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

  “This is nothing to do with you,” he said, pushing a pair of little round glasses up his nose. Up the outside of his nose, I mean, not the inside. He wasn’t a magician. “I suggest you step out of the cab if this is a problem for you and let me and this guy deal with this…”

  “You can’t just hijack my cab!” I said. “And are you even going this way? You’re going to be very late for whatever it is you’re doing today. Just think about that for a moment!”

  The cyclist just shrugged.

  “I’m sure Oleg is sorry,” I said. “He didn’t mean to nearly hit you.”

  Oleg said nothing. The cyclist looked at him, annoyed.

  “Oleg, you didn’t mean to nearly hit him, did you?” I said.

  Oleg looked up. The lights were changing.

  “Okay,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  I looked at the cyclist and smiled. Oleg started to move the car forward.

  “I AM SORRY YOU’RE MORON!”

  And then he stepped on the gas.

  I looked behind me, horrified.

  My heart sank as I saw the cyclist slowly and begrudgingly start up after us.

  We managed to lose the cyclist thanks to a run of good luck and green lights. Oleg had clearly decided that we had bonded over this small adventure, and given me his card. I should give him a call when I needed to go back to the airport, he said. He’d bring his limo out for me. I said I’d look out for Bad Mutha! In reality, I would never, ever do either.

  As I walked back into the hotel I found myself jogging slightly, just in case the cyclist had somehow found a short cut. I now understood why people in LA like jogging.

  I made my way to the Business Center in the hotel lobby. It’s always made me feel quite important, using a hotel’s Business Center. Like I had Business to attend to, and nothing short of a Center would help me do it. Sometimes I would ask a member of the staff to direct me to the Business Center, and then I would sit there and pretend I was Businessing, when in fact I was just checking my email and typing “Funny Cats” into YouTube.

  I logged in and checked my emails. First, my ManGriff the Beast Warrior account. There was nothing from Ben Ives—no cancellation, no query, no nothing. We were still on.

  But… were we? I had to make sure. This was like planning a bank robbery. I needed to be meticulous.

  Ben,

  I landed in LA late last night in preparation for our meeting. I’ll see you at the bar at 2pm.

  I looked down to check what I was wearing.

  I’ll be wearing a white shirt and reading a copy of LA Weekly.

  See you then

  M

  And then I checked my normal emails. There was one from Peter Gibson!

  Danny!

  Hello mate. Are we still meeting up this weekend? I’m leaving work soon so let me know!

  Peter

  Bollocks. I’d forgotten to cancel Peter. But no worries. As soon as I was home, I’d hotfoot it round to Tooting to say hello, update his address in my book and notch up friend number 7. Besides, he’d understand—I had important business to attend to in an important Business Center in LA. And I’d just been in a car chase. Surely that topped every excuse ever. I tapped out my reply and promised to buy the first round as soon as I was home.

  Things were working out nicely. But I was disappointed to see that there was still nothing from Akira in Japan. His dad had seemed to think that Akira would love to hear from me, and I’d written an excited and upbeat reintroduction, but so far: nothing. Maybe I’d written to the wrong address? I found his dad’s email, and wrote another message.

  Hello Isamu,

  It’s Daniel Wallace here again. I wrote to Akira but have not heard back yet. I know he must be very busy indeed, but maybe I had the wrong email address for him?

  Sorry to bother you with this,

  Daniel

  So. Nothing from Akira. And nothing, either, from Chris Guirrean. Any Chris Guirrean.

  Before I’d left, I’d printed out a list of all the Chris Guirreans I could find in the UK. There were more than a dozen, spread around the UK from Colchester to Cardiff to Glasgow. I’d figured the Glaswegian Chris Guirrean would be the likeliest—he was closest to Dundee and our childhood home. But people could be anywhere. Literally anywhere. I’d written a standard letter, explaining who I was and what I was up to, and how vitally important it had become for me to meet my first-ever best friend again… and I’d not had a single reply from a single Chris Guirrean as yet. Oh well. There was time. It was still the beginning of September, and I wouldn’t be thirty for a couple of months yet.

  I logged back in as ManGriff the Beast Warrior and found a reply from Ben.

  Sure.

  I smiled, but then frowned.

  What kind of “sure” was that? Was it a sure sure, or was it a sarcastic sure? And if it was a sarcastic sure, was it sarcastic because he wasn’t coming, or sarcastic because he knew this was a set-up? Or perhaps he thought that I wasn’t coming? My levels of paranoia were reaching Woody Allen proportions.

  There was only one way to make certain.

  I looked at my watch. It was 12:30 p.m. I would be meeting Ben in an hour and a half.

  I decided to set off early.

  “So, why are you in LA?” said the driver.

  “Just keep your eyes on the road!” I said, pointing wildly in front of me. “There might be a cyclist!”

  “A cyclist? It’s like four hundred degrees out there…”

  “That just makes them angrier,” I said. “They follow us!”

  “So is this a holiday?” he said, implying, I think, that I might need one.

  “I’m here to surprise an old friend who thinks I’m an animal,” I said.

  And he stayed quite quiet after that.

  We rode silently past the Chinese Theater again. Spiderman no longer seemed to be arguing with Charlie Chaplin. Marilyn Monroe was having her picture taken with a strange little man.

  The cab driver put the radio on and for a few minutes we listened to Ryan Seacrest talking about Britney Spears, before all thoughts turned to Ben Ives. What would his reaction be? Would we get on? Would he find my little wind-up funny? Would it be worth the trip to LA? Worth the distance, worth the time? I hoped so. I leaned my head against the window and was about to drift off, when suddenly…

  “Hang on—what was that?” I said, quickly craning round to see if the something I thought I’d seen was the thing I hoped it was…

  “What?” said the driver.

  “That—that shop back there…”

  I had seen it for just a second. But a second was enough. In the window of a bright and colorful shop was something I now wanted more than anything. Something I knew I had to have. Something that would help me. Something excellent.

  “Stop the cab…” I said.

  * * *

  I was sitting in a corner booth of the bar, hidden away from prying eyes, wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of LA Weekly. I had a Budweiser in front of me, a great view of the doorway, and, crucially, a giant white rabbit head on my lap.

  Yes. A giant white rabbit head on my lap.

  It was brilliant.

  It was huge, and furry, and had round friendly eyes and a big chuckling mouth. The lady at the costume shop who’d sold it to me told me that if I bought it, she’d also throw in a big plastic carrot for free—and that had really swung it. This was meant to be.

  I wasn’t wearing it yet, though. That would be insane. No. I was waiting. Waiting for Ben Ives. Waiting for him to walk through the door, before I’d pull it over my head and sit there, for the first time actually feeling like ManGriff the Beast Warrior, who today had chosen the stylings of a massive rabbit to fully embrace his Furry tendencies.

  I giggled, and then sipped at my drink and looked nervously through the window. It was five to two, and there was no sign of him. The bar around me was reasonably empty and unnaturally dark. A couple by the window were chatting, and a middle-aged m
an was reading the paper and snorting to himself. I tried to read my copy of LA Weekly, but I couldn’t concentrate, partly through excitement and partly through worry that people might think it was odd that I was balancing a giant white rabbit’s head on my knees. But I needed it at hand—and it was perfect. It was another level to the joke; another layer Ben would have to bash through. I’d giggled when I’d walked out of the costume shop with it. I knew exactly what would happen. Ben would walk in and see a huge rabbit sitting in the corner, in a white shirt, reading LA Weekly. He’d realize with a sickening turn in his stomach that ManGriff was real, that ManGriff was a proper Furry, and that he’d have to spend an entire meeting placating a man in a giant rabbit head.

  And that, friends, would be the moment I tore the mask off, and shouted, “I NEVER HAD GENITAL EXFOLIATION! IT’S ME! DAVE CASEY! VERNON BODFISH! IT’S DANNY WALLACE! I TRICKED YOU! THAT WAS MY FRIEND IAN ALL DRESSED UP AS A BEAR! I WIN!!!!”

  And then his eyes would register the truth, the fact that I’d got him back, the fact that after fifteen years, sweet revenge was mine. It was what the plan had been missing all along—the big reveal!

  And that’s what I was thinking about as a lone figure approached the doorway of the bar. I immediately pulled on the rabbit head, as subtly as I could under the circumstances. I raised my copy of LA Weekly and sat, still and quiet, trying to make out from the corner of my eye whether the man who’d just walked in was, in fact, Ben Ives.

  It wasn’t.

  Or, at least, I hoped it wasn’t. Because the man had turned round and walked away again.

  No! Had that been Ben Ives? Had he walked in expecting a chat with a man—a strange man, but a man nevertheless—and not with a rabbit? Had I pushed it too far? Should I take the mask off? Run after him? Explain?

  But instantly, I knew it hadn’t been Ben Ives. Because at that moment, another man walked in. And I could tell, almost just from his stature, and the way he walked, and the fact that he had just nervously glanced around the bar and spotted me, that this man was Ben Ives.

  I stared straight ahead of me. Then pulled up my paper a little too quickly and pretended to read.

  A moment later I heard the soft shuffle of damp and nervous feet.

  This was it!

  A polite cough from somewhere next to me, and then, quietly, a man’s voice…

  “Uh… hi?”

  I put my paper down, and looked at him.

  For a split second, we were just a man and a giant rabbit, staring at each other in a bar, just as thousands of other men and giant rabbits were doing at that precise moment, all over the world. Through the mesh of my rabbit eyes, I could see it was unmistakably Ben. Older. Bigger. But Ben. I paused as I took him in—not a big pause, a tiny pause, a pausette—but it was enough for Ben to lose confidence, and become slightly embarrassed and unsure of himself, like maybe he’d got the details wrong and he was in the wrong bar with the wrong rabbit…

  It was just a flinch of embarrassment, a scrap of a moment brushed across his eyes, but it was enough—enough to remind me of my embarrassment at his hands—enough to remind me I had never got him back—enough to remind me that this was why I was here…

  He was still standing there, still looking at me, looking less certain by the microsecond. The hushed word “hi?” hung tight in the air… I should have put him at his ease. I’d wanted to put him at his ease. To stand up, and rip my mask off, and shake his hand, and take my revenge by laughing in his face and saying, “YES! I AM MANGRIFF THE BEAST WARRIOR!”

  But I didn’t.

  I didn’t do that.

  I just looked at him. Something was forming in my head. An idea.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Um… I’m Ben… are you ‘ManGriff’?” he asked.

  His eyes tried to find my own, somewhere behind the mask. He looked like a little boy—younger, even, than when I’d known him—and I crossed my legs and looked him full in the face.

  “Am I ManGriff?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding.

  I shook my massive head.

  “Nope,” I said, and went back to reading my paper.

  In some ways, of course, I wish I could have left it at that. That would have been a real prank. A better prank. To have forced Ben to go to a bar to meet a man who enjoyed dressing up as animals, and then make him think he’d ended up apparently meeting the wrong man who enjoyed dressing up as animals. Part of me wanted to let him walk out the door, and return to his colleagues with his face a picture of confusion and embarrassment… but I couldn’t. He was there. He was right there in front of me.

  A moment has passed since I’d said “nope.” All Ben had managed in reply was an “oh.” And then, when it looked like he was about to turn around and walk away, I let out a small laugh, and I tore off my rabbit head, and I looked at him and I said, “All right?”

  And he looked at me, and he blinked a couple of times, and then a mixture of relief and happiness and annoyance flushed his face and buckled his knees, and he gave me a hug and he called me a wanker.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IN WHICH WE LEARN THAT NOT EVERY THING CAN GO YOUR WAY, ALL THE TIME…

  The homecoming was superb. Lizzie and Ian met me at the pub and I talked them through the whole thing.

  “I think that’s brilliant,” said Ian. “You taught him a valuable lesson there.”

  “It’s a bit of a strange lesson,” said Lizzie.

  “It’s the type of lesson money can’t buy,” said Ian. “If you accuse someone of having had genital exfoliation, you should be prepared for them to turn up at a bar fifteen years later dressed as a rabbit.”

  “Exactly!” I said. “Exactly!”

  “How do you spell ‘genital exfoliation’?” asked Lizzie.

  “Shut up! I am an excellent speller!” I said. “But check this out!”

  I unraveled the T-shirt I’d brought out with me.

  Ian and Lizzie stared at it.

  “It’s a T-shirt celebrating four years of McDonald’s in Loughborough,” said Ian, flatly.

  “Yup!” I said.

  I don’t think I need to tell you how proud I was. But they didn’t really say much after that. Sometimes they don’t understand me like you do.

  “So anyway,” said Ian, “how many’s that you’ve met?”

  I counted them up.

  “With Peter Gibson, who I’ll meet next week, that’s seven in the bag. Plus, I’m in touch with Akira’s family, I’ve written to every Chris Guirrean in the land, and I’m hoping my letters to Andy are being forwarded on to him, wherever he now lives.”

  “Yeah…” said Lizzie. “Ah.”

  “Ah?” I said.

  Back at home, there they all were.

  Bundled together with a red rubber band. My letters to Andy. Each of them returned, seemingly on the same day. Each of them with Not known at this address written on the front in dark blue biro.

  I sighed.

  This was a real setback. Just when I thought I was making such progress, with all the pieces starting to fall into place, I’d taken a large step back.

  I’d just kind of assumed that with Loughborough being quite a small town, if Andy was still there, whoever was now living at his house would have forwarded it on. Or at least known where he was. Given me a clue; a tip-off; anything.

  But no. They’d simply sent them all back.

  I was back at square one with him. He didn’t know I was looking for him. Didn’t know I’d been replying to his letters. Didn’t know the friendship was still there, if only he’d let me find him.

  And the disappointing news didn’t stop there.

  I’d made myself a cup of tea and logged on. I was momentarily distracted by a bird apparently trying to fight itself in a tree outside, and when I turned back to the screen, I saw it. An email.

  An email from Tom.

  Tom, who I’d played football with. Tom, who I’d swapped Action Men with. Tom, who reckoned his dad
had invented the Sprite logo, and who I’d emailed in a fit of excitement, proposing a meeting and demanding an audience.

  It was a short email, but it wasn’t sweet.

  Hullo. Meeting up would be a bit weird! No thanks mate. Hope your well. Tom.

  I stared at it.

  In a sense it was quite friendly. He said hello. He called me mate. He said he hoped I was well.

  But he was still saying no.

  No matter how I read it, no matter how many ways I tried to make it sound better, he was still saying no!

  The bastard!

  But… why?

  Had I been too forward? Did he always secretly hate me? I remembered lending him 20p so he could buy some Garbage Pail Kid stickers! I gave him my Koosh ball and we’d talked excitedly about the Chunnel, which no one ever calls the Chunnel anymore! For his eleventh birthday, I’d bought him a fanny pack! Fanny packs don’t grow on trees, you know! They grow in expensive Chinese sweatshops!

  I couldn’t work out what I’d done wrong. I went back and checked the email I’d sent him. It seemed fine. I wasn’t being over-bearing, or overly keen, or a mad-eyed stalkerish freak… I was just saying it’d be great to see him! That I’d been revisiting my childhood! That I wanted to update my address book! That we should meet up, hang out, finally get together! That I’d love to see him! I even said I hoped I wasn’t coming on too strong!

  Ah.

  Finally get together.

  Love to see him.

  Coming on too strong.

  I suddenly realized that, perhaps, in the cold light of day, and for a man not sharing my mood at the time, this may well have come across as a missive from someone attempting to realize their childhood crush. And I did not have a childhood crush on Tom. If anything, I thought he had a strange walk and weird ears.

  But what if he’d read my first-ever Friends Reunited entry? The one I’d been banned for? The one that said I’d been obsessed with the reader since school and was now standing behind them?

  No. I was being paranoid. And anyway, so what if he did think that? I’m a metrosexual. I have a tub of moisturizer I got for Christmas in 2005. I always make sure my socks basically match.