Bob and George

It was late afternoon. Bob got up from his chair, stretched, and yawned. He must have fallen asleep, because the sunshine had moved from one edge of the small shaggy rug to the other, and was now making the hardwood floor glow warm brown.

Bob’s stomach growled. Yes, it definitely must be later in the day. Lunch was clearly only a dim memory, and a snack just before dinner was sounding extremely tempting. But of course, he had to wait for George to come home first.

After all, that was the pattern of their relationship. Always had been, and always would be. Bob had to wait for George. George was their time-keeper, the one who chose when they did things. And he was always running late. Not that Bob didn’t have his own role to play though.

Early on, back when Bob was much younger, well, of course, they both were, but George always made such a fuss of Bob’s age. At any rate, this one day, Bob had been just a tad too full of energy, and slightly distracted, while they were walking through their neighbourhood, and had almost dashed in front of a truck. George had lost the plot at him, saving him from certain damage, and had never let him forget it. Ever since, he had been tagged the impatient one, who just needed to relax a bit, calm down, take a chill pill.

Bob did his best to hide his frustration at being at George’s mercy. Over the years he had found that displaying too much impatience worked against him, so he had learnt to fake nonchalance. No matter how late George was when he swanned in through the door, Bob only allowed his pleasure at George’s return to show, never letting out even the barest smidge of worry.

And to be honest, what George could never get through his head, was that it wasn’t an inherent lack of patience that drove Bob. No, it was more anxiety. There was always so much that needed to be done, and in a particular order, and at a specific time, otherwise Bob’s world felt off-kilter and just plain wrong. But he had never worked out how to explain that to George, so the narrative of ‘Bob the impatient one’ had persisted, becoming carved into stone throughout the years.

George often told Bob that he did his best to be on time. Over and over he’d complain about his boss holding him back for a quick chat at the end of the workday, or that he’d remembered at the last moment that they were out of milk, or that the bus was running late. Bob pretended to understand, but he couldn’t work out for the life of him why George wasn’t able to get on top of things. What could be so hard about telling his boss that he simply had to get on his way? Or grabbing the milk during his lunchbreak? The bus excuse was the most convincing, but Bob never let on, so that George didn’t start using it more frequently.

Bob walked around the house, going through to the kitchen at the end of the long hallway. He knew he had to wait for George before their pre-dinner snack, but it was worth a stroll-through, just in case he had somehow forgotten to finish his lunch. There was nothing there, as he’d expected, so he sighed and kept on moving. There was no sense staring at the fridge pathetically, that wouldn’t do him any good.

Moving through to his and George’s bedroom, he considered remaking the bed. George had made it before he left for work, as was his habit, but Bob had his own preferences for how the covers were arranged. This was another point where they differed in their relationship, but it never was a major issue. No matter how the bed looked throughout the day, whoever fell asleep first would lose the battle. The other would gleefully move the covers into the position he felt was superior, and fall asleep bathed in the glow of victory.

Bob dithered for a moment, pacing up and down at the foot of the bed, until the smooth regularity of the doona forced his hand. He quickly tugged the top down, and moved the pillows around, until the bed resembled the perfect nest to snuggle up in. That small job done, it was time to keep on moving.

Returning to the front room, Bob stared out of the window. George had promised he would cut back the hedge that ran along the front fence, but he hadn’t found the time to do it yet. Another thing he was running late for. It was so irritating, because when the hedge became leggy, it blocked Bob’s view of the street. One of his favourite ways to spend the endless time waiting for George to arrive home was to watch the various people and vehicles passing by the house. He could still see through it in patches, but it wasn’t the same as a completely unobscured view. Luckily, something else George was running late on was having double-glazed windows installed, so at least Bob could hear what was going on, even if he couldn’t see it perfectly.

It was a gorgeous early autumn afternoon, and still light. Perfect weather for going for a walk before dinner, to whet the appetite. Most of the trees still had leaves clinging to their branches, of varying shades of brown and red, and the people Bob could glimpse hurrying by had brightly coloured scarves looped loosely around their necks. There was still no sight of George yet.

Bob huffed out his breath, trying to quell his worry. As he frowned at the condensation he’d left on the window, his mind turned to all of the things they still needed to accomplish that day. A snack, a walk, preparing dinner, eating dinner, settling down to watch The Golden Girls, their current favourite TV show, a bite of dessert and then off to bed.

Then there was the squeak and bang of the next door neighbours checking their mailbox. They were sticklers for being on time, which meant that George should be walking in the door any minute now. Bob opened his eyes wide, looking for any hint of George. Nothing.

This meant George was now officially running late. How would they possibly get everything done if he was going to be so very, very late?

The only thing for it was to start doing rounds of the house. Bob retraced his steps down the hallway, and through the kitchen, this time going through to the laundry as well. As he stepped out into the backyard, he heard the unmistakeable squeal of the bus’s brakes, and raced back inside as quickly as possible. As he headed along the hallway, he heard ‘Thank You for Being a Friend’, the theme song from The Golden Girls, in George’s warbly, off-key whistle.

It was about time he came home, and finally Bob heard the click of George’s key in the lock. Gathering himself, he launched towards George as soon as he was inside, forgetting to hide his relief at his safe return. George fended him off, laughing.

“Hey Bob-boy, have you been waiting long? I know, I know, I’m a little bit late, the bus had to stop for a lady crossing with a pram.”

Bob wasn’t interested in excuses. There was no time to waste, now that George was actually home. Things had to start happening. George had to change his shoes, he needed to get their snacks, then they could go on their walk. There was plenty of time to talk while they were walking.

George made a big show of pushing back his sleeve, still going on about how late he was. “Oh my goodness me, I am a whole four minutes late! How have you possibly coped, Bob?”

There it was, the ‘Bob the impatient one’ story again. He accidentally let out a little whine of irritation, which only set George to laughing.

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry to tease you. Here, I’ll get moving, shall I?”

George kicked off his shoes, shoving his feet into his sneakers as he walked towards the kitchen. Bob stayed by the front door, in case George forgot what came next. George returned, already crunching on the first bite of his apple, and threw Bob’s snack towards him. Bob all but swallowed it whole, barely registering the taste, watching as George finally grabbed the most important item, even more important than a peanut butter cookie.

George clipped the lead onto Bob’s collar, and finally they were leaving on their walk. Of course, he still made Bob wait, half strangling himself as he strained to get going, while he slowly locked the front door.