TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (12 page)

I glance at my pasta, the plate full of reds and greens and yellows.

"Well, my friend," says Wil, standing up and raising his glass of beer. "Let's say no more, for now. I feel a change in the making, comrades, which makes our need to venture forward all the greater. We shall embark for lands anew, and when we do, let's leave as much as we can in Rome. Let's embrace everything that stands before us, because so much exists in tomorrow. A toast, gents, a toast to tomorrow and everything beyond it."

Standing up, I join Wil, guiding Danii out of her chair as I do. Ethan follows suit, raising his glass and clinking it into mine. "To tomorrow," he says.

"To tomorrow," says Danii.

"Yeah, to tomorrow," I say, gazing past the glasses and out towards the darkened sky. Night's no longer on the brink, it's here.

20
^th
November—Oia:

Recommended Listening:

You & I—Ingrid Michaelson

Your Rocky Spine—Great Lake Swimmers

The Curse—Josh Ritter

If I go, I’m Goin—Gregory Alan Isakov

Awaking this morning was the strangest thus far. The pain was excruciating, but the sun bathing through the window offered hope. Our travels haven't offered much in terms of heat up to this point, the sun merely present as an occasional fling.

The morning broke with delight on this day, however, not only bright and succulent, but warm and pure. For the first time since this ordeal began, life offered a helping hand. The headache devoured my forehead, eating away at my temples and running down my neck. I bit and gritted and clenched everything I could, and although the pain was intense, a sliver of sun broke though the curtains and enveloped my head. It touched no other part of my body, and although you'd expect it to move, it didn't; caressing my skin for ten... twenty... a thousand minutes...

I barely remember a time before confusion, but despite the agonising pain, something resembling peace flowed over me: a touch, a guide, a strange omniscient elixir. Springing out of bed, I eagerly grabbed the day with both hands, dashing to my MP3 player and filling the room with the sound of The Beach Boys, and, after listening to only half a song, switched to their modern love-child, Vampire Weekend.

"What are you doing?" Ethan moaned, pushing his head further into his pillow.
 

"Come on guys," I replied. "Oia awaits!"

Oia isn't a town I'd heard of up until a few days ago, but as soon as we wandered the old streets, my senses came alive. If Yorkshire is God's country—as us locals announce it—then Oia is where He jets off for a short and sweet vacation. Rustling up my companions, we were soon outside in the gorgeous sunlight, the warm soothing heat melting my headache bit-by-bit. Today is our second day, and so far we've done nothing but stroll through this white town. Hand in hand with Danii, the four of us walked and talked for hours.
 

"Oh, oh, do you see the magic in this town?" asked Wil, bouncing on his heels and skipping a few feet in front. "I love it, gents. I love it."

Twisting and twirling up the steep hillside, a new marvel opened up before us, an old woman sweeping in front of her even older house. So much of Oia is similar, every street a deja vu, but each different and unique and beautiful.
 

"I love how white everything is," said Danii, as we leant on a wall and looked up towards the rocky hillside. "It's as though the entire town is built with a grander purpose," she said. "How the gates and doorways and church rooftop are blue, but everything else is completely white," she continued, pointing up to the church that dwarfed its surrounding houses.
 

We continued to walk and talk and stroll, doing nothing at all. The bright afternoon lighted faded, Danii and Ethan returning to the hostel to plan our next adventure. Wil and I decided to remain and enjoy as much of the sunlight as possible, but as the sparkling shine dimmed, my energy and hope faded with it. I'm happiness' guest. An awkward stranger in its presence. I can embrace and enjoy, but only for so long. Eventually, I focus on the pain. And once it's there, it's difficult to budge.

Overlooking the steep slope that runs all the way down to the beach, Wil and I sit at a small table, gazing out towards the mammoth sea. "I can't believe we're going to Tibet," I say, drooping in my chair. "Talk about going from hot to cold."

"Yes, yes, it shall be much cooler than here, although not as cold as you might suspect. Still, we need to stock up on supplies along the way. I hardly think your tacky sandals and... whatever type of shorts you call those... will suffice," says Wil, shaking his head at my apparently
far-too-reserved-for-his-liking
attire.

"Says you, the guy wearing a yellow shirt, a vest," I say, pronouncing the word
vest
with extra spite, "and denim shorts. You're such a pretentious hipster snob."

"Ha, yes. Ha, yes. Good, good. You'll find this shirt is lemon, though, and these shorts were once jeans outgrown. Always the artist, my good man. Always the artist." Taking a drink from his bottle, he rocks on the chair's back legs. "Won't it be amazing? Tibet! Tibet, wow, now that's a place to change everything. I can't even imagine—and the journey there... WOW—but here, I mean look, Dante, look," he says, pointing behind me to a miniature cruise liner clinging to the horizon.

Peering out to sea, I scan the area and inhale, my mouth full of fresh and chilled sea air, nose alive with salt and seaweed and gently cooking fish. The once bright blue of above now verges on turquoise, and on the horizon is a hint of vermillion. It's cooler but still pleasant, as the breeze rushes past and kisses my ears.

"I know. This is lovely. I've been to Greece before, mate, but it wasn't like this. And the smell," I say, taking another deep mouthful. "Every house in Oia must be cooking some fishy delight."

"Agreed, agreed... yes... yes... lovely town and lovely weather, and this sight, WOW, lovely sight, lovely sight. We should write a story about this place, m'lad. Just like old times. A masterpiece in waiting, yes?"

I sigh. "I don't think my mind will allow me to write at the moment. I've tried a couple of times, but nothing."

"Ah, writer's block. A terrible thing indeed, but fear not, for it shall pass."

"I don't think it's writer's block."

"Ah, do not worry, old friend. It shall pass. It shall pass."

"Yeah, we'll see," I say, placing the slim bottleneck to my lips and taking a mouthful of crisp beer. "Anyway, you going to tell me what happened last night? She was gorgeous, you sly dog."

His scattering pupils are on the move and a smile grows, starting slim but soon beaming. Still, he never looks at me once, grazing everything but. "Yes, yes, she had rather lovely eyes. The kind only a Greek lady could have, and her smell, WOW, yes, she was enticing."

"So..."

"What would you like to know, my good friend? Ask me anything and I will tell you all," he says, smirking.

"Did you, you know... get the job done."

"Absolutely not. She was tragic."

"What?" I say, sighing and rubbing my temples before a Wil induced headache has time to form. "But you left with her and never came home."

"I left, but not with her, and as for where I ended the evening, well, that's another story."

"Which is..."

"The short version: I was on a fishing boat with a fellow named Theo. We drank all night as he shared one tale after another about fishing and his wife and his kids that now live on the mainland. Dante, m'lad, he was a stellar chap, he really was."

I rub the back of my neck and take a few more deep breaths. "Let me get this straight. Rather than go home with an amazing girl who was clearly into you, you instead stay up all night drinking with some old Greek man?"

"Absolutely, good sir."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing whatsoever," he says, smirking and draining the last drops from his bottle.

Shuffling in my seat, I nudge closer, wanting to pull his face towards mine and shake the life out of it. "I beg to differ. You're a free, single, good-looking guy who can have any girl you like, yet time and time again, you walk away and do the most dumbfounded things. Christ, you could have slept with hundreds but have only done the deed a handful of times."

"Ha, true. Ha, true. You are more than likely correct."

"That's weird, mate."

"You'd rather me sleep with anyone and everyone? That would make me normal?"

"No, that's not what I mean–"

"Well then, what's the issue?"
 

I mush my temples with firm thumbs, preparing myself for a voyage into the psyche of Wilbur Day. "Okay, tell me what happened. Tell me everything."

"Of course," he says, cracking his knuckles. "I went over to speak to her and was in love in an instant. Her accent... her eyes... the way she looked at me and wouldn't let go. WOW. Just WOW. I told her tales and stroked her skin, and as each moment ticked by, she edged a little closer—this is how you know a girl is yours, when she's so close you're practically touching and all you have to do is talk and smile, maybe send a wink here and there.

"It was all rather harmless at this point," he says, twisting his empty bottle in his fingertips. "We started to talk about my art—and this is when I truly had her—and my poetry—which practically made her wet—and I told her about my paintings with Suzanne and Alice and Bethany."

"The naked ones?"

"Why, of course. She was mine as soon as the words left my mouth, and she asked me if I would paint her. Well, of course I would, what kind of artist would I be if I didn't take an interest in such a work of art?" Leaning in, he nudges my elbow. "I described how I'd take off her clothes—so it would become an act of the art in itself—and splatter her toned, olive-oil skin with paint—just a few drops here and there, you understand. I'd paint her, and, if the opportunity arose, write a poem about her."

"And?" I say, drawn closer to the table, anticipating more; desperate, as desperate as all the girls he serenades.

"And... it was too easy and all I could see was this pitiful little girl who had nothing real to offer," he trails off. "I couldn't trust her because all I could see was this fake, tainted individual. All it took were a few choice words and images planted in her mind. There was no line drawn on her side, and there was no standard set. She let me in with little effort, and as with most of
them
, repulsion swarmed."

"That's insane, mate. You're a charming guy; of course girls fall for you. If all you ever do is walk away from them, well, how will you ever find happiness?"

"Happiness? How can a girl bring happiness when all they offer is despair."

"They don't only bring—"

"No? I beg to differ, my good man. That girl of yours brought nothing but emptiness—"

"Hey, that's unfair."

"No, Dante. She turned you into her little project. That's what girls do, and boy wouldn't I be the perfect pet for some evil little lady. I can see it now, as they buy me clothes and edge me towards this or edge me towards that—just like that drunk mother of mine or my judging father. Yes, Dante, I'd make quite the project, but I'm nobody's to have, and neither are you."

"Maybe I wanted her to change me—"
 

"Why on earth would you want that, m'lad?"

"Because, what did I achieve? I would talk the talk but do nothing at all. All I did was hide from commitment and cling on to these silly ideals, living inside this ridiculous bubble. Why? What the hell are we so afraid of, Wil? What?" I say, verging on shouting.

"You're perfect as you are, Dante, m'lad. Our very own wallflower."

"Oh, you want to talk
perks
with me? Okay, fine. If I'm a wallflower, you're our very own misfit toy; tainted and broken and ready for the scrapheap. Who the hell's going to put up with you after I'm gone?"

Scratching his empty bottle's label, everything else about him is still.

"Man, I'm sorry," I say, relaxing in my chair. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm just always on the edge at the moment, and I'm worried about you. All you do is live by these silly little rules—"
 

"They aren't silly," he says with a stern tone. "If anything, yours are. You think being a wallflower is wrong, but why? You're a unique, special little enigma, Dante King, and I couldn't love you more because of it. Why you want that bitch to change you is beyond me, and why you sit here wanting me to change should be beyond you, too."

"Hey, I said I'm sorry. And I can't help worrying about you. I'm going to be gone soon, and all you do is push people away with these flings and rules and erratic ideas. Is this what you want for the rest of your life?" Pushing my hands through my greasy hair, I slump on my left elbow. "I lost her, mate, and would you like to know why? Because I fought every single step we took together. I loved her before we spoke, and it scared me to death. Instead of focussing on what we had, I kept imagining what I could have. But it wasn't commitment holding me back, it was me. It was all me and my silly little ways.

"Look at where it's lead me," I say, rubbing my forehead with finger and thumb. "Look at what it's taken for me to get her back, for me to realise what I need. For me to realise it's okay to love and give myself to somebody. It's not about changing, Wil. It’s about growing up. I just don't want you to look back with nothing but regret, because trust me, it isn't fun."