TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (21 page)

The sun is bright, but I don't squint. All I see is my mother rocking gently beside the Christmas Tree as an instrumental carol twinkles in the background—more than likely that dreaded Sir Cliff. My final Christmas has been spent with her, but my final moments haven't. I need to return home. I must fulfil my promise. I'll hold her one final time, share my true feelings, and thank her, apologise, and tell her everything is okay.

4
^th
January—Sydney:

Recommended Listening:

Live & Die—The Avett Brothers

Fall At Your Feet—Boy & Bear

Bang Nang—Nancy Sinatra

Hide & Seek 2—Imogen Heap

Since the New Year, my headaches have reached new levels of pain. They were far from lovely before, but if given a choice, I would return in an instant.

My forgetful ways have increased, too, each day bringing blank patches scattered throughout. Yesterday afternoon, I bought a new stick of deodorant, having forgotten I already did so earlier that morning. Two days ago, I emailed my mother twice, both messages practically the same. And on New Year's Eve, I bought Danii a single flower on three separate occasions: her smiling nicely—somewhat pitifully—each time. Small, silly little moments, but I miss them... mourn them. I keep trailing off, too, and repeating sentences.
 

Ethan pretends not to notice, his replies instant and smooth, although I've caught myself a few times with him; Danii smiles and nibbles her lip, her twitching nose a sign she's worried... petrified, even; whereas Wil has to hold back his excitement, catching my faux pas and hesitating empty words.
 

I don't know, but I assume Ethan's spoken to him. Wil's like a curious young child seeing a black person for the first time and wondering why their skin is different to their own. He isn't nasty with it, merely at the mercy to his intrigue and unfiltered list of questions. I'm glad he holds back though. I catch some, but who knows how many forgotten seconds creep past my defences. I don't want them pointing out. Some things are better lived in blind bliss.

Still, as of yet there have been no more seizures, which, together with our recent nocturnal lifestyle, has kept the mood light. Arriving in Sydney two days before the New Year was wise, because arriving on the day itself would be a nightmare far greater than any one headache could conjure. We embraced Australia's multicultural capital like almost any other tourist would: walking the Harbour, boating across the perfect sea, and gazing at the Opera House, although I couldn't say how it looks on the inside.
 

In many ways, it's the same as any other city: expensive. But at this time of year, with the sun so bright and the mood so high, it's easy to look past the unfortunate cliches and focus instead on the complexities of this cultural haven. That is, until mid-afternoon on New Year's Eve.

From the moment I first saw the famous Harbour blossom with every colour imaginable, as a thirteen-year-old boy bringing in the New Year with my parents in front of the TV, it's been a dream to spend the final seconds of one year, and the first few of the next, in the shadows of the bridge and Opera House. Bouncing and eager, I insisted we arrive early and scout an ideal location for our blanket.
 

At ten in the morning, it was quiet, just a few other groups mulling. Sharing sandwiches and boxed wine, we mingled with these fellow early morning soldiers, each can of lager growing warmer and more disgusting by the hour. By midday it was busier, but still our blanket held strong. At three, the grassy area was awash with sunlight, the spirit growing louder, more energetic, and we lost our early morning soldiers, but this was fine because others took their place.
 

By six, we stood, our blanket scrunched in the middle, as rowdy strangers bumbled over it.
 

At eight, the blanket was gone, and so was Wil. Danii clung to my hand, as Ethan stood on the other side of her.

By ten, a sea of strangers surrounded us, shoulder-to-shoulder. "I didn't think it would get this busy," Danii said, her nails digging into my fingers. I nodded, and turned to Ethan, but he, too, was now gone.

As midnight approached, excitement and anticipation were replaced with dread and a claustrophobic worry. "Sorry, mate," said a drunk Australian, stamping on my foot. "You got any beer?" asked an even drunker cockney, leaning in and filling my nostrils with an unbearable stench. "Happy New Year," blurted a short brunette, the drunkest of them all, grabbing Danii and I simultaneously, and kissing us both.

Laughing and doing our best to shrug off our surroundings, we remained clamped together, and with twenty minutes to spare, Ethan found his way back after a rather a long wait in the bathroom line. Tick, tock, tick, tock went the minutes, bringing the year's end closer. "I don't understand how everyone is so drunk," said Danii, a minute before midnight. "We haven't had a drink in hours. Where the hell are they finding it all?"

And then, in perfect Wilbur Day fashion, he stumbled into us, hugging us all—Danii included.

"This. Is. Marvellous!" he spat.

"Where have you been?" I asked, but he shrugged it off and began counting down, as did everyone around us, and soon the sky was alight with every colour on the spectrum, and the sea of people, and tight conditions, and the headache that ate away at my temples... none of it mattered because I remembered watching it on TV nearly a decade earlier, and how I'd done so every year since; dreaming... wishing to be below the lit sky.
 

An engine roar of hope erupted from all directions as
Auld Lang Syne
was sung by the sea of multicultural synergy. Everyone seemed to sing but me. Instead, I stood still, mouth agape and in complete and utter awe. "This is amazing," I said to nobody but myself. But Danii heard. She squeezed my fingers and rested her head on my shoulder, and we both stood still, swarmed from all directions, but it didn't matter. It was a perfect moment that ticked and tocked, closing one year and opening another, and soon the fireworks stopped, and the singing ceased, and the crowd took us with them, and we were walking along the Sydney streets, and I was talking and laughing and celebrating with my friends and with people I didn't know, but it's all a haze, only, not because of a stolen memory on this occasion; rather, I was still standing at the Harbour, looking up towards the fiery sky at the second midnight landed, agape and in awe and at the mercy of its beauty.
 

Eventually, we made it onto a bus after dozens passed us by. As we pulled into Coogee Bay, dawn hung on the horizon.
 

"Come, come, come," said Wil, running towards the beach.

I looked at Ethan, who looked back at me, and Danii looked between us both. "Come on," I said, smiling and stumbling after him.

And so we lay as the sun crept higher, Danii falling in and out of sleep on my chest, as Ethan and I chatted about past New Years' and how they were always a disappointment.

"We would always lose him," he said, pointing to Wil, as he
attempted
to play football with a group of Brazilian guys.

"Yep." I nodded.

"But he would always find us again."

"Yeah."

"Like tonight."

"Mhmmm."

"How the hell does he do it?"

I laughed. "He's Wilbur fricking Day."

And so we lay as the sun crept higher still, until we finally left and returned to the hostel, sleeping until the early evening.
 

The New Year, my final year on earth, has begun in repetitive fashion: waking early, enjoying the sun, walking the streets of Sydney, and then, as evening arrives, indulging in bad foods and crisp-tasting alcohol.

"Early night tonight, okay?" Ethan keeps saying, myself and Danii nodding; Wil laughing and shaking his head.

The temptation of life is too great. Nine o'clock rolls by, then ten, then midnight, and soon it's three in the morning, as it is now. I'm surrounded by drunk and rowdy groups, although out here in the courtyard, civilisation at least remains intact. Inside those patio doors, among the hot beaming lights, and the heavy bone-rattling-bass, the scene is far more obscene.

It's hard to keep up when everyone's drunk and I'm barely tipsy. Of course, I shouldn't be drinking at all, and for the early stages of this journey, I truly tried not to, but what's the point in keeping to the
rules
? The difference between sober pain and slightly drunk agony is minimal, and although Danii worries, and Ethan too, and even myself, a little, the taste of beer and whiskey reminds me I'm still alive.

But out here is cooler, quieter, less intense and trapped-in. There are only so many times I can listen to a song I don't like, watch a man dance like a dad at a wedding, and stand idly by as the rest of the room embarks into oblivion. Yes, out here is nice, as is having a lonesome moment, but as the patio doors swing open to reveal a group of alternating blonde and brunette ladies, Wil follows closely behind, staggering from left to right and speaking into his hand. Steadying himself, he looks around the courtyard and spots me, raising his arm and bouncing on his toes, placing down his bottle and continuing to bumble in my direction.

He wears grubby yellow chinos that are torn at the right knee—I think they've always been torn, but maybe not. Did he tear them tonight... just now... Anyway—a baggy pink shirt darkened with sweat and buttoned to the top, and boat shoes with no socks. His hair's damp and floppy, and he pushes it out of his eyes as he gets closer, nearly colliding with every table and chair en route.

"Dante, m'lad, here you are. We were all wondering where you had gotten to, but I told them, 'do not fret, young go-getters, I shall find him and capture him so we can down tequila and munch on lime.'"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "No tequila, not tonight."

"Yes, yes, that's what they said," he says, stumbling into the railing beside me. "That wench of yours even called me a grooming predator, but of course, you shall all be tempted into it," he continues, snatching the bottle from my hand and taking a swig. His prediction is more than likely correct.

"Can you not call my girlfriend a wench, please."

"The smell in there is... unsavoury," he says, handing back my drink and ignoring my words. "The smell of humid sweat is not one I shall miss."

"Me neither."

"And that music! Dante, m'lad, please say we'll find a venue that plays
real
music tomorrow, rather than this Top Forty tripe—a jazz bar maybe, or swing music or somewhere that isn't afraid to blare out John Coltrane. That one song—from the girl that looks a little too much like a boy—is beyond dreadful, but I've counted it twelve times in the last three days. I cannot take a thirteenth, Dante."

"I was thinking the same. Still, you didn't seem to mind too much. You were dancing like a dad in there. And loving it, might I add."

He twists on the metal railing and moves closer. "I. Do. Not. Dance-like-a-dad."

"The evidence on my phone begs to differ."

He moves to speak but stops at the final second, grinning and taking my bottle once more.

"How about you just keep that one," I say. "I should probably call it a night soon anyway."

"No no no no, you cannot—you must not. We shall soon leave Sydney and this bay they call Coogee, so until then, we must party like it's some year ending in nine. Although, and I cannot stress this enough, we shall not do it here," he says, gesturing around the courtyard dotted with large white camisoles hovering over even larger tables.
 

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Anyway, what about you? Have you targeted any unfortunate souls tonight?"

"Dante, I have no idea what you accuse me of. I don't target. They usually target me."

"Is that so?" I laugh. "I can't wait to hear this."

"It is true. Those girls in there are despicable, just like all other girls. They live to be yearned for, bubbling on the inside as soon as a guy pays them even the slightest bit of attention, although, of course, they wouldn't admit this or show this or even allow themselves to contemplate this. They live on top of the world, but it never lasts. They're fighting every moment of every day, pushing their self-loathing deeper and deeper, but they will never escape it. They hate themselves, and because of this, they pass it on to the guy drooling a mere few feet away.

"Those unlucky souls—and I put you in that bracket, too, Dante, m'lad, because you are just as badly poisoned—fall in love, place themselves on a plate, and stand on the edge of oblivion. They buy drinks and dance a dance they hate, all in the name of what? Sex... passion... the feeling of being loved?

"Men and women are both after the same thing, but they don't trust one another. The outcome they desire is the same, yet the process they take is different. How complex and frail we all are. How pathetic and shameless, too. The girl wants human touch, but she doesn't. The guys must feel a hand of another, but all he really wants is his own."

I blink a few times and rub my forehead. "Mate, you are so damaged."

"Ah, yes, yes, this again. I do not trust, therefore I must be crazy."

"No, there are many reasons you're crazy, but the way you see women... Jesus."

"Dante, m'lad, do you not see that they are all the same? Some are blonde, sure, and others brunette. Big, small, pretty, repulsive... They all look a tad different, but they all hide the same insecurities inside, which are the same insecurities as we have, but our outlook on them is oh so different. We try to understand each other and change each other and conform to the other's ideals. Yet we fail, and worse still, we feel guilty for failing. I disregard the guilt and instead choose to run and dance and flee. Am I really the one in the wrong?"