Play like it's OK

TW: DEATH

FRIDAY

TGIF, am I right? 

Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re probably thinking, Great, another complete cliche of this generation: a gaming-mad degenerate who speaks in gibberish and simply lives for the weekend.

I’d say “Abso-frigging-lutely.” 

Except I’m certainly not a 90s kid, and gaming isn’t my forte.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. Someone’s got to do the 9-5, sharing a cardboard cut-out desk with Jim from Accounting and his half-dead cactus. But that life won’t cut it for me.

Hey, I caught that eye roll.

I mean, the thing is, I don’t have to do any hard work. That’s right - my love for Friday has nothing to do with the corporate or virtual world. Why? Because my life is a party.

Wait, wait, where are my manners? Let me introduce myself: I’m Mattie. British, 6 foot, dark-haired, attractive (well I think so), adopted son of an aerospace engineer with a sizable fortune… you get the drift.

Like I said, life for me is a breeze. Whilst the world struggles and rushes around me, I spend most of my time at 0.5 x speed indoors. Trust me, if you lived in a place like mine, you wouldn’t surface into the real world for days either. Try not to get jealous, but just picture waking up to panoramic views of the Cornish countryside, in a floor-to-ceiling glass box house with a bespoke sliding roof, which perches precariously on the edge of a cliff I call The Sill (the drop is quite sharp). Can’t forget the private driveway and my pride and joy, an army green Jeep. And I know what you are thinking, but no, I only have one.

This part of paradise, all 5,000 sqft and 1 acre, is mine alone. There’s no one else for miles. Well, ok…apart from Pop, Nonna and Eric. But more about them later.

So back to Fridays. 

I’ll be honest, most of the time, on Monday and Tuesday, I just lie out on the floor, attempting to recover from the carnage that was Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, my body all twisted up and bent out of whack. I reckon half the contents of my wardrobe remain upended with me during those dark first days, but by Wednesday, I somehow find myself upright and presentable, all clothes stored back on their racks (I think that’s Nonna’s doing).

At this point, it’s time to train. Hey, play hard, train harder; what can I say, I like action, man.

And that pretty much brings us back in a circle.

Fridays mean Eric.

Who is Eric? This may sound a little soft, but Eric is the highlight of the week.

He’s my guy - he may as well be my younger brother due to our age difference, but he is most definitely my best friend.

Unfortunately, Eric disappears all week to London to some fancy establishment - he is in academia - but, every weekend, he returns to the coast to visit his grandparents (Pop and Nonna) and his best pal, who live on a cliff.

There’s so much space that we effectively have a side of the house each- Nonna and Pop in the back facing the expansive land behind us and Eric and I, at the front, facing the driveway. Of course, we’re bros, so we share a room.

I like to watch through our window as Eric arrives in the back of his grandparents' car, a huge grin on his chubby reddening face, a giant case on wheels in tow. Actually, it is the case on wheels. 

I might be the man of leisure, but Eric is the dude with the stash.

Now hold up - no illegal activities here. I’m talking gear.

This Friday, Eric and Pop surround my Jeep. The battery has gone again and Eric is helping Pop fix it (yes, I know I own it, but I’ve never had to maintain it. I simply drive). Pop pushes his glasses up his nose and runs his hands over the parts admiring its beauty. I still remember the day he bought it for me, so sharp and clean, it looked like it had just come out of plastic wrap or something.

Nonna is out of sight shouting that she is done picking up after her messy grandkids. 

Nonna and Pop are not my grandparents.

I like to think of Nonna as my grandmother; we don’t have a close relationship as such - I barely see her, even around the house, but Pop on the other hand - I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.

I don’t know who my mother is and my father was too busy being a space guy, so I was raised by Roy aka Pop.  

Growing up, Pop and I spent hours in the woods around Leicestershire, just the two of us. He taught me what his father had taught him: how to fish and hunt for game. While we waited for prey to step into our traps, we played lookout in the trees, swam in the streams and roughed about until exhaustion.

But then Eric came along and our tradition became a Mattie, Pop and Eric tradition until Pop got too old to come out and play and passed the Master of Fun title to his grandson.

SATURDAY

The Master doesn’t disappoint.

As it turns out, Eric’s case of wonders contains some slacks, a rough jacket in dark olive green and heavy boots - a set for me and a set for him.

He says with great pride and a hand push through his yellow blonde hair, that our neighbour (if 5 miles south counts as a neighbour) who had recently become an empty nester, is the proud owner of a hand-built assault course. It's abandoned and almost certain to a premature end now that its primary users have moved away.

“They’re big lads now,” Mr Farthing barks when we arrive to survey the challenge, “my youngest told me to let it out for the summer, but break it up before winter.”

“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Eric responds, unaware of the cocked eyebrow the old man is casting over our attire, “besides, growing up is boring.”

Mr Farthing mutters something about boys being boys. He leaves us to tear up the joint, whooping and hollering as we go.

Healthy competition has always kept Eric and me tight. While my toned physique gives me an advantage strength-wise, Eric’s beat feet allow him to dash forward before I can recover. We emerge from the final mud crawl in a draw, our mock army clothes heavy with dirt and soaked through. 

Nonna, of course, will freak out when we trail this mess through her kitchen, strip off and shove yet another load of laundry into the machine. Especially because round two always resumes after lunch.

Let’s pause for a sec.

If you’re wondering what the deal is with these outfits, I will gladly explain.

It’s part of our tradition.

You see, Pop was a bit of a storyteller and had a great imagination. I could always tell when it was time for another adventure - he’d call my name in excitement and suddenly appear, his face bright, telling me he had a surprise for me. He would lift me up into his arms and sit me on his bed as he made a fuss of hiding something behind his back before “Ta-da” he presented me with a neat new uniform of some sort.

Blue cotton shirt and slacks, with a dixie cap if we wanted to play boats on the River Soar.

Tall brown boots, a bandana and a plastic machete to trek through the long grasses at the bottom of our garden, looking out for dangerous wildlife.

A bright orange anorak, breeches, a corded backpack and crampons to scale a treacherous terrain aka a tall oak tree.

And he would always have a matching set.

Even if we were physically rolling around in an English suburb, it was as if we were transported instantly to the Andes, the Amazon or the North Pole.

So you see, setting the scene wasn’t enough for Pop and neither is it enough for us. Eric and I have to also live it. 

SUNDAY

Roast nights are a little more subdued; this is how we end our weekends - around a table with Nonna and Pop. Eric’s usual high-octane chatter fizzles to occasional shakes and nods of his head to his grandmother’s questions as he chases vegetables around with a knife. I, on the other hand, sit and listen.

Surprised? I know I come off as someone who likes to chatter, but nope. I’ve got a great ear. In fact, I tend to hear quite a lot when no one thinks I’m listening.

The rum-tum of the gramophone and hums from Nonna in the downstairs hallway. 

Eric singing in the shower, his pitch and tone a warbling mess.

Nonna trying to convince Pop that Eric has a girlfriend, whilst Pop softly scolds her, advising her to “let the lad be”, and that “a girlfriend is the last thing on his mind, trust me.”

The couch groaning as Pop sinks into it, the cushhhh of his inhaler followed by a sharp inhale of breath after a fit of coughs. 

Anyway, Eric’s least favourite topic to discuss is the future. I’d go as far as to say that he more or less throws a tantrum about it every time. But Nonna is persistent and formidable - if anyone is going to get an answer, it's her.

Tonight she reminds Eric of something they have been trying to broach for weeks. 

“Eric, you can’t just play like it’s ok.”

“Non-na.”(that was a whine by the way).

“I’m serious. This is what real life is all about; the sooner you accept it, the better.”

“I don’t want to talk about this; I just came here, as always, to spend the weekend with my grandparents and my bro.”

Nonna’s head twitches.

“Your what?”

Eric gestures to me with his thumb. I put a hand in the air and give a mock small wave to everyone at the table. Probably a bit too much, right?

“My bro. I’m talking about Mattie, Nonna.”

Nonna doesn’t even look at me but shakes her head. Pop pats her hand. She closes her own around his.

“Right. Anyway Eric, I- we are trying to be straight with you. Please, be serious, this is important. Your Mum is also worried about you. We understand this is a lot-”

Suddenly Eric grabs my sleeve and yanks me to my feet and we leave the table.

“One more lap on the quads around the field, yeah?” he says to me stiffly, and before I can react, he slaps a helmet on my head, the strap catching me on the chin.

ONE SATURDAY

Eric isn’t here.

He has exams coming up, Nonna explains to Pop. According to her, this is a good sign, he is taking responsibility for his future and doesn’t owe them his weekends - not anymore.

Pop came to me last night as I lounged on Eric’s bed. He shuffled along the corridor and I heard him offt as he sat on the floor near the landing.

“He still needs you, you know.”

His voice was thick. I wanted to say something, I really did, but my mouth was a hard thin line. My usual quick quirky responses failed me.

“Eric is allowed to be in denial right now - he just needs time.”

Pop chuckled and grunted to clear his throat.

“That boy’s gonna need a little escape in something. I don’t care if Jeanette thinks it is inappropriate; what is best for Eric is what is best for all of us.”

Pop got back on his feet - before he left he turned to look me dead in the eyes. They were navy, soft and sad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so sad.

“Promise me you’ll be there for Eric - no matter what.” 

He didn’t wait for a response and shuffled back down the corridor.

A FEW WEDNESDAYS LATER

I haven’t left our room since Saturday.

Pop is gone.

Yeah, I can’t believe it either. My whole life, he was the only constant. This might sound dramatic, but I don’t know if I have a purpose anymore.

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY

Another week without Eric.

I still haven’t moved. My body is so stiff, it’s like I need help moving my hands.

Nonna has had people in the house - it feels kinda foreign- moving, shuffling and putting things in boxes that disappear into vans.

I need to wait for Eric.

I need to be there for Eric.

I need Eric.

THE FINAL FRIDAY

For years, the furthest I had been from our glass house was the coastline. But today, the three of us left behind by Pop's demise, went further out in a small rowing boat to scatter his ashes. Eric and I, to Nonna’s dismay, wore our dixie caps. 

Eric has barely looked at me all day.  So I sit motionless, unsure what to do as I watch Nonna exchange pleasantries and accept sincere condolences. Eric flatly tells anyone who cares to ask that he has aced his exams. 

But now that we are back in our room, I just need to be honest with you, ok?

I’m scared.

Something I have never had to admit. I mean - why would I?

I told you. I live the good life, the easy life. No stress, no trauma. Every day’s a party. Pop, Nonna and Eric are my world; they were all I needed. But now things have changed. Life isn’t what it used to be. It’s time for me to face reality.

That’s right. It’s time for me to stop pretending because pretending only gets you so far. It’s time for me to grow up and it’s -

“- time for me to leave you behind,” Eric says out loud in a rush and I realise that he has been speaking all this time.

My eyes focus and I notice that his side of the wardrobe is open, hangers empty, his clothes stuffed in his special case.

Eric sniffs and heaves at the bulging black sack at his feet and drops it onto his bed so I can see inside.

I gape in horror as I recognise the fabrics, the colours, the cuts. It’s our gear - our tradition. And not just ours, mine and Erics, but also ours, mine and Pop’s. 

The anorak, the crampons, the slacks, the bandana, the boots - all a crumpled mess in this plastic sack. 

“Nonna said it all has to go, Mattie,” Eric explains sadly, “she hated all this stuff anyway.”

I notice his voice sounds a little more textured than usual. 

As I stare into the sack, I feel a clammy but warm sensation on my face. Eric’s hand holds my jaw as he removes my dixie hat and tosses it on top of the sorry pile of discarded clothes.

And then his hand shifts and clamps my waist and I am lifted up into the air.

So, usually, I play this part cool, but honestly, I hate it.

It’s not like I can say I feel sick to my stomach because I don’t have one, but when this happens, it reminds me of who I really am.

Eric brings me up to his eye line.

My eyes are unmoving, and I study his soft face. There’s no chiselled jawline yet. Neither is there a bristle of hair on his chin or around his sideburns. His big blue eyes are like Pop’s’, but that’s where the similarities end.

Eric taps my glossy brown flocked hair, his mouth twisted to the side.

“You understand what I’m saying, right?”

I stare back at him. 

No, I don’t understand Eric, what is going on here?

Eric’s hand flicks around the back of my head, he pulls, and I feel my eyes dart left and right.

“Good. You do understand.”

No, no I really don’t.

Eric bites his lip.

“Okay Mattie, I need you to just listen for a sec, ok?”

I stare.

“You remember how Nonna has been trying to tell me about Pop’s diagnosis and how strong and brave I need to be when he is gone. Well, I don’t feel strong and brave, but I have to try. I’m going to that grammar school I told you about at the end of the summer- the boys there will think I’m weird if they find out about you.”

Who cares? Come on Eric, we’re bros. You said so yourself…

“That exam I sat means I’m smart for my age, so I have to concentrate on that now. I’m going back to London and Nonna will move back up to Leicestershire, she’s sold the house."

Sold the house? Ok, but what does that have to do with you and me?

“Mattie, listen bro. You can’t come - with me or with Nonna.”

My eyes are searing with pain now, my mouth tight. I don’t have any tears to cry - if I had them, I would cry them. I want to speak, I want to move, I want to do something. 

But I can’t. I can’t.

“Mattie, it’s been real, mate. Pop always knew the same way you got him through his childhood was the same way you were gonna get me through mine.”

Eric, noooo..

Eric playfully shakes one of my gripping hands up and down and then snaps his hand to his temple in a salute.

“Eric and Mattie, for the last time. Over and out.”

And then I fall through the air, unable to flap my arms or kick my legs, just a stiff piece of plastic. I land on top of the clothes and suddenly, I’m back, like it’s any other Monday after a great weekend with Eric. 

And it’s bliss. 

Until the sack closes above me and my world goes dark.