Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play

by Danny Wallace

  “Or,” said Ian, suddenly having an idea, “is it that you think he knows it’s you?”

  “It’s crossed my mind,” I said.

  I’d started to think about my first proper job, when I’d been a journalist. Letters from members of the public were an occupational hazard, and those who did take the trouble to write, in order to proffer a correction or disagree with an opinion, were, more often than not, a little bit nutty. And then there were the letters from people like me and Ben, teenage hoaxers, giggling as we spewed out random opinions from made-up characters… which had started to make his at first blind acceptance of them all the more worrying…

  “Nah,” said Ian, mopping up brown sauce with a slab of bread. “It’s LA. The fact that some people who enjoy dressing up as animals would take offense at an article making fun of people who enjoy dressing up as animals probably happens twenty or thirty times a day over there. And they’re probably always turning up at journalists’ offices all dressed up and waving their poetry about.”

  And he was right. For about a quarter of a second.

  Because this was Ben Ives we were talking about.

  Was he actually, secretly, on to me? Was this an elaborate double bluff? You could never be sure with Ben. I thought back to my days at Argos, at the pristine white letter that had been pinned so carefully to the staffroom wall… the way he’d looked when he’d told me I’d never get him back… the way he’d always been one step ahead…

  “So what is the problem?” asked Ian, sitting back, full of beans. Literally full of beans, I mean. “Because I’m not being funny, Dan, but there’s a fete on in Chislehurst today.”

  “Well, I wrote back,” I said. “And I arranged a meeting.”

  “You’d already arranged a meeting,” said Ian. “The made-up meeting.”

  “No,” I said, slowly. “I mean, I arranged a meeting…”

  The fact was, this was Ben’s fault. This was what I kept telling myself. This was Ben’s fault for getting all jittery and precious and trying to force ManGriff the Beast Warrior’s hand. Paw. Hand.

  Had Ben not made it absolutely clear that this was ManGriff’s one chance of a meeting for who knows how long, perhaps all that would’ve happened was, two or three minutes before the agreed meeting time, I would’ve phoned up and laughed down the phone at him.

  But now, the way things had developed, I wanted more… I didn’t want Ben calling the shots. I was in control. And I wanted to see Ben. Not in the same way as I’d wanted to see Tarek or Cameron, but in a more base and visceral way. Plainly speaking, I wanted to see Ben’s face when he realized that it wasn’t an annoyed group of Furries who’d come to see him after all. It was me. Danny Wallace. A wronged man.

  “Something has to be done, Ian!” I said. “I have to do something. Ben Ives tricked me. He broke the rules. You don’t prank a pranker, Ian. You never prank a pranker!”

  “Well you should get him back!”

  “That’s what this is all about! Why do you think I’ve been pretending to be a variety of animal-obsessed poets?”

  “Right!” said Ian, nodding, eyes closed. “Got you.”

  “Ben was trying to regain control of the situation, and I didn’t want to let him,” I said.

  And that was why, almost without thinking of the consequences, I’d gone to a website, checked a few details, and then tapped out my reply.

  Ben,

  That’s fine. We can meet alone—I’ll clear it with my girlfriend. How about the Garden Bar, which isn’t too far from your office, next Friday afternoon at 2pm?

  ManGriff

  “So you emailed him back?”

  “Nearly,” I said, my finger pointing in the air.

  “Why nearly?”

  I’d been staring at the screen for a couple of minutes, my finger hovering over my mouse. And I just didn’t know whether to press Send.

  I’d been doing so well. That table was nearly all varnished and that rubber band had really sorted out my hosepipe. I’d been at a crossroads these past few months, and Ian knew that. Finding my old friends had been a handy way of coping with the prospect of turning thirty—of seeking reassurance that we were all going through the same things. Of making my leap into the world of the thirtysomething okay. Of calming myself down, and leaving stupid behavior behind. But this was something else. If I was to fly to LA just because I wanted to redress a balance that had been off-kilter for the last sixteen years, I would have trouble justifying it to Lizzie. To me. To anyone.

  And so I hadn’t pressed Send.

  Because I knew that, like all grown-up, responsible men in charge of their own destinies… I would require permission.

  “So what do you need my help for?” said Ian, puzzled. “Pressing your mouse down? Because I’m fairly sure you can do that yourself…”

  “I need you to help me make my case to Lizzie,” I said. “And also, I need you to help me put up a canopy.”

  Ian and I had been working in the garden most of the afternoon, and by the time Lizzie got home we were sitting in the sun, feet up and enjoying a beer.

  This was good. Sod Paul the builder. I had taken control!

  “Hello, boys!” said Lizzie. “Another one?”

  We smiled and said thanks, and then looked at each other and smiled again. Lizzie had been standing under our excellent new canopy and not even noticed.

  “You should varnish this,” said Ian, tapping the surface of the table.

  “I did varnish it!” I said.

  “Well, you should unvarnish it and then varnish it again.”

  “I did!”

  Lizzie came through the door again, brandishing fresh bottles of Stella, and studied our faces.

  “Why are you two looking so proud of yourselves?” she asked.

  We simply pointed and let our work speak for itself. Lizzie turned and looked, and said “Oh” in what I like to think was astonishment and wonder.

  Now, granted, this was not the best canopy in the world. It was essentially a piece of corrugated plastic that we’d sawn up and smoothed down. And yeah, so the screws hadn’t gone all the way in the wall, and we’d forgotten to remove the sticker from the plastic, and there was a crack in it, and the whole thing wasn’t quite what you’d call “straight”… but it was our canopy, and we were proud of it.

  “That is…” said Lizzie, pausing so long that both Ian and I had time to hold our breath, exhale, and then breathe in and hold it again, “… the most beautiful canopy I have ever seen!”

  And then there’d been another pause, before we’d all sat about and laughed for a bit, because actually it was shit.

  But it was what it represented that mattered. Things were getting done. Progress was being made. And it didn’t stop there.

  “We’ve made a list,” I said. “A list of possible Man Points.”

  “Aha,” said Lizzie. “The Man Points thing…”

  “I still wish to point out that this is an oppressive regime which removes the fundamental human rights of the adult male,” said Ian, as I held up a sheet of paper.

  “I realized that what we were lacking was a system, Lizzie, so with the help of an independent adjudicator, I have—”

  “Independent adjudicator?” asked Lizzie. “Doesn’t Ian owe you fifty quid for that helmet?”

  “Not anymore!” said Ian, indicating the canopy.

  “Now, I have attempted to put a system in place, by assigning a number of points to a specific task.”

  Lizzie nodded me on.

  “So—mowing the lawn, that’s fairly easy, so that’s a one-pointer. Tidying the shed, that’s worth three points, we reckon…”

  I looked up to see whether Lizzie was agreeing or not, but she was just sitting there, perfectly silent.

  “Right—the canopy, that involves plastics, sawing and screws, so we were thinking…”

  “That’s a five-pointer right there,” said Ian.

  Lizzie still wasn’t saying anything. It was making me ne
rvous. I cleared my throat.

  “So… we thought you could take a look at all these jobs and see if you agree with the number of points we’ve allocated each one. In the meantime”—I reached for another piece of paper—“here is a list of what you can buy with each Man Point.”

  “Buy?”

  “Well, not buy, exactly. But they’re a little like air miles, I suppose.”

  “Are you planning a trip?” she asked.

  Ian’s eyes widened. Mine did too.

  “No! No! Not planning one, no. Not planning, exactly. Just… thinking. About planning. A trip.”

  “Tell her what you’ve done today,” said Ian, thinking quick.

  “Well, the canopy, obviously, then the shed—that’s tidied. So that’s 8MP in all…”

  “8MP?”

  “Eight Man Points,” said Ian. “It’s complicated but you’ll get used to it.”

  “I have also remown the lawn…”

  “1MP,” said Ian, kindly.

  “… put the blinds up in the bathroom…”

  “2MP”

  “… and bought four empty ketchup containers into which we can pour that big bottle of ketchup so as to make it more manageable.”

  “That one’s free.”

  Lizzie picked up both sheets of paper and looked them up and down.

  “Have you mended that broken socket?” she asked, calmly.

  “No. Not yet,” I said. “That’s next.”

  “How about the ladder?”

  “Still in the hallway.”

  I kicked myself. That was 1MP easy.

  “And what are you saving up for?” she asked. “With these Man Points?”

  “I need… well, I’d like… to go to LA. I need to lay a ghost to rest.”

  And then Lizzie looked at me, and looked at the list, and then said, “Fine.”

  “Fine?” I said.

  “Fine,” she said.

  Ian looked stunned.

  “Just like that? Fine? But you don’t even know why I want to go to LA,” I said, confused.

  “You said you needed to lay a ghost to rest. That’s good enough for me. Go lay your ghost to rest. Anyway, I’m going to Brighton with the girls at the weekend, and the last thing I want to have to do is start earning GPs.”

  “Doctors?” said Ian.

  “It’s confusing but you’ll get used to it,” said Lizzie.

  “But the Desperados Pact!” I said.

  “The deadline stands!” she said. “November 16th, okay?”

  “Okay! And I promise I’ll do even more stuff when I get back. I’ll paint the spare room, and I’ll repot those plants, and I’ll move that ladder and mend that socket! I’ll redouble my efforts!”

  “You see, Ian?” said Lizzie, smiling. “I’ve got him redoubling his efforts. I see your list and raise it…”

  “GPs!” said Ian, clicking his fingers. “Girl Points!”

  It was a beautiful sunny evening and I realized how lucky I was. The best relationships are supportive, even of the strangest things. The guilt I’d felt at even starting what I’m sure Hanne would have called a “stupid boy project” faded as the three of us talked, and I showed them pictures of Tarek, and of Cameron, and spoke about how much I wanted to find Christopher Guirrean. I told them about the letters I’d written Andy Clements, and I told them stories about bellydancers, and the boy who lived at number 3 in Malaysia, and of days gone by. And Ian told me about his schooldays, and the time he fell out of a tree trying to look down a girl’s top, and Lizzie joined in too, with stories of schools run by nuns and friends of the past, and as the beer brought its haze and the bright sunshine turned to tree-dappled beams, we sat in the garden, eating chili and comparing stories in the warming way that thousands of other groups of friends were doing right then, right around the world.

  “Jesus!” said Lizzie, looking round the house. “You did all this?”

  “Yup,” I said, proudly.

  “All today?”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Wow!”

  The canopy still looked terrible, mind you. I’d already called Paul to tell him it was now sorted and whatever he had on special order could now be specially canceled. He’d been in the pub. He’d told me it had been a very stressful few days, what with his daughter being rear-ended by that van, and all. Still, he generously said I could have the money I’d paid him not to build the canopy back, but that he was still determined to complete my guttering. It was his number one priority. And then I remembered something.

  “I thought your daughter got mugged?”

  “Yes,” he’d said. “Terrible business.”

  Ian wandered out of the toilet, shaking his hands dry and then clapping them together.

  “Right then!” he said.

  The three of us stood in front of the computer.

  The email was still there. The cursor was winking at us, like it was in on the joke. I was about to update another address.

  “But what is a Furry?” asked Lizzie.

  “People who dress up as animals and then do all manner of unspeakable things,” said Ian, enthusiastically. “Is… you know. What I’ve heard.”

  I pressed Send.

  I was going to LA.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IN WHICH WE LEARN THAT SOMETIMES SECRETS SHOULD STAY SECRET…

  I’m going to tell you a secret—something I have never told anybody.

  It is this: for the last twenty years I haven’t been able to have a bath without thinking of the Mexican guitarist Carlos Santana.

  This is terribly annoying.

  The problem is, somewhere around 1988, I happened to catch Carlos Santana on Radio 1 just as he was saying that the ideal temperature for bath water is the precise temperature which means you never even realize you’re actually sliding into the bath. It should be neither too warm for you to notice, nor too cold for it to matter. That, said Carlos Santana proudly, is when you know you’re in the ideal bath.

  I was lying in the ideal bath in my hotel room in LA, late on the night of the 20th.

  And I was thinking about Carlos Santana while eating a tiny packet of nuts. I’d taken them along with a couple of tiny cans of beer I’d nicked from the plane journey. I’d felt I had to hide them away, because the man next to me had been reading an article on addiction and had frowned at me every time I’d asked for another tiny Heineken (or tinyken). He’d shot me a look as if I’d belched and then ordered a bottle of Scotch and a straw.

  Hey, I wonder if Carlos Santana drinks bottles of Scotch with a straw.

  I really had to stop thinking about Carlos Santana.

  And so I crushed my empty tinyken and I thought about the plan instead.

  The plan was unnervingly simple.

  Ben Ives would walk into the Garden Bar at 2 p.m. and be looking around the room, trying to find a man who looked like he had something to get off his chest about life as an animal. He’d be wanting to sit down and get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, but be confused by the fact that, instead, he had seemingly randomly bumped into an old friend he used to work with at Argos. Which is when I would reveal that ManGriff the Beast Warrior had been me all along. We’d then spend an hour or however long he could spare chatting and laughing, while he slapped his thighs and shook his head, and said, “I can’t believe you got me! I am a fool and you are a genius!” Maybe he’d cancel work and we’d hang out all afternoon. Maybe he’d show me LA by night.

  Whatever we did, we would do it as friends. Friends reunited. It was the perfect plan.

  But then… the inevitable paranoia…

  It had all gone so well so far—Michael, Anil, Simon, Cameron and Tarek had all welcomed me back into their lives with open arms. But with Ben, there might always be that thing between us. Would getting him back lead to an entire life of one-upmanship and revenge? What if he took it badly? Would I have to keep looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Would I have to treat every email, letter or r
andom phone call with suspicion, just in case it was him? Or would this bring an end to things? An evening-up? A balance?

  I got out of the bath and convinced myself I was being stupid. I was on top of things. I was in charge. Ben had no idea whatsoever that I was ManGriff.

  I opened the minibar and took out a tiny bottle of Scotch. It might help me sleep.

  But then I couldn’t find a straw, so I put it back.

  In the morning I awoke bright and early and with what seemed like many hours of rest under my belt, and I wandered outside, and into LA.

  I was staying near Robertson Boulevard, not a million miles away from Rodeo Drive, and took in the hipster boutiques with a Pretzel Dog in my hand. A Pretzel Dog was a fairly new experience to me, and one I’m not at all concerned didn’t come to me sooner, managing to fuse as it does a pretzel with a hot dog, while also managing to be nowhere near as nice as either a pretzel or a hot dog. I binned it, and looked around. I was outside a shop called Kitson. Through its vast windows I could see sneakers, and jackets, and row upon row of vintage T-shirts.

  I have a particular fondness for vintage American T-shirts—one I’ve had since I was a kid. I love the sense of unfamiliar history each shirt seems to have. Once worn to celebrate the achievements of a minor football team in some backwater town, or a Scout jam-boree in North Carolina, or a spelling bee in Tennessee, or a mayoral announcement in Idaho, somehow they find their way from little-known towns and cities across the country to shops just like this. Each one meant something to someone at some stage of their life, but for whatever reason wound up out of fashion or out of favor, and discarded or donated or handed down, until there was no one left to hand it down to except a complete stranger in an unknown shop.

  I don’t know why, but I walked in. In front of me were towering piles of T-shirts, stretching the length of the shop. The ones I could see all seemed to have been modified in some way, updated somehow. Suddenly, I couldn’t be bothered. There were too many of them. I was hot. The T-shirts smelled musty. I wanted to turn around and walk out, and find a breeze, and something to take away the taste of Pretzel Dog.