by Andy Robb
“Me! He told me he was only pretending to like her so he could get closer to me! Can you believe it?” The outrage in her voice gives me more than a little hope.
“So what did you say?”
“I told him to get lost!”
And relax. But not too much.
“How come? Every girl in the school wants to go out with him.”
“Well, I don’t! He’s not my type.”
“No?”
“No. I like my men with a bit more depth. Besides, I’m off men at the moment. Apart from you, of course.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Does that mean she wouldn’t go out with anyone except me – or that I’m“safe” because we’re friends? I ask the Universe for some guidance, but the Universe is busy answering other calls.
We lapse into comfortable conversation about nothing in particular, with Sarah showing no signs of having said anything that I ought to be concerned about. Should I just throw caution to the wind and ask her out? Even the thought of it causes a flipping sensation in my stomach and a faint blush. But the American in my head won’t entertain cowardice. It’s just not an option.
PS: You can achieve anything through the powers of positive thinking!
Maybe I can. Maybe I should.
PS: Step forward or step back. There is no middle ground.
I think I’ve heard that before somewhere. But it makes sense; the longer I fluff about in Maybe Land, the less chance I’ve got of getting anywhere. Should I do it? My stomach flips again. Once for yes, twice for no. I count about six in as many seconds.
PS: Lean into the wind! It is Now or Never!
As the idea threatens to become a reality, my body kicks into fight or flight mode.
“Archie? Are you OK? You look a bit pale!”
I silently and not very positively damn my treacherous skin.
“No, I’m fine. Can I ask you something?”
PS: Spread your wings and FLY!
This is all very well, but I think I’ve just discovered I’m scared of heights.
“Sure. Is everything all right?” The concern on her face just seems to be making this all the more difficult.
“Yeah… I … yeah… Sarah, would you…?”
“Archie!”
Bloody Tony pulls up in the Beemer and shouts out of the window.
“Fancy a lift?”
Sarah looks at me expectantly. But my courage withers and dies.
“Uh… Yeah, thanks, Tony.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
My eyelids drop like stones. I want the world to swallow me up, take me deep into its core and never, ever let me see the light of day again. Ever. Only Sarah’s giggling pulls me out of my horror.
“Sorry,” I grin through my burning shame. “Sorry. D’you want a lift?” I don’t know why I’m asking; she’s nearly home. My face hurts. I think it’s the stress on my muscles as they try and keep a smile in place.
“Don’t worry,” she demurs. “No, thanks, Tony!” She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze and walks off, taking all my hopes and dreams with her.
I get into the car, seething in silence.
“All right, Arch?”
“No,” I manage, through gritted teeth.
Nobody says anything for a bit.
“Have I screwed up?” Tony asks, as we pull into the drive.
All I can do is sigh.
It’s Friday night and I sit, dejected and depressed, alone and with no game to look forward to or friends to see, at my painting desk, surveying my room: the bed, the books, my miniature collection. It suddenly looks different.
My Lair was my sanctuary, the place where I could escape from reality and walk upright. But now that I’m finding my feet in the real world, it looks like what it is: a safety net. I’ve never really faced up to anything in this room, it’s all been fantasy, imagination and cowardice. It looks childish.
There’s a knock at the door and Tony sticks his head in.
“All right, Arch?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah. Sorry about the ‘girlfriend’ thing.”
I can smell Mum’s hand in this. I think this is the first time I’ve ever had an apology from Tony. But there’s no point dragging it out. There’s no real harm done; I can deny everything at a later date and then ask her out in my own good time.
“It’s OK. I guess I just overreacted.”
“What you doing? Painting?”
“No, actually,” I reply, standing. “I was just thinking of getting rid of a few things.”
“What about going to a boot sale tomorrow?”
“Hey, yeah…” I mutter to myself. “A boot sale…”
“Get some cash for your trash…”
“No. It’s not about the money.” But I think Tony’s provided me with the answer I was looking for. Dr Hughes is always saying that I should “ask and the Universe will answer”. Perhaps the Universe has finally got off the phone.
“Well, we’ve got a load of stuff we should’ve got rid of before the move. How about it?”
“A boot sale?”
“Yeah. We’ll leave your mum in bed and go and flog some stuff. A boys’ day out.”
This is another one of those bonding attempts, but right now, it suits my needs.
“OK.”
“Nice one.”
Tony thunders downstairs, no doubt to report to Mum just what great mates we are now. I’ll give him his moment of glory.
As I start to clear my desk, putting miniatures in bubble wrap and snapping lids on my paints for the final time, I feel like I’m doing the right thing. I’m going to be brutal in the cull of my personal belongings – I can’t afford to hang on to the past if I’m going to fulfil my inner potential. Miniatures, books – they’re all going.
I’m just raking through my books when I notice a Facebook message window popping up. My stomach does a quick backflip in the hope that it’s Sarah. But it’s Dad.
off 2 york next fri pls call urgent
Doesn’t even bother with punctuation, full stop.
I stare at the screen for a while, wondering what to put. I ought to see him, I know, but right now I can’t be bothered to sort it out.
PS: Do it in your own time. It’s his decision to leave. Not yours.
It takes me a moment, but I uncheck the “Available to chat” option. No other messages come through and I finally turn the laptop off.
PS: That wasn’t so hard.
I like this feeling. I like feeling worth something. Fuelled by making my own decisions, I plough back into the task at hand and pretty soon I’m staring at a pile of boxes that are ready to go. My room looks strange and unfamiliar, but I’m not frightened by it. The new Archie embraces change; this is just a blank canvas for me to start a new picture on. If I play my cards right, I might be able to paint a Sexy Fairy into it.
Mum knocks at the door with a cup of tea, her face full of surprise as she sees what’s left of my Lair.
“Are you sure about this? That’s a lot of stuff to get rid of. And what about your paints and your models? I thought you loved doing that.”
“Yeah … it’s just time for a change. I can’t sit in my room for ever, can I?”
“I suppose.” Mum looks wistful.
PS: There’s probably a montage of her little boy’s greatest moments playing in her head. She’ll get over it. Her little boy’s turning into a man.
After me ’n’Mum have packed the last of what I’m going to sell into more boxes, Tony – ever the creative chef – orders pizzas and a couple of films. Ordinarily, I’d do my best to avoid sitting through his accompanying narrative, but I want to see one of the films. Of course, he can’t help himself and within fifteen minutes there are a succession of “Uh-oh”s, “Behind you”s and “Shouldn’t have done that”s being barked at the screen.
PS: You don’t have to put up with this.
I lean forward in my chair and chuck a look over at the sofa where T
ony’s sitting with Mum.
“Tony.”
“Yes, mate.”
“D’you mind?” I gesture at the TV. Tony responds like someone who’s just understood Einstein’s Theory of Relativity for the first time.
“Oh. Yeah.” He does a big stage whisper on the last word: “Sorry.” Mum, sensing a disturbance in the Force, cuddles up to him. But it can’t last – and it doesn’t. Within about half an hour, he’s resumed his role as Commentator-in-Chief. But this time, Mum gives him a warning pat on the shoulder and makes a gentle, “Shhh,” which acts like a dummy on a baby.
Until my newfound psychic revelations, I would have felt guilty about putting Mum in the position of peacemaker.
PS: Why should you? You live here too. He needs to remember that.
The rest of the film passes with little interruption and I’m actually able to almost enjoy it.
PS: You see. You do have the power to change things. All it takes is speaking your mind.
This is all slightly new to me – but I enjoy the feeling that I’m being taken notice of. I’ve got to maintain this frame of mind – and that’s going to take a bit of work.
As the credits roll, Tony gets out the other film.
“Fancy this one, Arch?”
“No, thanks. Not my scene. I think I’ll call it a night.”
“OK. I’ll wake you up around six-thirty – boot sale starts at nine, but we need to be there early.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll set my alarm.”
“Night, love.” Mum is picking through the remaining pizza crusts, looking for a good one.
“Night.”
I leave them to it, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction wash over me.
PS: You’re starting to call the shots now. Starting to fulfil your potential.
My Lair looks weird. With all the boxes packed, it looks like I’m about to move out.
PS: Part of you is. The part that’s been holding you back.
After turning the main light off, I climb under the cool, crisp duvet and glance towards my bedside table. The Gargoyle is there, hunched beneath my bedside lamp and scowling fiercely. I look closely at him.
PS: He doesn’t need shields, he’s made of sterner stuff than that. And so are you.
I am. I decide I don’t need him any more and put him in one of the boxes at the end of my bed. I kill the light, sink back into the pillow and try to relax by going through every part of my body, just like Sarah did when I was at her house. In my mind’s eye, I picture the Gargoyle and focus on the qualities that make it the imposing creature that it is: its strength, its demeanour, its weathered wisdom – all attributes that I need. It’s difficult at first; my mind keeps bubbling up with other things, like Dad and Tony and, of course, Sarah and the kiss. But as Sarah suggested, I try and blot everything else from my thoughts, until all I can see are the craggy features of my totem.
Without knowing it, I fall asleep and the Dream begins. I’m lying in my bed and my gaze turns to the corner of the room. The red eyes are there, burning at me from the darker shadows. Then the Gargoyle unfolds itself and stands in a square of moonlight that is shining through my attic window.
Instead of the usual fear, I feel only awe and respect for this monster in my room. And instead of the usual paralysis, I get out of my bed and stand before it, the two of us bathed in silver light. The Gargoyle towers over me and could crush me with a single blow. But I know why I’m here. I put out a hand and place it flat on the creature’s chest.
And then it vanishes.
I stand in the moonlight, looking at the space in front of me. It takes me a moment to notice my hand, how it has changed, how the soft pink skin has been replaced by weathered, craggy stone. I am the Gargoyle. I feel powerful.
I feel like a force of nature. The feeling lasts as I wake, although I’m slightly disappointed to see that I am returned to flesh and bone and lying in my bed. Quickly flicking my bedside lamp on, I pull the Gargoyle out from the box and put it back on my bedside table.
All too soon, my alarm goes and I drag myself out of bed. I don’t think I’ve ever been up this early on a Saturday.
After yesterday’s highs and lows, I seem to have lost a little of my swagger. I can almost hear my IM in the background, telling me that the Dream was just a dream and that I’m being stupid.
PS: But you’re prepared.
Sarah told me this might happen. She said that until I’ve fully embraced my Psychic Self, I’ll experience peaks and troughs in my self-confidence, but it’s all part of my transformation.
PS: From Geek into something more significant.
It’s time for my Affirmations. Clutching the book, I stand in front of the mirror, hardly a portrait of significance in my crumpled pyjamas.
PS: Put that from your mind. Concentrate on your inner self.
“I am confident and strong.” It feels weird saying these things to myself.
“I am supported by the Universe.”
“I have high self-esteem.” I’m still not convinced, but I’m trying hard to believe what I’m saying. On to the next one – which gives me a little thrill as I say it.
“I am worthy of true love.”
“I can handle anything that happens to me today.”
“Who da man?!” I can see Tony, grinning like a goon in the mirror, poking his head round the door like some overweight jack-in-the box. He does a few pale imitations of kung-fu moves and chuckles.
PS: Ignore him. His insecurities are not your concern.
“Bacon butty, Arch? We need to be moving soon.”
“No, thanks. I’ll be having fruit.” Sarah said I must balance my body as well as my spirit. It’s a break with Saturday-morning tradition, but I’m going to see this through.
Although it’s not going to be easy. The smell of bacon drifts up the stairs as I get dressed and by the time I go into the kitchen, my mouth is watering. Tony is poking at a few rashers in the pan, trademark cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Sure you don’t want one, Arch? There’s enough here.”
PS: Control your petty desires!
In response, I grab a pear from the fruit bowl and with a self-congratulatory smile, defiantly crunch into it. As a counter-attack, Tony slaps three rashers on to a slice of crusty tiger bread, adds a liberal squirt of tomato ketchup and finishes it off with another slice of bread. A pear has never tasted so bland.
PS: He is testing your psychic constitution. Be strong.
While on the face of it this only appears to be two people eating their respective breakfasts, my new insight allows me to see that this is more than that. What’s occurring beneath this apparently domestic situation is more akin to the first battle between Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker – Tony takes a bite and sighs with satisfaction; I munch and try and look smug. Each bite is a blow; each grunt of pleasure is like that blue lightning the Emperor could shoot out of his fingers. And Tony breathes a bit like Darth Vader as well – what with all the smoking.
After our foodstuff face-off, we load our gear into the Beemer and set out for the local rugby club, which is playing host to the boot sale. Sarah’s house flashes past with no signs of life. It’s only a ten-minute drive, but Tony seems to think that it warrants another cigarette. Within seconds, the front of the car is filled with choking, blue smoke.
PS: You don’t have to tolerate this.
I open the window on my side, but that just creates a slipstream of fumes that rush across my face.
PS: You can embrace the challenge or recoil from it!
“Tony,” I rasp. “Could you either put that out or open your window?”
This must touch a nerve because he hits his window control in silence. Other than pointed coughing, I’ve never really commented on his nicotine habit, so it feels a bit odd, but bolstered by my new inner strength, I decide to pursue it a bit further.
“You should quit.”
“Yeah, yeah. One day.” His words have the hollow resonance o
f an addict.
PS: Don’t let him off the hook.
“When?”
“When what?”
“When are you going to quit?”
“I don’t know, Arch.” His reply is tetchy and curt. “When I’m ready, OK?”
PS: Not good enough.
“When will you be ready?”
“Bloody hell – I don’t know! Not today!”
The best course of action here is to let it go, but my PS has other ideas.
PS: Not good enough. Spread the word.
“Why not? It’s easy. All you have to do is get in touch with your inner strength and you can do anything. Smoking is only a symptom of your psychic disharmony.”
Tony chucks me a look that suggests I might have grown an extra head and we finish the rest of the journey in silence.
We arrive at the rugby ground and find our spot. It’s early, but there are already quite a few cars parked up and the early-bird bargain-hunters are eyeing up the trestle tables as they begin to fill. It’s a bit unnerving; Tony turns down the potential sale of a picture within two minutes of opening the boot and his customer walks away, scowling.
“Blimey,” he mutters. “Give a guy a chance.”
We unload our table and start to unpack our wares. I take one half and Tony takes the other. While he just dumps stuff on his side, I take the time to arrange my miniatures, books and CDs neatly in a way that I think shows them off to their best advantage.
PS: Take a look. This is a physical manifestation of the differences between you. He is cluttered and unfocused. You are organized and direct. You are learning.
Despite my directness, Tony makes five sales in the first hour and cheerfully jangles the coins and notes in his pockets. It’s another unspoken showdown; I can hear the light sabres buzzing again. He even wields a fresh cigarette with a certain Jedi calm.
While Tony gets into some hardcore haggling with a group of bargain-hungry punters, I end up poring over one of my gaming rule books, marvelling at just how much I’ve changed in so short a time. Once these pages would have set my mind tumbling with images of all sorts of childish fantasy: monsters, heroes and magical spells. Now, I see them for what they are: a trap for the weak-minded. I need to start reading newspapers.