50 stupid things you did
No. 3: The nickname calling
I have no clear reason for why this happens, but when Axel is out for physical therapy, I happen to have the pleasant surprise of bumping into an old friend, Hayner. Hayner and I were, more or less, archenemies when we were children. Later we both grew out of our grudges against each other and became football buddies.
"Rox?" He says with a wide grin on his face as he comes into the room. "Rox!"
I jump up from my computer and realise it is him. "Hayner! Oh my goodness! It's been a long while!"
We give each other pats on the back.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"You remember my aunt?" He says. I nod. "She's getting chemotherapy here."
"Oh... I'm sorry." I say. He shakes his head and returns the question, "What about you?"
"You know Axel?" I say.
"Yes; how can I possibly forget?" He says, smirking, "You told me so much about him. If our conversations weren't on football then they were on him."
"Did I?" I say as I try to recall my memories with Hayner. "Anyway, he's a fireman now. And he got hurt during his last rescue so he got hospitalized."
"Ouch." He says. "I hope he's alright."
"Oh he'll be fine." I roll my eyes. "They say that idiots heal faster than normal people do."
Hayner laughs. "You haven't changed a bit, Rox."
"Really, now?" I smile. "How does coffee sound to you?"
He smiles, and we head out together for Starbucks.
So it turns out that Hayner is working in an electronics company as some sort of department director. It sounds like it's doing him some good. We reminisce old memories, of how we met in football club and hated each other enough to get into fights. The coach sure hated us. It must have been a bother to have to yank us away from each other every time one of us didn't pass to the other or blocked a goal or something. And then he tells me about a club he's going to now—as a hobby club.
"You know I felt like I was getting so fat." He says. "Everyday I wake up, I eat, go to the university, I go to lectures, I go home and eat and sleep. I felt like I'll develop heart problems if I didn't go back to playing football. I just needed the exercise."
"So you play as a local team?" I ask.
"Yes. It's actually all very organised," He says, "They get men who are interested to sign up in one of the YMCA's, and they group them together, give them an actual coach; we play against other teams and secondary school teams. It's really quite fun, you know. Maybe you should join us."
I feel something shrink inside me at the thought. "I haven't played for so long."
"That's exactly right." He says. "Get some of that exercise you need."
"I'll think about it." I say. It seems to give the thought a finalized death sentence.
"Alright, here's what." He picks out a piece of tissue and writes on it. "We have a game this Saturday. Why don't you come over and watch? Maybe you'll end up wanting to join."
I smile. His insistent temper has never left him. I take the tissue and put it into my computer's suitcase. We then head back to the hospital.
"Promise you'll at least come and watch?" He asks at the door of his aunt's room. I smile, roll my eyes a little, and nod.
"It was good to see you again, Rox." He says.
"Me too." I say. "How did we lose track of each other on the way?"
He muses for a moment, and says, "It may have been going to different universities. Oh, I don't know, like, we haven't seen each other for at least four years?" The tail of the sentence sounds sarcastic. I laugh.
"You bastard." I say, and he bids farewell.
"Who was that?" Someone asks. I turn. It is Axel; the doctor has allowed him to shift into a wheelchair now.
"An old friend of mine." I say, walking past him. If he's so well now he wouldn't need me to wheel him.
"Wait! Rox!" He yells behind me as I enter his room. "I've never seen him."
"He was a friend from football club," I say, folding his laundered clothes with annoyance. "Which you never cared to join, or even come to watch us."
"You know I never cared much for football." He says. I roll my eyes at him.
"What do you want, Axel?" I ask.
"He called you 'Rox'." He says.
"So?" I ask.
"I thought I was the only one allowed to call you that." He says. He sounds almost childish, like a kid who discovers another kid owning the same exact toy he does
"Well, you're not." I say. "People from my childhood all call me that. My dad and mom still do sometimes. It's only later that I want people to address me by my full name."
"I don't want to call you 'Rox' anymore, then." He says. Can he possibly be more absurd? "Let me think of a new one... Rox… Rox… Rox… Roxy!"
Oh yes, he can, actually.
"You are not—" I begin.
"Roxy!" He sings. "Roxy, Roxy, Roxy, Roxy!"
Oh for Pete's sake!
And the name stuck.