the night by the couch, watching re-runs of those hamster cartoons and munching on rainbow munchies cereal.)
--
It is a musty summer, of the kind that suffocates slowly with long, lazy afternoons and cling-to-your-skin heat.
Its round the time he ditched the bowl-cut, when he's got the most god-awful and embarrassing braces. Where he's not quite a kid, not quite an adult, but already has one foot out the door, and there ain't much he can do but step out the rest of the way into the threshold and keep on walking.
He's out on the dirt field in the alone, kicking round a football, and sporting a massive cowlick the likes of which were impossible without the entire can of hair gel.
"Wallabee Beetles races down centre field! He kicks, he scores! And the crowd goes wild! "
(Cause, let's face it, some things just don't change with age.)
He pumps his fists into the air, takes off his sweat-stained orange tee and runs along the edge of the field: a showcase of victory. He is halfway back to retrieving the ball before he notices someone clapping, that, and the soft, though enthusiastic "Whooo!"
Picking up the ball, he slants his head in the direction of the noise and comes to face with a figure in a trademark green hoodie. From the rusty, beaten down swing, over the tip of her triple-scoop ice cream cone, she smiles up at him exposing, in shades of pink and green, rubber-banded braces.
He scoffs audibly and turns his head in the opposite direction before she can see the blush staining his cheeks.
By next he looks in her direction, the swing is uninhabited and she is gone.
-
Later, much later, he tries to piece together a picture, but can only pin down an over-sized green hoodie and wide, toothy grin.
He still wonders how she can stand the heat.
--
ii.
At twelve he breaks his leg pulling a ridiculous stunt involving guinea pigs, a fire extinguisher and a trolley. She paints on his cast a world of vibrant swirls and frolicking rainbow monkeys.
He fumes. "No rainbow-dorkies!"
(He makes a frantic grab for her markers, but fails and lands –squirming- on his side . She sticks out her tongue at him and signs her name in green ink. Complete with a little heart and everything.)
--
Next kick off's at a bus stop halfway across town while on the way back from a gig. He's a skinhead, but only in hairdo, with an eyebrow pierced and an obscene tattoo somewhere between his lower back and his butt that he doesn't remember getting.
The band's not just an outlet, it's an easy way to make a quick buck.
Right now, he's leaning on the side of a fence, trying to appear coolly offhand. He notices her first, but she's the one to acknowledge his presence.
And this is how it plays out:
She looks up from her half-frame, lime-green specs, meets his eyes, and smiles. Then proceeds to pat the seat next to her.
He had a battle plan all lined up in his head and she had to go and ruin it all by...by...
He plops down.
The silence spans eons. He rubs the back of his head sheepishly then spots the fabric on her lap.
"What's that?"
"Hmm? Just knitting." She pauses, like she's trying to brush past musty cobwebs, unearth something long buried, "Remember that tree house we used to hang out in?"
Yeh, but not that huge multicolored strip of bacon in the backdrop.
He says as much.
She gives him a look, and is about to lapse back into old habits: bonk him on the side of the head or fume, but she spots her ride over his shoulder.
"Its my bus. I'm sorry, Wally, I have to go."
"Oh," he replies.
He rises up.
Mostly, it's an involuntary action, but truth of the matter is he just can't sit there and watch her board the bus.
Can't just sit there while she walks out of your life forever.
So he stands - hand half stretched out and expression a kind of stupefied daze - but he's not sure what to do.
Way to go, Beetles.
Way to go.
She laughs, soft and tinkling and ...kinda dorky, really, leans close, and for a moment he thinks that she'll kiss him, but instead, closes the gap with a lung-crushing bear hug.
She leans close to whisper in his ear, 'you haven't changed one bit, wally.'
On impulse his hands snake round her neck, pulling her closer and he can still feel it, can almost taste it: the endless summers, all those mind-numbing hamster cartoons she made him watch…
-
They fall limply at his side the minute she pulls away.
The bus is pulling away from the curb, and he looks up just in time to give a dazed little wave.
----
iii.
When thirteen comes round the bend, the clock strikes midnight.
And everything goes blank.
Tried to make it real and failed miserably. Hahaha. It was fun though.
TBC ...probably. ...I don't know... What do you think?
Feedback really, really appreciated! :D
(But its been a long time and i ain't holding my breath...)
