"Yes, there's something magical about Christmas. I'm not talking about the fantastical side like Santa and Rudolph, but an aura of some kind. Several times in my life, I've experienced magical things at this time of year. Not so much recently, but certainly in the past when I was in full flow of my tale. These days, I simply look back on them and savour it as best I can."
I nod and force a smile, reluctant to let my sadness take over. "Yeah, I was just thinking about what Christmas used to be like. It's not the same anymore, but there's still a spark of sorts."
He sits back down and moves close, just inches from me. "Absolutely, Dante, there is. It's a time where we all regress a little, and that's no bad thing. As a baby, we're capable of staring at a wall for twenty minutes, literally watching paint dry. There's no such thing as boredom. Everything exists to be devoured. How wonderful.
"Then we get older and boredom becomes our nemesis, but we never let it defeat us, instead escaping into a made-up parallel of instantaneous invention. We create our own rules and don't give a damn about what others say. This, too, is wonderful.
"But then, we get older still and are held to its mercy. We're unable to defeat it on our own, instead turning to other people's fictional worlds: TV, books, whatever... we forget how to entertain ourselves, which is very sad indeed." He crosses his leg again. "Christmas, though, all rules are broken. That spark invites us to be children again, and although most fight it and try to remain mature and grown up and whatever else masquerades as happiness these days, everyone gives in a little. We play and wonder and embrace a piece of magic."
I imagine being home right now, sitting across from my parents as a film keeps us company. We may rely on an alternate reality to entertain us, but we do it together, and in a way, this is the piece of magic Jake refers to. On no other day would this take place. At any other time of the year, we eat and then I leave. But at Christmas, it's special.
"You say you're not religious?" I ask.
"Not even a little, kind sir. I've met many men in my time, many of whom are and speak a lot of sense. I can't personally fathom it though. Never have and suspect never will."
"But you have faith?"
He arches towards me again, widening his stare. "I used to hate religion and everything that came with it; faith included. But as you travel and meet people and good things happen—and bad things, too—and life is lived in a grand tapestry you can never quite comprehend, you realise there's so much more to us: as individuals, as a species, as a simple being of existence." He drops his gaze and rubs his hands in figure eights. "I believe in faith now, and I also believe we all discover it eventually. That's not to say you'll find religion or God or any such deity, but a glint of the unexplainable that simply makes sense."
I picture Danii and the first time I met her, the moment we finally said goodbye, the trips away and lounging nights in. They rush forward in a wave, crashing all at once in a vibrant whoosh. The tumour can do what it likes to my new memories, but please, don't touch these. "So you think faith is different for everyone?"
He stands up, the sun shining bright behind him. "Yes, yes I do, and with that, it's my time to leave. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Dante."
"Enough reminiscing for one year?"
"Oh no," he says, offering me his hand once more. "I do that every day, but not here for another three-hundred-sixty-five of them."
Taking his hand, I stand up and join him, realising how small he is—several inches smaller than me. "Pleasure's all mine, Jake. Thank you for the story."
Twisting on the spot, he walks away.
"You know something," I say. "You remind me a lot of my friend."
"And who would that be," he asks, walking backward all the while.
"Wilbur Day."
"Well, if I ever cross paths with Wilbur Day, I shall mention you."
"Please do. He would enjoy your tales."
As quick as he appeared, he's gone, assumingly forever, just like most new acquaintances these days. I miss home. I miss my parents. I always do, but today, it's different.
The people I meet are finite and the stories I share, slim. There's folk back home that care to listen, need to see me, and desire a final goodbye. I'm not sure if I ever believed I would make it back home. It's been part of the plan, but with such uncertain circumstances comes an unwavering doubt. I can promise and send happy emails and tell my mother everything is fine, but the honest, gritty, and most realistic truth is one day I'll be here, and the next, I won't.
It may be back home in York, but it might be here in Melbourne, or somewhere in Sydney, or a country we've yet to agree on. This entire trip is built on the promise to return, but when a deadline isn't given, how can you be certain when it ends?
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.
4th 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?"
TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Page 15