TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (4 page)

"I would, Mrs. Smythe," he answered. "But I'm far too busy writing a poem for Cassandra." He turned around and faced the blushing school girl. "What do you say, Miss Cassandra? You and me... gallivanting away... after lunch, maybe."

"Wilbur, get the hell out," said Mrs. Smythe, shaking her head.

The class clown. The teacher's nightmare. But never bad for the sake of being bad. He simply bounces throughout the day because he's unable to settle: free spirited; eccentric; ridiculously intelligent, but never one for applying it. And despite all of this, people are drawn to him. Not always at first, and not usually for long, but most fall to Wil's charming ways.

A night that demonstrates his rollercoaster approach, is an average Friday night a few years back. Marching through the door, dressed in purple loafers, dirty cream chinos, and a bright yellow shirt with a tweed jacket in hand, he skipped towards the bar and nudged shoulders with a six-foot-three rugby giant.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" said the neckless man-child.

"Beg your pardon, good man," replied Wil, his smile in full beam.

"You spilt my drink," he spat, stepping towards Wil and squaring his shoulders.

Looking him up and down, Wil laughed. "My oh my you're a big one, aren't you? Let's get a few shots, shall we?" he said, looping his arm around the stranger and guiding him towards the bar.
 

Watching from a nearby table, Ethan and I laughed, confused at how Wil could seduce a testosterone induced alpha male with such ease. One shot turned to two, and then, a cocktail and a chaser, and soon he stumbled over to join us, leaving the smiling giant alone at the bar.

"What a good bloke," Wil said, stealing my bottle of beer.

"What did you say to him?" I asked.

"Oh, this and that. I told him a few tales about my hikes around Italy with my uncle."

"Okay," said Ethan, clearing his throat. "First of all, you've never been to Italy. Second, you don't have an uncle."

"Hmmm, don't I?"

I shook my head.

"I see. Tequila?" he asked, jumping up once again and skipping back to the bar.

Within minutes he'd forgotten about our drinks, talking to a cute blonde with tight curly locks and an adorable button nose. Talking turned to kissing, which transformed into dancing among the crowded crowd.
 

"Dante, m'lad, I must write to her," he said, at the end of the night as the bouncers chaperoned us out of the closing bar.

"Leave it until tomorrow, mate." I said.

"Oh no, oh no. I couldn't possibly leave it until then, for I have words to share with her now."

"What kind of words?"

"Lovely words. Wonderful words. Words only she can read. Oh yes oh yes, she shall be mine forever and a day, m'lad."

Sighing, I reached for his phone.

"Oh no, Dante," he said, spinning away from me and scampering off. "I shall tell you all about it in the morning," he continued, disappearing amongst the hoard of drunken bodies.
 

And so he did, calling me only a few hours later. "Have you even slept?" I asked.

"Not yet, but I shall. Anyway, let me read you my favourite section," he said. "'
Never call me again, you weird little stallker
.'" He laughed. "She spelt stalker with two l's. Can you believe that? Can you?" he said, still laughing.

"What did you send her?" I asked, yawning and closing my eyes.

"I wrote her a poem, m'lad. A gorgeous poem especially for her. What crazy fool wouldn't adore to be woken up to that?"

"Wait, did you call her this morning?"

"Why, yes. Of course. She hadn't replied to her email, and I needed to—"

"Jesus Christ."

"I know. Can you believe her? What a strange species the female is. Oh well oh well. Shall we go for breakfast?"

And that was that, never to be discussed again. It's how Wilbur is, a strange enigma of intrigue and confusion. Where some people are black, others are white, and then, every now and again, a person walks in wearing an array of tweed and brightly coloured clothes.

"So, Sir Kingsley of King-shire, how has your day been?" he asks, snapping me back to the present as he approaches fast with his coffee in hand. "How are you coping and living? You're going to the hospital in the morning, no?"
 

"Yeah. Not looking forward to it, to be honest."

"Of course, of course. I can imagine. You're doing well, though. You're handling things well, and if you desire a shoulder to lean on, or to cry on—although I'm not sure if that would work, I'd probably have to squat down—but yes, where was I... yes, that's right. I'm here if you need me."

"Thanks, mate. I appreciate everything you and Ethan are doing. I know it's hard, just the two of you knowing."
 

He looks at the door, and then at the table, and then over to the counter. Never has someone used so much energy in such a short space of time, all for no reason or rhyme.

"Not a problem, good sir. We'll always be here for you, although you do have to let other chaps and chapettes in on your secret at some point. I doubt that Ethan fellow can keep it hidden for long," he says, grinning and whispering the final sentence.

I shake my head and refuse to laugh, but he leans in and unleashes his weapon: a smile that widens and forms a set of dimples on either side of his grin, lines rising high and up towards his eyes. It's as though each aspect of his face is in cahoots with one another, doing everything it can to showcase his two most prominent tools: his smile and those two giant cobalt orbs. I give in and laugh, because it's almost impossible to not.

Wil reciprocates and strokes his mouth and chin, where two distinct lines of neatly trimmed facial hair rest above his upper lip, and one vertical chunk sits below the lower.

"I'm nervous about these visits, mate," I say.
 

He nods slowly, taking a sip of his coffee and tapping gently with his index finger.
 

"I'm trying to get my head around everything," I continue "But at the moment, it isn't real. As soon as I visit these specialists..." I don't finish, instead biting my thumbnail.

Popping his lips, he leans in, the tapping of his fingers faster, louder, more prominent with each silent second. "I don't know how you feel, my good man. Ethan doesn't know how you feel. Your parents don't know how you feel. But there is always hope. Where we have breath, we have hope."

"Wil, come on, we both know—"

"As long as you breathe, m'lad, you have hope. Whatever happens at these so-called specialists, so be it. But the world is a magical place. Don't ever forget it."

I sigh and gulp a large mouthful of not bitter enough coffee. "There's one more person I have to tell," I say.

"Don't say her name."

"Wil, you know I have to."

"You don't owe that she-devil anything, good sir. She's taken enough already."

"I have to tell her."

He smirks, more sinister now, cupping his cup and rocking it. "Ah Daniella, what a hound she is. If you must, tell her, but you know as well as I do, that period of your life is over."

"I'll regret not telling her."

"She'll find out eventually from somebody—"

"She needs to hear it from me."
 

He nods and traces his finger around his coffee mug's rim. He'll never understand my feelings towards Danii. I've always envied his effortless ease towards life, but to never appreciate love or passion is sad. I think I'm beginning to see that now.

"I worry telling her more than anyone," I say. "We've been through so much."

"Then do not tell her. Like I say, you owe her nothing."

"I have to. And you're wrong. I owe her everything." I lean back and fold my arms. "It was all my fault."

"Not true, my good man. Had she not been hellbent on changing you, I dare say you'd still be together—although that would be an insult in itself."

"I need to tell her, and I need you to support it, okay?"

He sighs, lifting his cup in both hands. "So be it, and consider it done."

I nod and picture my mother again, flicking between her agony and the last time I saw Danii. A different agony, but one I still caused.

2
^nd
October—York:

Recommended Listening:

Matilda—Alt J

Paper Forest—Emmy The Great

No One’s Gonna Love You—Band Of Horses

Poison & Wine—The Civil Wars

Life rushes by like a freshly painted canvas smudged with a heavy and clumsy fist. It's a blur of hues as the trees and sky and houses and roads collide into one another. It's hard to decipher where one ends and the other begins, but I'm content with this chaotic state, as the flash of colour entices my gaze to follow it.

I've always loved the rumble of a train. There's something about the trembling noise and shaking vibrations that places me into a trance. I never sleep, merely drift into a peaceful state as I peer out the window as reality passes by.

However, this love was when I rarely used them. In the past couple of weeks, I've gone barely a day without a trip North or South, side-to-side; some short, others long. I've covered hundreds of miles in the last two weeks as I've headed to Leeds and then Manchester, from London to Edinburgh. In the past, the seats were mere seats, but now they're habitats of filth and despair, and I cringe whenever I drop to a cushion that's clearly older than I.

During this time, I've also developed a rather strong fear of hospitals, not because of the sick filling the wards, rather the knowledge so many go there to say goodbye. A father shouldn't say farewell in such a grim and dire place, nor should a mother kiss her child one final time in a prison built for the sick. Each time I step into a new hospital, venture into a new ward, or listen to an apparent specialist offer the same explanation as the day before, my stomach churns.

This fear is all I can think about as another dying forest blurs past my window. Autumn's grip is tight, and a hint of winter creeps through. The last of the most stubborn leaves remain, but their dark brown presence shows only one thing... death.

The leaves are dead. The trees are dormant. Summer is no more, and cold seeps into everything. The ground is wet and the air chilled, and every time I step outside, the bite buries a little deeper. It's a constant reminder of what's happening inside my brain, out of my control, and apparently, out of everyone else's, too. It isn't death I can't stop obsessing over, but the process of dying.

Will I become one of the stubborn leaves clinging on for dear life? Will I say goodbye strapped to a bed, unable to move or speak or hush an
I love you
? I'm not scared of death, not yet, but I am scared of dying. Each step I take, the same question lingers:
what am I going to do?

Everyone tells me to have faith and hold onto hope, and in the beginning I think I did. Two weeks of tests and appointments wear you down, though, especially when the news never changes.
 

The tumour is large... it's growing... it's malignant... it's in a peculiar place... which means we're unable to operate... and the usual therapy and procedures won't work... although we can still try... there's always hope... there's always the exception... we could try this and we can try that... but the headaches will get worse... the tumour will get bigger... seizures will occur... medications will get stronger... you'll start to forget things... you may black out... but the pills will help... life will get tougher... chances are slim... you'll grow weak... but you're young and strong... you may change... you may forget who people are... you may forget who you are... but we can try this... maybe try that... and there is hope... there's always hope...

When the first meeting with the first specialist ended, I walked into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. I already knew my hopes were slim, but no one had told me to my face. People hide behind hope, but I can't hide behind it, and I certainly can't hide from death. There's either something that can be done, or there isn't. Looking in the mirror, it dawned on me, the important question I was yet to ask:
what am I going to do?

Hospitals are supposed to keep you alive, but they're killing me. Each new specialist introduces me to a new hospital, walking down various wards as the smell of antiseptic-something clings to the back of my throat. Food isn't the same, nor is drink, and my clothes stink of the lingering stench. And all the while, the same question remains:
what am I going to do?

I imagine staying: my friends and family around me, offering a helping hand as my body deteriorates; doctors who have answers, fancy machines, and endless medications; home, my lovely home, the place I've known for twenty-two years. All this will prolong my life and keep me safe... only, prolong what, exactly?
 

So, I picture myself leaving and going somewhere... anywhere: finally exploring the exotic lands that used to adorn my bedroom wall; walking along lonesome beaches and discovering who I am; finally living in the present instead of dreaming of tomorrow; make what little time I have left worthy of life; transition from living to dying man with my head held high.