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

by Matthew Turner

  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."

  His eyes drop and his shoulders slump, a distant sight from his usual taut self. The natural assumption is he's some kind of Adonis, living out his days in the gym and sculpting a desirable physique. It couldn't be farther from the truth. His body is firm and tight, but it isn't through exercise, rather, his relentlessly vibrant days. He never stops, always twisting and turning and shuttling about.

  "I'm sorry, Wil, I shouldn't—"

  "Dante, m'lad, you have no reason to apologise," he says, straightening his back and clearing his throat. "You talk more sense than any other I know. Let us toast this conversation like we should every other. Oia is dying, you see," he says, pointing out to sea. "There's little time to waste."

  The sky is on fire, lines of orange spread out in all directions. Sitting halfway up the rocky hillside, we watch Oia perish behind another day. My oldest friend dances with it, his eyes moving from left to right, up and down, taking it in and tasting each second. For so long I've wanted to walk in his shoes and see the world as he sees it; as though he held the secret of happiness in his hands, and that if I watched him, and envied him, and tried to live the way he lives, I too would grasp the coveted remedy. Now, all I glimpse is sadness, and how very wrong I was.

  28th November—Lhasa:

  Recommended Listening:

  Almost Lover—A Fine Frenzy

  Into Dust—Mazzy Star

  Shiver—Lucy Rose

  Graveyard—Feist

  I've grown up under the assumption I'm a cultured and well-rounded individual, but as soon as I stepped foot in Tibet, I realised how ignorant I am—indeed, how most of us are. Living in a bubble is what I've known, being told one thing by the media and another by teachers.

  Lhasa is unlike anywhere, and I hope no other tries to compete. This is the kind of place I need to visit on such a trip, but it isn't what I expected, although to be honest, I'm not sure what I did. The ridiculously cold and fresh high-altitude air isn't soothing like I hoped. It's stained with questions I never thought to ask, but now they're out, they're difficult to ignore.

  The journey from Oia to here was long, several days of planes and buses, although the entire period is somewhat blurry: dreamlike. Headaches mixed with jet lag and exhaustion. It's hard to tell which moments were real and which were those of dreams. One I'm sure that's real is a conversation with Wil, as Ethan disappeared to the small airport shop, and Danii slept a few inches from my thigh.

  "Dante, m'lad," he whispered, moving close to my ear and stuffing his right foot underneath his left leg. "May I ask you something... hmm, yes, something that may not be the right thing to ask." His darting eyes refused to settle. "Of course, you don't have to answer if you don't wish."

  "It's fine, Wil. Go ahead," I said, and although I had no idea what his question was, I assumed he had many, most of which remained locked away deep inside at the insistence of Ethan, no doubt.

  "Right, good, good lad. Well, it's the headaches, you see. I know they're bad, but how bad are they?"

  "You hear me in the morning, don't you?"

  Playing with his fingers, he shuffled in his seat. "I do, sir. Regrettably so."

  "Yeah, I figured. Danii sleeps like a lion, but you barely sleep at all."

  "It's the curse of a curious mind, my friend." Removing his right leg from under his left, he sat on the ground and looked up to me, like a child listening to a grandparent read a story. "So, the pain? What's it like?"

  "It's bad, and I sense it'll get worse. I mean, it differs. Some mornings I wake up fine for a few seconds, as the pain sneaks up on me slowly... gradually. But then, other mornings, I awake to this spiking agony. Those are the worst. It's jarring, you know? Like someone has woken me up with a knife to the chest."

  "I see, I see."

  "Either way, it lingers for a while, getting worse and worse, and although the pills help keep it at bay, they only do so much."

  "Yes, of course. The pain, though... how bad is it? I know I can't begin to imagine, but..."

  "It's bad, mate," I said, hesitant to share too much. "My forehead heats up and stings, like someone is holding a dozen matches an inch above it. The pulsing is slow at first, but then gets quicker and quicker, and soon I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches and my teeth throb, and if I try to open my eyes, I can't. And I sweat, and shake, and bunch whatever I can grab into my fists: the sheets, a pillow, my thigh...

  "And time stops. All I can do is focus on my breathing, hoping I'm not screaming or panting, because I don't want Danii to experience it. I know she does, to an extent, but I can't put her through that pain every morning. I don't want to put any of you through it."

  He looked at me, silent.

  "And every single time it happens, it feels like it'll never end. 'This is it,' I think. 'I'm broken'. But the pills work their magic, or my body fights back, or the tumour decides to offer some mercy. Some days are worse than others, and some last longer, but eventually, my grip loosens, the shaking subsides, and my jaw unlocks and I open my eyes. It still hurts, but compared to that before it, it's bliss. In a strange way, it helps me appreciate the day more."

  Nodding, he sighed. "You are a very brave man, Dante King." And he stood up and walked away, hands in his green chino pockets, chin tight to his chest.

  We said nothing more on the matter, and the next day we arrived in Tibet. During our first evening, I experienced my first seizure. Sitting on the bed and sipping from a bottle of water, I suddenly felt lightheaded, the world blurring at the edges like an ancient photograph left in the sunlight. Everything went black, and as I awoke, I couldn't move, paralysed on the floor and looking up at the cloud of worry surrounding me: Danii kneeling, crying and shaking; Ethan crouching, speaking muted words; and Wil standing rigid and straight, his thumbs flicking and feet tapping.

  As feeling came back to my muscles, I moved my fingers, then my toes, then my entire hand. It wasn't particularly painful, but it was strange, and most certainly terrifying. I've taken anticonvulsants for a while now, having the audacity to think they were working. Maybe they have been. Maybe, without them, I'd suffer such shakes on a daily basis.

  Ethan helped me sit up after a few minutes of insisting I lay still, and I hugged Danii and dried her tears, and although we all decided everything was okay, and that we were all okay, we're not. Things have changed, and coupled with this strange and eerie Tibet, I'm not sure what to do. I want to ask Danii questions about the moment, about what I looked like and what I did, but I can't. How can I ask her to re-live it? I could ask Ethan now, the huddled figure sitting next to me, but I don't want to. Part of me needs to know what it's like from the outside looking in, but another refuses it. From my perspective, it's strange and scary, but not particularly haunting. I sense from Danii's view, and Ethan's and Wil's, it is.

  "I still don't know how to approach this place," I say to Ethan,
the pair of us sitting at the foot of the Potala Palace. He's silent, cuddled up in his large woolly coat that drapes below his knees. "Everything about here is beautiful, but I hate it... or... maybe it's that I hate us for being here."

  "What do you mean?" he says, shivering and blowing into his red, raw hands.

  "Whether we like it or not, we're tourists, but how can you be a tourist here? Are we helping these people? This place is above tourism, surely. We shouldn't be here, but at the same time... I'm glad I've seen this," I say, pointing up to the palace: white walls climbing up the hillside that's hiding the Himalayas behind. It's hard to comprehend how high we are and what rests so close, but a quick walk to the left or right opens up an entire new existence. "It's selfish. We're here for our own good, which is fine in places like Rome, but here... I don't know..."

  "It's a pretty eerie place," he says softly, practically not at all.

  "I thought we knew the world, mate. Our parents were good, you know? They took us on holiday and read to us and encouraged us to learn and accept those that are different. I thought I knew, but coming here... I haven't a clue." The wind picks up and creeps under my thick jacket, my skin shuddering as it brushes past. The air here is something else: fresh, pure, fragrant.

  "Yeah..."

  "Are you okay?" I ask, worried by the lethargic vacancy in his tone.

  "Yeah, I'm fine."

  Gazing up, I marvel at the red-bricked centre of the palace sitting atop the white walls. Groups pass below, mere figurines against the high-rising kingdom. "Are you sure? You seem a little distant today."

  Peering past the grand spectacle, he exhales, his breath visible as soon as it touches the icy air. "I'm fine. I guess I know what you mean. Being here..." he hesitates. "I don't know. It doesn't seem right."

  "Talk to me, Ethan. I can't handle you being like this. Ever since..."

  "Your fit?"