Friends Like These

by Danny Wallace

  ‘Do you remember, you were always writing to me about different hobbies you were starting?’

  ‘Karate. Yup. That was one. I made it to a white-belt-with-redtips. My friend Anil told me that was very impressive. And then there was autograph-hunting. I got three. There just weren’t very many celebrities wandering around Leicestershire at the time.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Stamp collecting. Postcards of old planes. World Cup stickers.’

  ‘Ha. Like every other lad.’

  ‘Yeah. But that one I nearly did. Just needed a Hungarian. Otherwise I’d have done it.’

  ‘Well, you nearly did it. You tried. There’s always that.’

  ‘Yeah. There’s always that.’

  Lauren smiled again.

  ‘Do you remember, you used to be so into Michael Jackson?’ she said. ‘And you used to write me these letters detailing exactly what you thought each lyric of each song meant?’

  I blushed slightly.

  ‘You even thought he was speaking directly to you on the “Black Or White” single.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessarily about racism!’ I said. ‘It could just have easily been about little boys in Loughborough!’

  And then we’d both laughed, because, actually, it could.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about Cameron?’ I asked. ‘In any of my letters?’

  ‘Cameron?’ she said, tapping her lip with her finger.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You probably didn’t memorise my letters. Well, he’s the guy who got me into Michael Jackson. A Fijian kid. Turns out he’s a chief. He’s got his own village!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seriously. And my mate Simon’s solved time travel. A couple of them are architects, which is a great job, but given the choice I’d rather be a time traveller.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ she said. ‘And here’s me, working temporarily in IT for what seems like five years…’

  ‘Well, Cameron works in IT, too… there’s nothing wrong with IT…’

  ‘Yeah, but… it just makes me sound a bit boring.’

  ‘It does not! You have a cat named Peewee! That’s not boring!’

  ‘It’s no Fijian chief, though.’

  ‘Well… very few cats are,’ I said, and then I laughed, because I thought that was quite a good joke, but Lauren didn’t get it. It was embarrassing. I’d been expecting her to laugh, so now I was just a man laughing at a Fijian cat. But it seemed like Lauren was thinking of something else.

  ‘Are you ever dissatisfied?’ she said. ‘As you approach thirty, I mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say dissatisfied. For me, it was more about turning into a man. Leaving my boyish ways behind.’

  ‘It’s a benchmark, though, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘It is a benchmark,’ I said, and for a moment, we just sat there, in silence.

  ‘Can I tell you something?’ I asked, and when she nodded, I told her everything.

  ‘I’d wondered why you seemed so incredibly keen to meet up,’ said Lauren, after I’d told her about Anil, about Simon, about LA car chases, giant rabbit heads, Berlin rappers… and Andy. ‘I mean, usually people just turn up on Facebook, force you to be their friend, and you get one email from them saying they’ve got two kids and an interest in badminton.’

  ‘This is face-to-Facebook,’ I said, still quite proud of that.

  ‘I guess it’s nice that you still have hobbies,’ she said.

  ‘Hanne used to call them stupid boy projects. Being a girl, you may agree.’

  Lauren thought about it.

  ‘No. No, I don’t. There’s nothing stupid about wanting to see old friends. There’s nothing stupid about this, is there? You and me sat here, catching up? So why did you stop?’

  ‘Well, you know. After the whole Andy thing, I just kind of lost interest.’

  ‘Out of respect for him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so. In some way. I felt like I was intruding on something. On something private. Like I’d just been blundering about, thoughtlessly and selfishly, never considering for a moment that something like that could have happened to anyone. I mean, what if I’d phoned his house? What if I’d said something stupid? It just felt right to back off and leave things alone for a while.’

  Lauren thought about it for a moment or two.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re wrong. It’s only my opinion, but you’re wrong. If anything, this should have made you do it more. Because in some ways, it’s precisely what your whole… “adventure”… has been about.’

  I was about to ask her to elaborate, but I didn’t need to…

  ‘What I mean is, you’ve found out one of the great big secrets about life. That it can end. And instead of deciding to make the most of it, and do the things you want while you can, you’ve decided to… well, what?’

  ‘Do some DIY and stuff.’

  ‘Exactly. But, Daniel – life is for living. Listen, I’m not going to preach to you. I’ve only heard what you’ve just told me and I don’t know any of the details and, to be fair, I haven’t seen you in years. But it seems like maybe you shouldn’t be stopping this because of Andy. But starting it.’

  I looked at my bottle of Beck’s.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I said.

  It was a few minutes later, and we’d moved on to more light-hearted conversation. What Lauren had said was still tingling at the back of my mind, though. It had been classic Lauren. Yeah, so our problems when we were kids weren’t quite so dramatic. But Lauren had always been the one with the level-headed advice. She’d always been levelheaded. But she thought that meant she was boring.

  ‘You can’t really think you’re boring,’ I said. ‘There must be something.’

  ‘I am! I’m boring! I’m the most boring person in this bar!’

  ‘Something! A hobby! An interest! There is no such thing as a boring person…’

  She thought about it.

  ‘You’ll think I’m odd.’

  ‘Odd or boring – which would you prefer?’

  She glanced at her rucksack.

  ‘There is one thing,’ she said.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m odd!’ she said, again.

  ‘I won’t! What is it?’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘I analyse dreams.’

  Christ. What an oddball.

  ‘That’s good!’ I said. ‘That’s… good!’

  ‘I’m no expert,’ she said. ‘I picked up this book at a hostel. Someone had left it behind, and I got really into it. Want to see?’

  ‘Yes!’ I said, and so she got it out.

  I looked at it. The Dictionary of Dreams by Gustavus Hindman Miller.

  ‘So when you say you analyse dreams, you mean you look them up in an old book?’ I said.

  ‘Kind of,’ she said. ‘It’s a starting point.’

  ‘But this was published a million years ago! What if someone dreamt of an iPod?’

  ‘I’d improvise!’ she said.

  ‘Give that to me,’ I said, and took it. I flicked it open at random. ‘“Cabbage. It is bad to dream of cabbage. Disorders may run riot in all forms.” Who dreams of cabbage?’

  ‘Some people dream of cabbage!’ she said. ‘And if not cabbage, then lettuce.’

  ‘Mallet!’ I said, still reading. ‘“To dream of a mallet, denotes you will meet unkind treatment from friends on account of your ill health!”’

  ‘Could happen!’

  ‘“To dream of a bullfrog, denotes, for a woman, marriage to a wealthy widower, but there will be children with him to be cared for.”’

  I closed the book.

  ‘They’re quite specific,’ I said.

  ‘How about you?’ she said, taking the book off me.

  ‘How about me what?’

  ‘Like, what was the last dream you had?’

  I couldn’t think.

  �
�I’m not sure,’ I said, and then: ‘Oh! There was one the other night. I had a banjo at one point.’

  ‘You see! People do dream of weird stuff!’

  ‘Not cabbage, though!’

  ‘Banjo,’ she said. ‘“To dream of a banjo, denotes that pleasant amusement will be enjoyed…”’

  ‘That sounds good,’ I said.

  ‘“To see a negro playing one…”’

  ‘Hang on…’

  ‘“… denotes that you will have slight worries, but no serious vexation for a season…’”

  ‘Keep your voice down! Christ! When was that written?’

  ‘Turn of the last century.’

  ‘And you believe this?’

  ‘I believe there’s something in it. Dreams are our subconscious telling us what it thinks we need to know. Although I’m not sure about that banjo one. What else?’

  ‘I remember my mate Dan telling me he was always dreaming of cows,’ I said, flushed with embarrassment, and hoping this explanation might be a little more enlightened.

  ‘“To dream of seeing cows waiting for the milking hour promises abundant fulfilment of hopes and desires.”’

  Lauren looked satisfied.

  ‘Were they waiting for the milking hour?’ she said.

  ‘I have no idea!’ I said. ‘It was Dan’s dream! And what does a cow look like when it’s waiting? You don’t see cows with watches…’

  ‘Or babies. You never see a baby with a watch. I had a dream about that.’

  And then she looked at me. And there was a beat. And I realised she was messing about. And we both started to laugh.

  ‘So you don’t believe that stuff?’

  ‘Do I bollocks,’ she said, chucking the book onto her bag. ‘That’s a birthday present for my weird aunt.’

  ‘That was really good fun.’

  Lauren’s words. And I had to agree. We were standing on Kingsland Road waiting for her bus.

  ‘It was really good to see you again, Lauren. I’m really glad I came out.’

  ‘So when are you thirty?’

  ‘Three weeks. The sixteenth.’

  ‘Having a party?’

  ‘I… don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  And then, in the distance, we could see her bus. And we shook hands, and then we hugged, and then we said goodnight.

  And then she said, ‘So are you going to see any of the others?’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘The final few?’ she said.

  And I shrugged, and I said, ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘How about the one that’s in London?’ she said.

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Seems like a good starting point,’ she said. ‘If he’s only round the corner… treat it like you’re just meeting a friend for a pint.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Just meeting a friend for a pint,’ I said. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Bye, then…’

  ‘Wait!’

  I’d forgotten something.

  ‘I brought this. It’s my old address book. You need to write your new address in it. The others all have…’

  Lauren took it and did as I asked. She flicked through.

  ‘The World of Michael Jackson?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, let’s not talk about that,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it’s likely I’ll be seeing him, either.’

  She handed the book back to me.

  ‘You nearly did it,’ she said. ‘At least there’s that.’

  And I waved her goodbye as she boarded her bus.

  Back at home, I thought about what Lauren had said. It is important to finish stuff. I knew that. As an adult, I’d always tried my hardest to finish my projects, finish my hobbies, achieve something – maybe as a result of rarely having managed it as a kid. It did feel good. And maybe there was something I could finish.

  I made my way to eBay and typed a few words into the search box. And bingo. A man called Christian from somewhere in Germany had exactly what I needed.

  A Panini World Cup Mexico 86 sticker album.

  Completed.

  Christian had managed to do what I hadn’t. He’d even got the bloody Hungarian.

  I didn’t bid on it. I clicked on the Buy It Now! button and paid the asking price in full.

  I went to bed, knowing that at least I’d finished something.

  Friday.

  Wag’s welcome-home, bon-voyage party.

  Ian was wearing a very odd shirt indeed.

  ‘That’s a very odd shirt indeed,’ I said.

  ‘Why do people keep saying that?’ he said. ‘This is what everyone’s wearing in Chislehurst!’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s not a different country! It’s just past the M25!’

  ‘I happen to think it’s quite a statement.’

  ‘Dirty protests are quite a statement.’

  ‘You’ll all be wearing one of these come the winter,’ he said. ‘And then you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Yes we will,’ I said. ‘So it’s nice to see Wag again, eh?’

  We both looked over at him. He was doing the big belly laugh he always does, and then he hugged yet another new arrival.

  ‘Where’s Lizzie?’ asked Ian.

  ‘On her way,’ I said, and just like that, in she walked.

  ‘It’s rammed!’ she said. ‘So many people!’

  There were indeed. It was great. They’d all turned up to say hello to a friend they hadn’t seen in a while, and weren’t likely to see again for quite some time. I couldn’t help but think of Neil’s thirtieth, those few months ago, before any of this had started.

  An hour later, and the whole gang was round a table. Ian, Wag, me and Lizzie.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got some bad news,’ said Wag.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your birthday. I’m not going to be back in time. The tour’s been extended. We’re going to be in Australia on the sixteenth.’

  ‘Oh, well, don’t worry. We’ll hang out when you get back.’

  ‘But your party!’ said Wag, outraged. ‘I’ll miss your party!’

  ‘Yeah… I’m not really sure I’m going to have a party this year.’

  ‘What?’ said Lizzie. ‘It’s your thirtieth! You’ve got to have a party!’

  ‘This is my party shirt, Dan!’ said Ian. ‘Don’t retire my party shirt!’

  ‘I’m just saying, maybe we can have a little thing. Just a couple of people. But I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s just another year. What’s the difference, really, between twenty-nine and thirty?’

  ‘A year,’ said Ian, working it out on his fingers.

  ‘I don’t mean mathematically. I just mean in the grand scheme of things. Anyway, nothing will ever beat my sixth birthday, so there’s no point even trying.’

  ‘What was so good about your sixth birthday?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘I got a bike and the bloke from Radio Tay read my name out on the radio. And even though it turned out the bike was a girl’s bike, it would be very hard to top that…’

  ‘But my shirt!’ said Ian.

  ‘We’ll see…’ I said, and then, looking at Lizzie: ‘And I know what you’re thinking. But I don’t want a surprise party. So can we just leave that idea there?’

  Lizzie bit her lip, and just nodded.

  ‘Anyway, tonight’s about me,’ said Wag, raising his glass. ‘To me!’

  ‘To soon-to-be-absent friends!’ said Ian.

  And though I tried hard not to, I couldn’t help but think about Andy.

  Back at home, Lizzie was in bed. And I was in the living room, looking through the Box. It had been fun, this. I’d had a laugh. But maybe it was time to finally close the Box.

  I started to pile everything back in. Pictures, and letters, and memories had been spread around it for weeks. Clues, and pointers, and stories waiting to happen, with them. I’d put Andy’s letters at the top of the pile, along with my returned replies. But something made me want to have a last
look at them.

  Not all of Andy’s letters I’d managed to reply to. There were still one or two left. I’d read them, of course, but not needed to think about what to write in reply. If I’m honest, the replies had just been a bit of fun. A way of reintroducing myself to Andy in an unusual way. A way of highlighting the fun we’d had – the friendship we’d had. But now it was like I’d been saying goodbye to him.

  I opened one of his letters at random and began to read. It was the one telling me he’d got a new desk. Such a small event. Such a forgettable event. I’m sure, had we met, we’d never even have thought to mention it. But it was a peek into a life. Small moments of normality. And those small, lost moments – once remembered – can often mean more than you could ever guess. Like a forgotten joke, or a final hug, or a local restaurant’s fourth anniversary.

  In the past few months, I had a whole host of new moments to remember.

  I thought back to what Lauren had said. Life is for living. A cliché, yeah, but a cliché, I now realised, for a reason. A cliché because it was absolutely true. And it summed up, in its four words, a million other things, all of which were also absolutely true.

  I found another letter. A sentence jumped out. ‘I’m having such a lot of fun!’ Another sentence. ‘I wish we can meet up again soon – that would be really good!’

  Well, now we couldn’t.

  And suddenly, it hit me. I’d been down lately because yes, I’d uncovered an uncomfortable truth. But I’d reacted in the wrong way, and that had only served to make it worse. Lauren had been right. Reading these letters made me realise how alive Andy had been. I don’t mean ‘alive’ in a singing-and-dancing, musical number kind of a way. Nor in the way people say ‘I feel so alive!’ after they’ve just done a bit of abseiling or jumped out of a plane. I mean alive in its most basic, normal, literal alive kind of a way. Everyday alive. Alive like we are right now. Me telling you some stuff. You listening.

  Okay, so the events in question weren’t the most exciting events ever put to paper. Moving rooms. Getting a new desk. Going to Leicester for some printer ribbon. But they were life. They happened. For a brief moment of however long, they mattered.

  And that made realise that my days mattered. Whatever I was doing. Fixing a canopy. Walking about. Painting a shed.