Wilson

Same Walk, Different Shoes

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that Ben Wakeman organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

Wilson (2613 words © Linnhe Harrison 2023)

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Wilson

The day after it happened, we watched Cast Away again. We desperately needed the type of escapism that only some palm trees, a suntan and an anthropomorphized volleyball could provide.

‘We’ is me and Benny. Benedict Adams is my oldest friend. He’s not old - as that would make me old - I meant I’ve known him since fifth grade. He was one of those kids who grew outwards before he grew upwards - and no matter how hard he hit the gym during the testosterone fuelled teenage years, his body remains to this day a happy gathering of soft surfaces. I would hesitate to describe him as fat, but he isn’t slim either. His hair is strawberry blond, a basic short back and sides cut, topped with corkscrew curls. He has a dry sense of humour and a contagious laugh. He is not short, but I am taller, and he gravitates towards vintage (read regurgitated) 70s fashion, with the odd splash of new Adidas or Nike. Women love him. He’s their best friend.

I was a good looking kid who grew into a good looking adult. I have the firm jaw and the broad shoulders. The height. Dark treacle hair that softly whispers rough (but not too rough) and ready (but only when you are. No means no). I dress in a carefully cultivated ‘I don’t have a look-look.’ Slim fitting, mostly dark clothing. An expensive just-the-right-amount-of-battered tan leather jacket, and no obvious brands. Women love me. I’m their dream date.

We drifted apart and drifted around after college, all the super-sized dreams we had as young men imploding one by one in the monotonous reality of bills, money, work. It took a high school reunion in the late 90s – a comedic farce of disguised failures and dressed-up wins - to bring us back into the same orbit. And by circumstance rather than design, in orbit we remained - we are still sharing the same two bed apartment we rented as a six month stop gap in 1999.

By the 10th September 2001, as we pushed towards our mid 30s, we were well on the way to wearing out a lifestyle that was starting to hum with tragic undertones.

I still have the larger bedroom. As if being taller and better looking (his words not mine) automatically granted me indisputable big brother status. I own a handful of CDs. One of which is a Limp Bizkit album yet to be removed from its cellophane wrapper, because Dark Side of the Moon is undeniably a finer musical achievement than Three Dollar Bill, Y’all. I still have my old baseball glove, as it turns out I am that guy who displays his high school memorabilia. I have a rowing machine, a Sega Dreamcast, a 300+ DVD collection and many other nice things I am supposed to own. I bore myself, if I’m honest. I’ve had too many girlfriends and one boyfriend.

Benny’s CD collection is the reason I never opened Limp Bizkit. A Beatles led epiphany into The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd. The Doors. He has a black and white poster of John Lennon pinned up in his room and has started a vinyl record collection, but not yet bought a record player. He doesn’t view owning the records before the player any odder than if it were the other way around. I cannot recall any recent girlfriends.

We both have full time jobs, and they are both the kind of jobs you’re supposed to move on from. Not truly awful, not awful enough to kick yourself up the ass and do something about it. Yet not good enough to hand notice in on the two-bed apartment. The rent is the lower end of reasonable, enabling us to enjoy the materialistic shininess of middle class living if we spilt the big bills.

We have got ourselves stuck. We are going nowhere, but we are going nowhere with Nokia 3310s and an excellent backing track.

As the sun rose on 11th September 2001, all of this was still true.

From 8.14am that same morning, the country – no, the world - entered a state of shock. We became broken and traumatised from seeing that footage. Again and again, in a sickening feedback loop, on every news channel and talk show on air. The shaky videos began to look like a clip from a movie, only we knew it wasn’t.

We have old school friends now living in NYC. Married. Kids. Mortgage (the vast majority of our mutual friendship group are MKM.) They are ok. Safe. They sent Benny a short email and a heavily pixelated photo of the three kids as reassurance. But that wasn’t the point. It could have been them. It could have been Benny. Or our parents. Or me. Why are we all still here. How are our puny hearts and minds supposed to cope with survivors’ guilt on this scale?

And how dare those manky pigeons continue to crap on our cars, as if today is the same as yesterday.

On the 12th September 2001, after a sleepless night of feverish nightmares, I watched Benny stir tears into his bowl of Cheerios, then leave the soggy hoops to swell and stick as he pocketed his car keys, and took his mom out for a coffee. She had been phoning non-stop since yesterday lunch time. When he came back several hours later, he said she seemed a little better but he felt a lot worse.

I was also all out of useful words and optimistic thoughts, so I suggested a movie.

Cast Away.

I stare at the TV. And at Tom Hanks, as he cracks open coconuts, swims in turquoise green waters, pads barefoot over golden sands. A switch flicks in my subconscious.

‘How hard is it, to just… duck off...’ I say to Benny. (I didn’t say duck)

Benny leans over from his corner of the sofa. ‘Wait…’  Today’s shirt is a truly shocking, geometric number. Anyone else wearing it would look like a serial killer. He holds up a hand to put me on pause, then points at the TV, where Wilson is floating off on his forlorn, final journey.

‘Wilsoooooooooon!’ In unison. Much more jaded than the usual rendition – but still, it had to be done. We both find ourselves grinning, which feels good. Benny glances at me, smiling, the creases beneath his brown-flecked green eyes appearing deeper than I remembered. Shit. Maybe we are old. ‘What were you saying, Joshuaaaaaa?’

My elementary school nickname. I only let him get away with it because, well, it’s Benny.

I pause the DVD, the remains of my grin dissolving into a knitted brow. ‘How hard it would be to, you know, just duck off. Or do shit differently. Or…ducks sake, I don’t know what to ducking think anymore. Just something needs to ducking change, you know? Since…’ That was a lot of ducks. Even for me. And I couldn’t finish the sentence, it was too hard to say aloud.

Benny stares unseeing at the twitching, paused Tom Hanks – screaming face and frantic splashes caught in an unflattering mass that looks like a bird (probably a pigeon) has shat on the TV screen. ‘You mean, duck off to a tropical island. Run away with Wilson?’ He turns to me, winks, blushes - and in that moment I see what the girls must see. A little bit mischievous, a little bit vulnerable. Your mom would love him.

Benny’s tendency to use humour in the face of adversity is (mostly) endearing, I love him for it. Sometimes (like now) it isn’t. I frown at him. ‘Well, we aren’t exactly living our best lives here, are we.’ I kill any remaining joviality with a heavy cream pie of truth.

Benny puffs up his cheeks, exhaling as he nods. Neither action rushed. ‘Yeah.’ He shrugs. ‘Aim a little higher, maybe?’ Then points – a loose point, the kind where you use all your whole hand to save on finger bending - first to himself, and then at me. ‘I mean, just look at us.’

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Or the monotony of life. Or the horrific murders of nearly three thousand people. Or the thought that, if nothing changes, we’ll both still be sitting here in another 23 years time. Greyer hairs and heavier, bachelor bodies. Shouting ‘Wilsooooooon’ at whatever the 2024 equivalent of a DVD is.

Or maybe it’s all of those things. All rolled together into one gelatinous lump of glorious human fragility, that makes me stare, prickly and defensive, at my flatmate. ‘Us?’

Benny rearranges himself on the sofa, legs crossed. Facing me fully. He too, looks spikier. Red blotches start to form on his pale face. ‘Ok then. You.’

‘Me?’ I lean towards him, incredulous, one hand on my chest in proper prima donna fashion.

‘For duck’s sake Josh. I’m a fat ginger punt (he didn’t say punt) who sells overpriced autos to overpaid assholes. What’s your excuse?’

I’m not sure customer service agent trumps car salesman, but even if it did, this wasn’t the conversation I wanted to be having. I lean back on the sofa, close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Open my eyes and look up at the ceiling, and the dried splurt of alcohol that marked the end of an excellent New Year’s Eve party. The mighty Y2K.

When I glance over at Benny, he holds up both hands. ‘I’m sorry, man.’

I sit up and run my hands through my very nice hair. ‘Yeah…yeah. Me too. Sorry.’ I get to my feet. ‘Beer?’

Benny nods. ‘Sure.’

‘Strawberry blonde.’ I walk over to the fridge. Benny drapes an arm over the back of the sofa, his body language open, his eyes keen to engage. Neither of us wanted an argument. ‘What?’

I pull on the fridge door and say ‘You’re strawberry blonde. Not ginger.’ And then ‘You’ve got to be shitting me’ and show Benny a singular beer. He looks grateful for a fixable problem. He half stands, one knee on the sofa, one foot on the floor. ‘I’ll shoot out, get some more?’

I grab my bag, jab a thumb at the TV. ‘S’ok, I’ll go. Back in a bit. Carry on with the movie, if you like.’ As I close the door, I hear Hanks’ resurfacing after being paused on the cusp of drowning for well over five minutes.

The 7-Eleven is just a few minutes away, even you take into account the time needed to bound down four flights of stairs. I turn left out of the communal entrance and then left again. The store is at the end of the block, on the same side of the street.

I buy two packs of beer and some potato chips. Leave the store. It’s early evening, and while there are few folks about, the neighbourhood is quieter than usual - as if the cross walks, buildings and billboards are soaking in our grief. I turn the corner onto the home straight, and this is when I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t pay them much thought until they reach my heels. And stay on my heels. Any normal person would have gone around me by now.

Shit.

‘Oi, you ******* ****!’

Adopted Sri Lankan, but whatever, that’s a finer point that won’t make it home. (I’ve resorted to using *s, as no waterfowl deserves to be associated with what they actually said.) I put my head down and start to run. I can see our apartment block, it is about 200 yards away on the right.

My whole body jerks backwards as a hand pulls on my jacket collar. ‘Show us what’s in your bag, you ***** ******** *******.’ Another hand grabs at the canvas strap, and as I spin with the momentum, a fist hits me in the guts. A second fist thumps into my right cheekbone. My knees crunch into the concrete, a boot launches into my left hip, and then the kicks come in thick and fast. I didn’t know how long it would take, to be kicked to death. I curl up, try to protect my head with my arms, try to let my ribs and hips take the brunt of the violence.

I hear shouting, not just one voice, several. The assault stops as suddenly as it started, and a corral of decency made from the best of humanity surrounds my heaving, retching, bleeding body. I hear so many people checking if someone has called 911 (someone has), it makes my heart ache as much as my ribcage. A large lady crouches beside me, her in-proportion Afro blocking the blue out of the sky. She smells of fried onions and is wearing an apron. She left her dinner burning on a stove somewhere. For me.

‘Thank…’ I start to speak. So much pain.

‘Shh, you’re ok. You’re ok, help is coming.’

I can feel my right eye is already starting to bruise into two purple pillows. ‘Thank you.’ A whisper, but it is important to show gratitude, and I have never felt so grateful in my entire life. I close my eyes. And then I hear a familiar voice – fear pushing his tone higher and his breathing raggier. ‘Let me through, I’m his friend, let me through…’

There are the jostling sounds of people moving, the squeak of Nike trainers on greasy concrete, and I feel my jacket twitch as he kneels next to me. He takes hold of my hand.

I’ve known Benny for 23 years and he’s never held my hand. Perhaps because two grown men from Trenton, New Jersey, weren’t supposed to hold hands. I keep my eyes closed, but stroke his thumb with my own. The fried onions are a little fainter now. Perhaps guarding the perimeter while giving us some space.

That’s when he kisses me. On the lips. And the strangest thing was, I was fully expecting it. Like, this was how it was supposed to be all along, but we got distracted by disguised failures and dressed-up wins and Nokia 3310s. I smile, and I feel his lips smile with my own. His nose and forehead meet mine. Not for long. But for long enough. The murmur of the crowd and approaching sirens are another planet away.

‘Duck’s sake.’ I mumble rather than speak. Everything hurts. My racing mind slaloms through two decades of friendship, and the slippery passage of time. I thought I knew Benedict Adams, because we both had the same Transformers action figures when we were 10. ‘Did it really take a terror attack and some neo-Nazi assholes for us to work this shit out.’

‘And a volleyball.’ Benny adds. His voice as low as mine, but I can hear the grin in his words. ‘You didn’t object to eloping with Wilson.’

I lie on the dank, filthy sidewalk, panting with pain. My entire body feels as if it’s being squeezed by numerous bands of red-hot iron. None of these things stopped me from laughing.

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I can feel the confident hands of the paramedics checking my injuries, injecting me with pain relief, lifting me onto a stretcher. I can feel the red-hot iron bands begin to cool and loosen. I can feel myself being carried into the ambulance, I can hear several elusive conversations and repeated, calm reassurances. I can smell fried onions. I can hear Benny say ‘Thank you, we’re together’ and I can hear his scuffley uncertain footsteps find their way around an unfamiliar space. They stop as he reaches a seat, and his hand covers mine.

Thank you.

We’re together.

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Thank you for reading Wilson. You can read Cold Coffee - another Same Walk, Different Shoes story - here.

My other Stack is a steampunk / dystopian serial story, with new episodes published every Friday. If this piques your interest, you can find out more and subscribe at The Incredible Machines of Thinkery.

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