"Well, old Kingsley, m'lad, I could not sleep so I figured I'd venture out into the Jakarta night, drown my sorrows with Mr. Beam, and drink in the fumes that, if you breathe deeply, adds an unequalled buzz to the tipple."
"So you're drunk again?"
"Yes, good sir. Pretty much."
"Right. Well, how about you come and join me on this side of the balcony? You make me nervous sitting like that."
"Like this," he says, lurching forward and holding onto the railing with one hand. My headache is gone and my heart is beating, racing, driving forward and pushing and pulsing.
"Wil, what the hell!" I say, diving forward and grabbing hold of his elbow.
"Dante, please. You'll wake the children." He nudges himself back onto the ledge, his bottle of whiskey still in hand. I keep hold of his elbow and have no plans of letting go. He carries on like everything is normal, but my heart continues to race.
"Wil, what are you doing? Are you okay?"
"Of course, of course. I'm fine." He doesn't look at me, but I catch his cobalt eyes glistening in the fake night light. His messy mop is out of control; indeed, it's been the same for all of us, but with Wil, it's more noticeable.
The shaggy strands don't only rest atop his head, but now loop towards his ears, and where his neatly trimmed facial hair defined and framed his mouth, it now covers his cheeks: no longer stubble but wispy and hairy with long patches here and bald patches there.
"You've been drinking a lot recently," I say, my hand still on him.
"Yes, yes, a little, yes."
"More than a little, mate. We're worried."
"Worried?" he asks, craning his neck towards me: his eyes wide, smile large, a sinister look staring back. "No need to worry about me, good sir. You have to worry about yourself. This is, after all, your trip—speaking of which, I think we should invest in some blazers. I'm envisioning The Lost Tour in big letters on the back—because I feel we're all a little lost; indeed, the entire reason for this journey is a somewhat lost cause—and a small embroidered owl on the front left breast—because I have a hankering for some owl. What do you think?"
"Right, okay, yeah... sure." I tighten my grip because this is crazed, even for him. "I'd really like it if you came over to this side of the balcony, mate."
"No can do, friend. As my legs dangle like this, I sense an element of flight. Can you imagine how free we'd be if only we could fly? We'd fly away from our problems rather than run. Much more efficient, don't you see?"
"Okay, Wil. You're freaking me out, so if you could tell me what's going on, that would be great," I say, a lump bulging in my throat.
He looks at me again, different from before but equally as worrying. "You want to know what's wrong with me? My oh my, I would love to know myself, good chap." He blinks fast, and takes a shaky deep breath before inhaling his bottle. "Right, yes. I mean... it's been a tough couple of weeks, old friend. I'm sorry if I've... well, yes, you know... of course, not the best chap at present..."
"Wil, I know you don't enjoy letting people in, but this is me. It's the middle of the night, you're hanging over a seventh-floor balcony, and you're Classic Rock drunk. I know things between us have been a little weird recently, but please, talk to me."
He relaxes and releases a loud exhale, not from his mouth, but all the way down from the depths of his abdomen. "Yes, you're right, of course. I'm sorry for all this... the drinking and whatnot. Everything is rather real at present, is it not?" His blue eyes, surrounded by a rash of red, peer through me. Desperate. "It's become apparent my role on this trip is worthless. I'm a man of merriment. I don't know how to handle difficult occasions, and, as I'm sure you'll agree, this current predicament is beyond thorny."
"Wil," I say, letting go for the first time since lurching for him. "That's not true. You're doing fine. It's been hard on all of us. And I'm sorry for losing my temper with you, and allowing things to grow strange."
He nods and brushes his digits through his twisted locks, pulling down and rubbing his bearded chin. "Yes, I know, but... but... well... yes, the thing is, you need more than me. I didn't know how hard this would be, seeing your demise each day and how your body turns on itself. You see, I know the torment you go through at night. I hear your anguish in the morning. I see you grit your teeth with fear in your eyes, and each time I do, another part of me perishes. It's a nightmare, a fright, a wound in my chest—which I know is ridiculous because it's happening to you, not me, but in a way it is, and I don't know if I feel it more than the others, but I fear I handle it less."
He takes another swig from the bottle and clenches his teeth as it runs down his throat. "When you first had your episode, it took us all by surprise, but during the second, Ethan and Danii knew what to do; at least, they did more than me. What's my role? How can I help? I tried to talk, hoping words would soothe the situation—you know, as my words often do—but nothing came out. I watched you on the floor, helpless. I'm nothing but a worthless, hapless fool."
"That's crazy," I say, rubbing my tense and throbbing left shoulder.
"No, old Kingsley, it isn't. What you said in Oia has stuck with me."
"Wil, I should never have said what I did. I was wrong and frustrated and I'm sorry.”
"But you mustn't be. What you said is true. You've always understood me, friend. When you're gone, there will be no one left. Ethan will be, sure, but without you, we'll drift, and don't say we won't because we both know the truth. As for girls, well, they never stick around for long, and although I know a thousand folk, none of it's real. I know more people than sense dictates, but I only know one soul. Soon, that generous genius will be no more, and instead of helping him and being a friend—finally repaying my debt—I wallow and swallow foul-tasting liquor."
He sways his head, drifting in the breeze, hypnotic in the light. "That's bullshit. You've always been there for me. You're a beautiful human being capable of great works of art, combining words like no other can, and have vision that's beyond comprehension for someone like me. I've always envied and looked up to you."
"Never spend a second wasting time on such nonsense. Like I said in Greece, you're perfect as you are. You should be proud of what you've achieved and the way in which you've turned out. To envy me is madness. What of, exactly? Of a mother who's nursed a single hangover for the last twenty years, totally oblivious to reality, to herself, to her only son; or my father, a man I can only describe as a serial adulterist. He has never loved me, never passed on wisdom or held out a helping hand. Sure, he's introduced me to the right contacts and passed on the ever-so-apparent gene of seduction, but what about the day he was supposed to teach me how to shave, or to actually hug my mother in front of me so I can have some sentiment towards love and compassion. He's a brute, a horrible hooligan!
"Yes, women terrify me because of what they represent. They're my mother and the whores my father takes on seedy weekends and illicit retreats. They're marriage and unhappiness. They're my future, but I don't want that future because I don't want what they have. I've been running my whole life, but for the first time, I'm unable to because I can't run away from this," he says, holding his arms up high, a few spots of whisky funnelling up and landing on my feet. "For whatever reason, you've always understood me, but soon you won't. There is no one else. I'll soon be alone.
"If I go more than a few days without seeing you, it hurts. I know that sounds insane, but it's true, and soon it's the only feeling I'll know. I've spent twenty years running away from my life and towards you. You've kept me somewhat centred—not on a particularly righteous path, mind you, but a path nevertheless. My mother has her gin and my father, my mother—even though he treats her like a pet. What do I have? They might be terrible human beings, but at least they have something."
The breeze shifts, hitting the balcony roof and becoming a prisoner between its concrete walls. It's loud, deafening even, but all I hear is my heavy heartbeat: throb... thump... throb... thump...
"Mate, I
had no idea. Christ, I know your mother has issues, but... and your dad... why didn't you say something? We've been friends for nearly twenty years."
He's still, eerily so. "Yes, well, of course, that could have been a plan. Ah, old King-dom dweller, I know you won't understand, but it's my way of coping. I run, and run some more, and run until I forget what I was running away from in the first place. It's served me well over the years... in a way."
"That's insane. I've always been here for you, but you have to let me in. You have to let people in, mate. Not drink. Not push. You don't have to become your parents."
"Indeed, indeed. I know."
"Is this why you've been drinking so much? Because it's your mother's release?"
Laughing, he looks out over the city sky. "I hadn't thought about it like that, but I suppose it's possible. It's just easier to drink. I've always been able to run on my own accord, but recently, I've needed a push. Whisky pushes hard, much harder than talking and conversing and sharing one's feelings."
"Pretty stupid, too," I say, biting my nail.
"Ha, yes, well, of course." He nudges his right leg back over the balcony and faces me as though he's straddling a horse. He twists the bottle and looks at it, nodding and swinging his legs. "For the first time in my life, I'm afraid, my good man. It hurts and I don't know what to do, and I'm sorry because I know the last thing you need is to look after me, but I'm trying to figure out... Well, whatever it is that I need to figure out."
Leaning on the balcony and facing the window—our reflecting selves with Jakarta as the backdrop—I fold my right palm over my left shoulder and press and push and mush. "I've spent twenty years looking after you. It's all I know. I'd rather have that than the stranger you've become."
I watch him through the reflection, nodding and searching the bottle before pushing it away. "You won't tell those two, will you?" he asks.
"What, that you actually have feelings?"
He pauses. "Yes."
"No. Of course not."
He nods again, flips his other leg over the ledge, and hugs me. His chin digs into my left shoulder and eases its throb a tad. Silent, we remain wrapped in each other's arms, and all I can picture are the many moments he could have told me, could have let me in, but remained in character: my crazed and eccentric friend without a worry in the world.
I conjure a memory of a summer afternoon when we were fourteen years old. Sitting on a patch of grass near the train station, we watched the world pass by. Three girls from school stood by a bus stop, my gaze locked on Lauren, the short, petite, brunette girl on the left.
"Oh Dante, go and speak to her," Wil said, prodding my arm with his elbow. "You've spoken to her before. Many times, in fact."
"Yeah, about stupid school stuff."
"Well, talk about stupid school stuff now."
"Yeah right, how pathetic would that be."
"Not as pathetic as sitting here whilst the girl you admire stands barely twenty feet away." Standing up, he moved behind me, resting his knees on my back. "Would you like me to talk to her?"
"No!"
"Oh, come on. I will bring them over, and casually, you can chat away with the lovely Lauren. I'd be more than happy to take care of the other two."
"I don't know..."
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, jumping from the grassy mound and dashing to where the girls stood.
In an instant he was among them, guiding his arms and brushing their shoulders one-by-one. "How does he do it," I exhaled, frustrated yet in awe at how simple he made everything.
I've always been in awe of his simple ways. For so long I tried to replicate my friend, but I had no right to, because in doing so I lived a lie. I lost Danii and who knows how many other opportunities, all because I strived towards some ridiculous ideal set about by Wil.
Do not love. Do not commit. Do not settle. Do not worry, et cetera...
I was wrong to envy him. He's just as broken as the rest of us, only he isn't brave enough to admit it. He runs. He turns to drink. He puts on a mask and lives a lie. He shouldn't have tempted me with his ways, not when he too is confused. I love him, and am hugging him, and told him everything is okay, and that he's always been there for me, but I'm not sure I believe this. Part of me wants to help him and release his pain, but another wants to push him away and run towards Danii. The girl I should have run towards all along.
22nd December—The Great Ocean Road:
Recommended Listening:
The Dreamer—Tallest Man On Earth
Sea Of Love—Cat Power
New Slang—The Shins
I've never much cared for driving. I find it somewhat claustrophobic, forced inside a tin can as you roll uncontrollably down the road, or, more than likely, stuck in traffic at a standstill for unbearable periods of time. I prefer to walk or take a train and be free to do as I please. Sure, you're at the mercy of delays and somebody else's timetable, but are you free whilst driving? You're a prisoner to the road. If it decides to brim with traffic, there's little else you can do. At least on a train, the option of moving, reading, or going to the toilet presents itself.
I've never understood how certain individuals drive to relax and forget, but as I race down the The Great Ocean Road, I see their reasoning. This isn't driving, it's living. This road is unlike any I've ever been on, and although I'm not too sure why it's so special, it is.
As soon as we touched down in Perth, a sudden surge of adrenaline rose from my toes. As Danii, Ethan, and Wil sat neatly in their seats, I jigged up and down and bounced and played. Australia is my reason to travel. I used to pin posters and maps on my walls, promising my young self I would one day explore the outback and acquaint myself with the ancient lands yet to be ruined by man's modern hand.
My comrades were exhausted, but I insisted we drive rather than bundle in and out of busses and trains. Ethan and Danii shared a look. They would have to take on the burden of driving. Wil couldn't, and I shouldn't. But Australia seduces you via the road. I suppose my condition has to have a few positives; mainly, I get my own way.
Maybe it's the ever-lightening mood between the four of us, or some magical essence this country holds, but it's been over a week since my last seizure. For days, I've begged to drive the Great Ocean Road, and although I shouldn't and the very idea is insane, I knew I could wear down Ethan and Danii. "Please, Ethan," I'd say. "You're tired and need a rest. Plus, it's only for an hour or so." And then I'd turn to Danii and stroke her arm. "Sweetie, you hate driving nearly as much as me. Let me do this one journey. Please."
Reluctantly agreeing, eventually, they gave in due to their ever growing exhaustion. Although, yesterday morning nearly put an end to my driving dream, as an entire five minute chunk disappeared from my day. Talking to Danii and stealing kisses on her warm neck, we laid naked in bed, enjoying a rare lonesome period.
"I love the sound of no Wil in the morning," she said. "It makes me realise..."
That's all I remember. My next conscious moment is me standing in the shower as water and soap trickles down my nose and into my open mouth. With a racing heart, I rushed out of the shower, and without saying a word, Danii knew. "You can't drive tomorrow, sweetie. I'm sorry."
I shouldn't have worn her down with my silent pleading, and I shouldn't place my friends in this sort of danger, but I have to make this drive, and I know, somehow, I'll be fine. Right now, I'm more than fine. I'm alive. Like I say, this isn't driving. It's living.
The Great Ocean Road is one hundred-fifty-one miles of twisting and turning that keeps you vigilant throughout. Each time a long stretch appears, a few twisty turns precede, often leading to a new beach town that looks suspiciously like the last, but with a few new quirks here and an extra insight there. In the direction we're heading—towards Melbourne—the ocean rests to our right with an almost exclusive sight of green to the left. The navy sea is as expected, but the frequent fauna is a pleasant surprise.
The day grows older, but the sharp sunligh
t remains. It's too early for the healthy threesome to require sleep, but the last few days have taken their toll. I suspect if it wasn't for my recent regale of life, I, too, would feel exhaustion, but as I haven't slept properly since the day of my learned fate, I doubt I'll understand the notion of rest and peace again.
For now, it's Morrissey and me as The Smiths fill the small grey car with playful melodies. If Ethan were awake, he'd detest it; Wil, tolerate it; Danii, oblivious to who or what it is. The rules dictate that I am the master of the airwaves, another one of Wil's, which is ironic as he's the only one of us unable to get behind the wheel. Smart indeed, but not smart enough to pass his driving test, despite five attempts, dozens of lessons, and three separate driving instructors refusing to teach him.
"Oh Dante," he said, after his final failure. "My worst score yet, and worse still, Bill has said goodbye." Bill was his most patient instructor, yet even he had his limits.
I was furious at the time, tired of chauffeuring Wil around, but in hindsight it was for the best. Wil on the road? No, a terrible idea.
As The Smiths fades out and is replaced by the haunting voice of The Tallest Man On Earth, the figure to my left stirs: Danii, twisting her head from her hand and letting out a large and lasting yawn. If anyone was to disturb this lonesome road, I'm glad it's she. It's been a while since we drove together, and for once, I sense we may enjoy it.
"Good nap?" I ask, keeping my attention on the rolling asphalt.
"Yes, thanks," she yawns, hiding her face in her palms. "How long have I been asleep?”
"About an hour. This road is soothing," I say, rolling the os.
She coughs and splutters. "Are you trying to tell me that you, Dante King, are having fun... whilst driving?"
"I think I am." I cock a smile from the corner of my mouth. "I guess it had to happen sometime."
TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Page 13
