Playtime

Charlie dangled his legs over the edge of the bridge as he played. In each hand he held a figurine. The left was called Blane and the right, Count Dukov. They had been forced to fight for the last half hour. Charlie now offered a reprieve to the tired soldiers – a chance to talk through their differences. Blane was given a heroic all-American accent and Count Dukov that of a sinister broadly-European Machiavellian which the 10-year-old boy was too young to consider offensive. Count Dukov spoke first:

“You fight well, Mr. Blane. I have at last found a worthy opponent.”

“I’ll stop you no matter what, you villain.”

“Oh, so I am the villain? What of the bandits that slew my family when I was twelve? The cancer that claimed my darling wife? You know not villains.”

“And yet here you are. Plotting to kill the President. More villainessness I could not imagine.”

“You know not what your President has done to my country...”

“Hi Charlie.”

Charlie looked up and saw Emily sit beside him.

“Hey”

“Watcha doing?”

“Just playing.”

“Cool.”

Charlie looked back at his toys and wondered if he was meant to keep playing. He was embarrassed that these previously macho adversaries had lost their vigour and felt inert in his hands when under the eyes of another - a girl his own age, no less. He thought of putting them aside but felt self-conscious about what little would remain to buffer him against the open world. He could control these two - but the world, or the girl beside him, he could not.

“Don’t mind me, you can keep playing.”

“It’s ok, I was done anyway.”

“Really? What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a time before Emily offered a suggestion.

“We could run by the river and get ice cream from the kiosk then eat in front of the ducks. They’ll be so jealous. All they eat is bread.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is so. The old men bring whole loaves down. Not just stale slices they had lying around, but they actually buy loaves just for the ducks. Can you imagine? If there weren’t old men, there wouldn’t be ducks.”

“You’re silly.”

“But I’m not wrong. Come down and see.”

Again, Charlie looked down at his toys. The President was still in danger. The circle was not complete. What business did a boy have getting ice cream and gawking at old men and ducks anyway? And what then? They’d have to decide what to do after that and that would be a whole new decision. They’d be aimless. Pointless. Just them and life, unanchored from the imperatives of necessary action.

“What would we do after?”

“I don’t know, whatever.”

Charlie could see that his lack of spontaneity was making her eyes glaze over. He felt a pang of shame. It was too late now, anyway. Why bother if the experience would already be tainted? She clearly thinks he’s a little loser now, anyway. Why not just return to the world of heroes and villains? There it was always clear what to do, and how to do it. Choreographed violence - what more could a boy need to entertain himself?

“Well, I’m going to go now.”

“Ok.”

Emily stood up and walked slowly across the bridge in direction of the kiosk. Charlie remained sitting, his cheeks and ears burning with shame. Again, he stared down at his toys. He made a pathetic show of playing but the figurines stared back at him accusingly, as though he was no longer worthy to move their limbs. Hot tears welled in his eyes. How could they betray him now? He who had given them so much of his life, his attention, his imagination, his childish love.

In a rage he stood up and threw them both into the river.

Emily, who had started to walk along the riverbank, saw in her periphery the two small splashes and turned to see Charlie standing up and turning away to walk to the other side of the bridge. She ran back up and called out to his sulking back as she approached.

“What happened Charlie? Did you drop your toys?”

Charlie stiffened in surprise. He had not expected her to return; that he’d to have to deal with another volley of randomness so soon. Yet he felt a stab of excitement too - she cared enough to return to him. But what to say? To admit to throwing the toys in the river in anger could get him labelled a "psycho" if Emily told the other kids. But if he didn’t say anything he’d be labeled a "weirdo". This was not to mention that if his eyes were red from welled tears he could be labeled a "cry-baby".

Here was life: so many more paths to misery than salvation. But where was one of the right paths amidst the wrong? There was no choreographed manoeuvre. No simple application of force to achieve an end. And even the end wasn’t clear. No mission accomplished. No medal pinned to the chest. Just unending experience with another person he couldn’t control. But what choice did he have? He’d thrown his toys in the river. It was time to play at life.

A lie sat on his tongue, but truth rumbled an objection from his core. He knew truth was best but was boring and lies were bad except if entertaining and he wasn’t nonchalant enough to pull that off. Only three seconds had passed since Emily had asked him her question, but he knew he’d reached his time-limit before he be labelled a weirdo by default. Thus, he resolved to tell the truth, as that was simplest when time is short, but as the words formed they mutated into something new - something hitherto unknown to him yet spurred by his exigency. Seeing beyond truth and lies he stumbled upon the figurative:

“I set them free.”

Emily frowned for a moment and Charlie realized in trying to avoid being labelled a weirdo he’d said something weird. Luckily, his young interlocutor was an appreciator of the slightly strange and she soon smiled and said:

“You’re silly.”

“Maybe we both are, then.”

“I guess so. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why don’t you come with me to eat ice-cream and see the old men and ducks.”

“Ok.”

As they walked across the bridge Charlie felt new undefinable feelings emerge within, some good, some troublesome, but all stamped with the mark of the living. He looked around and saw the world and how large it was. He looked at the girl beside him and saw in her face, her eyes and smile, a world even larger. His journey to explore it all was only just beginning. Playtime was over.