TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (20 page)

Surrounding a table with family is great, but enjoying the meal in the sunshine is better.

Cuddling up under a blanket is one thing, but sitting around a fading fire and enjoying a beer is another.

It's all rather different, but still somewhat familiar, and although it isn't the same as it once was, today is the day I would always sit in the same room as my parents for hours on end. Maybe it's the lingering aftertaste of childhood, but I'd feel at ease around them. On any other day, I'd avoid their company. But on Christmas Day, I'd cling to it.

Shining bright, the sun consumes every part of me. Sweat tingles on my forehead, running down my face one bead at a time. It's nice. The warmth is soothing and sleepy, and here, alone and resting, fatigue eats away at my shoulders.

Suddenly, a shadow crosses me, cooling the air in an instant. A strange-looking chap stands slightly to my right, just in front of the large Christmas Tree covered in chunky golden stars. He isn't looking at me and doesn't seem to be looking at anything in particular, but he's close despite the desolate public space. He could choose anywhere to stand, but he's chosen the one place that steals my sunshine.

"Merry Christmas," he says, his harsh Australian accent rolling his
s.

I nod, immediately shifting away from him. "Merry Christmas," I mumble.

Silence once again returns, the gentle hum of something Christmasy in the distance, the wind and birds providing its melody.

"A lovely day it is, too," he says, sitting down and releasing the sun's rays. "Barely a cloud in that true sky."

I anticipate an unsavoury smell, but one doesn't arrive. His jacket is torn and his trousers grubby, and although each colour on his patterned shirt is faded, his face is clean and his grey beard trimmed neatly against his skin. From afar, you'd assume he's one to avoid, but up close, he's somewhat welcoming. "It sure is," I say, tipping my head back and breathing in the warm air.

"A little different to back home?" he asks. "You POMs don't see the sunshine at this time of year."

I nod.

"I spent Christmas in England once. Absolutely devastating. I thought the least I'd get was snow, but all it did was rain. And the wind, boy, never have I seen wind like it."

"Sounds about right," I laugh.

The aged man smiles, releasing a set of perfectly white teeth, all lined in order. I barely see his lips for the white whiskers surrounding them, although they're not out of control, each patch purposeful and sculptured. The only free-roaming part of his face is the tail-like flap hanging loose from his chin, waving in the gentle breeze like the long, uncut grass in the springtime fields of North Yorkshire.

"They call me Jake, by the way, although that isn't my name."

I squint, confused. "And what would that be?"

"Edward."

"Where does Jake come from, then?"

"I have no idea. I've been called it for so long now, I forget when it all began. A lifelong love affair with scotch doesn't help matters, either."

"Yeah, that'll do it." I laugh again. "I'm Dante, but that happens to be my name, too." I sigh and look away. "I understand the forgetfulness, as well."

"Nice to meet you, Dante," he says, holding out his hand. "On such a lovely day, as well."

Shaking it, and surprised at how soft his skin is, I nod. "Nice meeting you, too."

He takes his hand back and pulls his right leg up and over his left, revealing a rainbow-striped sock below his tatty grey trousers. "So, tell me, Dante, what brings you to this particular spot on Christmas Day?"

"I just needed to be alone for a while."

"Absolutely, good call, especially on today of all days. It gets a little manic, although I take it you're a traveller, which makes that statement false, because nothing is ever hectic in the life of a nomad."

"Of course," I say, beaming at his own contagious offering. "It's a tough life."

"Indeed it is. I know it well." Rubbing his ankle, he leans in towards me. "So tell me, are you running or searching?" he whispers.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, every traveller I've ever met—including myself—is either running away from something—or someone—or searching for something—or someone. Which are you?"

I glance past him for a second, considering my answer and focussing on the large tree behind. It's mostly bare, with just a few golden stars sporadically dotted around. "I guess both, although I doubt many are doing it for the same reason as me."

"How mysterious," he says, tapping his thigh. "I love it. Well, I think it's fine to be both running and searching. It improves your chances of success."

The sun hides behind one of the few clouds in the sky, placing us both in a temporary shadow. "Yeah, I guess so. What about you? You say you're a traveller?"

"Indeed, although I like to look at myself as a born-to-be-lifelong-wanderer".

"I see, I bet you have quite a few stories."

Beaming, he bounces on his bum. "You have no idea. You don't get to seventy-three without the odd tale in your locker."

My confused squint returns. "There's no way you're seventy-three."

"I sure am. People say life makes you old, but I couldn't disagree more. Life makes you young. It's sitting around, doing the same thing day-in-day-out that ages the skin. Seriously, I can always spot a traveller. There's something in their eyes. An element of openness. A desire for change and adventure and freedom."

"So that's your secret?" I ask.

"Oh, Dante, living life is no secret. It's merely something most overlook."

I look past him again, this time considering Wil and how he'll grow old. This is he in fifty years time. From afar, you assume he's homeless and crazy, but up close, as you listen and take in his words, you realise he's a genius, only in a way most can't comprehend, including myself, of late.

"Do you know something, Dante," he asks, placing his hand on my arm. "This is the seventeenth year in a row I've come to this spot... at this very time... on this very day."

"Really?"

"Yes, and this is the first time I've ever spoken to anyone."

"I see. May I ask why you keep coming back?"

"Ah, it's a story you seek. Okay, okay. Well, I was born and raised here in Melbourne, but as a youngster, I was somewhat rebellious. My friends and I used to loiter around these parts, nothing too dangerous, merely juvenile nonsense like drinking and gambling. It was different back then, of course. That coffee shop over there," he says, pointing towards a sparkling new build, "used to be a butcher's, and that," he continues, now pointing to a row of parked cars, "is where the best ice cream in town was served. We weren't allowed in there. Like I say, far too juvenile and reckless.

"Anyway," he continues, standing up and shuffling to his right. "This is where I had my first run-in with the law, and it's this reason why I keep coming back each Christmas. Right here," he taps his foot, "is where it took place, and although I wish I could say it was my last, it wasn't. Life has been a maze since. I've spent time inside, travelled the globe, spawned a few children along the way, but here I am back where it all began.

"I remember returning home seventeen years ago. I was lonely and tired, and, I'm sorry to say, a little unstable. Christmas is a tough time for a person in that position, and for some reason, I took a walk and found myself here—at this very time. I didn't recognise it at first, but it all came back to me: the drinking, the scampish behaviour, the first time I was cuffed and pushed into a car. I had been around the planet several times and come full circle, and for some reason, it helped. I finally knew returning home was the right thing to do. I'm not religious by any means, but I felt a sense of faith right then. Every time I return, so does the feeling: free abundance, a sense of acceptance, all the memories of the past.

"I don't always stay in Melbourne, of course. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and travelling is simply what I do, but I always make sure I'm here at this time of year. I love Melbourne at Christmas, and believe me, I've spent a few Christmases elsewhere."

I sway with his words, but deep down I'm empty. "That's amazing," I say, and although I smile, it's lifeless. I too have stories and wisdom to share, but mine will remain locked away, lost in the maze of history's wayward tales.
 

"Yes, there's something magical about Christmas. I'm not talking about the fantastical side like Santa and Rudolph, but an aura of some kind. Several times in my life, I've experienced magical things at this time of year. Not so much recently, but certainly in the past when I was in full flow of my tale. These days, I simply look back on them and savour it as best I can."

I nod and force a smile, reluctant to let my sadness take over. "Yeah, I was just thinking about what Christmas used to be like. It's not the same anymore, but there's still a spark of sorts."

He sits back down and moves close, just inches from me. "Absolutely, Dante, there is. It's a time where we all regress a little, and that's no bad thing. As a baby, we're capable of staring at a wall for twenty minutes, literally watching paint dry. There's no such thing as boredom. Everything exists to be devoured. How wonderful.

"Then we get older and boredom becomes our nemesis, but we never let it defeat us, instead escaping into a made-up parallel of instantaneous invention. We create our own rules and don't give a damn about what others say. This, too, is wonderful.

"But then, we get older still and are held to its mercy. We're unable to defeat it on our own, instead turning to other people's fictional worlds: TV, books, whatever... we forget how to entertain ourselves, which is very sad indeed." He crosses his leg again. "Christmas, though, all rules are broken. That spark invites us to be children again, and although most fight it and try to remain mature and grown up and whatever else masquerades as happiness these days, everyone gives in a little. We play and wonder and embrace a piece of magic."

I imagine being home right now, sitting across from my parents as a film keeps us company. We may rely on an alternate reality to entertain us, but we do it together, and in a way, this is the piece of magic Jake refers to. On no other day would this take place. At any other time of the year, we eat and then I leave. But at Christmas, it's special.

"You say you're not religious?" I ask.

"Not even a little, kind sir. I've met many men in my time, many of whom are and speak a lot of sense. I can't personally fathom it though. Never have and suspect never will."

"But you have faith?"

He arches towards me again, widening his stare. "I used to hate religion and everything that came with it; faith included. But as you travel and meet people and good things happen—and bad things, too—and life is lived in a grand tapestry you can never quite comprehend, you realise there's so much more to us: as individuals, as a species, as a simple being of existence." He drops his gaze and rubs his hands in figure eights. "I believe in faith now, and I also believe we all discover it eventually. That's not to say you'll find religion or God or any such deity, but a glint of the unexplainable that simply makes sense."

I picture Danii and the first time I met her, the moment we finally said goodbye, the trips away and lounging nights in. They rush forward in a wave, crashing all at once in a vibrant whoosh. The tumour can do what it likes to my new memories, but please, don't touch these. "So you think faith is different for everyone?"

He stands up, the sun shining bright behind him. "Yes, yes I do, and with that, it's my time to leave. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Dante."

"Enough reminiscing for one year?"

"Oh no," he says, offering me his hand once more. "I do that every day, but not here for another three-hundred-sixty-five of them."

Taking his hand, I stand up and join him, realising how small he is—several inches smaller than me. "Pleasure's all mine, Jake. Thank you for the story."

Twisting on the spot, he walks away.
 

"You know something," I say. "You remind me a lot of my friend."

"And who would that be," he asks, walking backward all the while.

"Wilbur Day."

"Well, if I ever cross paths with Wilbur Day, I shall mention you."

"Please do. He would enjoy your tales."

As quick as he appeared, he's gone, assumingly forever, just like most new acquaintances these days. I miss home. I miss my parents. I always do, but today, it's different.
 

The people I meet are finite and the stories I share, slim. There's folk back home that care to listen, need to see me, and desire a final goodbye. I'm not sure if I ever believed I would make it back home. It's been part of the plan, but with such uncertain circumstances comes an unwavering doubt. I can promise and send happy emails and tell my mother everything is fine, but the honest, gritty, and most realistic truth is one day I'll be here, and the next, I won't.

It may be back home in York, but it might be here in Melbourne, or somewhere in Sydney, or a country we've yet to agree on. This entire trip is built on the promise to return, but when a deadline isn't given, how can you be certain when it ends?