Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (34 page)

And so I hadn’t pressed Send.

Because I knew that, like all grown-up, responsible men in charge of their own destinies… I would require
permission.

“So what do you need my help for?” said Ian, puzzled. “Pressing your mouse down? Because I’m fairly sure you can do that yourself…”

“I need you to help me make my case to Lizzie,” I said. “And also, I need you to help me put up a canopy.”

Ian and I had been working in the garden most of the afternoon, and by the time Lizzie got home we were sitting in the sun,
feet up and enjoying a beer.

This was good. Sod Paul the builder. I had taken
control!

“Hello, boys!” said Lizzie. “Another one?”

We smiled and said thanks, and then looked at each other and smiled again. Lizzie had been standing under our excellent new
canopy and not even noticed.

“You should varnish this,” said Ian, tapping the surface of the table.

“I
did
varnish it!” I said.

“Well, you should unvarnish it and then varnish it again.”

“I
did!
”

Lizzie came through the door again, brandishing fresh bottles of Stella, and studied our faces.

“Why are you two looking so proud of yourselves?” she asked.

We simply pointed and let our work speak for itself. Lizzie turned and looked, and said “Oh” in what I like to think was astonishment
and wonder.

Now, granted, this was not the best canopy in the world. It was essentially a piece of corrugated plastic that we’d sawn up
and smoothed down. And yeah, so the screws hadn’t gone all the way in the wall, and we’d forgotten to remove the sticker from
the plastic, and there was a crack in it, and the whole thing wasn’t quite what you’d call “straight”… but it was
our
canopy, and we were proud of it.

“That is…” said Lizzie, pausing so long that both Ian and I had time to hold our breath, exhale, and then breathe in and hold
it again, “… the most
beautiful
canopy I have ever seen!”

And then there’d been another pause, before we’d all sat about and laughed for a bit, because actually it was shit.

But it was what it
represented
that mattered. Things were getting
done.
Progress was being
made.
And it didn’t stop there.

“We’ve made a list,” I said. “A list of possible Man Points.”

“Aha,” said Lizzie. “The Man Points thing…”

“I still wish to point out that this is an oppressive regime which removes the fundamental human rights of the adult male,”
said Ian, as I held up a sheet of paper.

“I realized that what we were lacking was a system, Lizzie, so with the help of an independent adjudicator, I have—”

“Independent adjudicator?” asked Lizzie. “Doesn’t Ian owe you fifty quid for that helmet?”

“Not anymore!” said Ian, indicating the canopy.

“Now, I have attempted to put a system in place, by assigning a number of points to a specific task.”

Lizzie nodded me on.

“So—mowing the lawn, that’s fairly easy, so that’s a one-pointer. Tidying the shed, that’s worth
three
points, we reckon…”

I looked up to see whether Lizzie was agreeing or not, but she was just sitting there, perfectly silent.

“Right—the canopy, that involves plastics, sawing and screws, so we were thinking…”

“That’s a five-pointer right there,” said Ian.

Lizzie still wasn’t saying anything. It was making me nervous. I cleared my throat.

“So… we thought you could take a look at all these jobs and see if you agree with the number of points we’ve allocated each
one. In the meantime”—I reached for another piece of paper—“here is a list of what you can buy with each Man Point.”

“Buy?”

“Well, not
buy,
exactly. But they’re a little like air miles, I suppose.”

“Are you planning a trip?” she asked.

Ian’s eyes widened. Mine did too.

“No! No! Not planning one, no. Not
planning,
exactly. Just…
thinking.
About planning. A trip.”

“Tell her what you’ve done today,” said Ian, thinking quick.

“Well, the canopy, obviously, then the shed—that’s tidied. So that’s 8MP in all…”

“8MP?”

“Eight Man Points,” said Ian. “It’s complicated but you’ll get used to it.”

“I have also remown the lawn…”

“1MP,” said Ian, kindly.

“… put the blinds up in the bathroom…”

“2MP”

“… and bought four empty ketchup containers into which we can pour that big bottle of ketchup so as to make it more manageable.”

“That one’s free.”

Lizzie picked up both sheets of paper and looked them up and down.

“Have you mended that broken socket?” she asked, calmly.

“No. Not yet,” I said. “That’s next.”

“How about the ladder?”

“Still in the hallway.”

I kicked myself. That was 1MP
easy.

“And what are you saving up for?” she asked. “With these Man Points?”

“I need… well, I’d
like
… to go to LA. I need to lay a ghost to rest.”

And then Lizzie looked at me, and looked at the list, and then said, “Fine.”

“
Fine?
” I said.

“Fine,” she said.

Ian looked stunned.

“Just like that? Fine? But you don’t even know why I want to go to LA,” I said, confused.

“You said you needed to lay a ghost to rest. That’s good enough for me. Go lay your ghost to rest. Anyway, I’m going to Brighton
with the girls at the weekend, and the last thing I want to have to do is start earning GPs.”

“Doctors?” said Ian.

“It’s confusing but you’ll get used to it,” said Lizzie.

“But the Desperados Pact!” I said.

“The deadline stands!” she said. “November 16th, okay?”

“Okay! And I promise I’ll do even more stuff when I get back. I’ll paint the spare room, and I’ll repot those plants, and
I’ll move that ladder and mend that socket! I’ll redouble my efforts!”

“You see, Ian?” said Lizzie, smiling. “I’ve got him redoubling his efforts. I see your list and raise it…”

“GPs!” said Ian, clicking his fingers. “
Girl
Points!”

It was a beautiful sunny evening and I realized how lucky I was. The best relationships are supportive, even of the strangest
things. The guilt I’d felt at even starting what I’m sure Hanne would have called a “stupid boy project” faded as the three
of us talked, and I showed them pictures of Tarek, and of Cameron, and spoke about how much I wanted to find Christopher Guirrean.
I told them about the letters I’d written Andy Clements, and I told them stories about bellydancers, and the boy who lived
at number 3 in Malaysia, and of days gone by. And Ian told me about his schooldays, and the time he fell out of a tree trying
to look down a girl’s top, and Lizzie joined in too, with stories of schools run by nuns and friends of the past, and as the
beer brought its haze and the bright sunshine turned to tree-dappled beams, we sat in the garden, eating chili and comparing
stories in the warming way that thousands of other groups of friends were doing right then, right around the world.

“Jesus!” said Lizzie, looking round the house. “You did all this?”

“Yup,” I said, proudly.

“All today?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Wow!”

The canopy still looked terrible, mind you. I’d already called Paul to tell him it was now sorted and whatever he had on special
order could now be specially canceled. He’d been in the pub. He’d told me it had been a very stressful few days, what with
his daughter being rear-ended by that van, and all. Still, he generously said I could have the money I’d paid him not to build
the canopy back, but that he was still determined to complete my guttering. It was his number one priority. And then I remembered
something.

“I thought your daughter got
mugged?
”

“Yes,” he’d said. “Terrible business.”

Ian wandered out of the toilet, shaking his hands dry and then clapping them together.

“Right then!” he said.

The three of us stood in front of the computer.

The email was still there. The cursor was winking at us, like it was in on the joke. I was about to update another address.

“But what
is
a Furry?” asked Lizzie.

“People who dress up as animals and then do all manner of unspeakable things,” said Ian, enthusiastically. “Is… you know.
What I’ve
heard.
”

I pressed Send.

I was going to LA.

I
’m going to tell you a secret—something I have never told
anybody.

It is this: for the last twenty years I haven’t been able to have a bath without thinking of the Mexican guitarist Carlos
Santana.

This is
terribly
annoying.

The problem is, somewhere around 1988, I happened to catch Carlos Santana on Radio 1 just as he was saying that the ideal
temperature for bath water is the precise temperature which means you never even realize you’re actually sliding into the
bath. It should be neither too warm for you to notice, nor too cold for it to matter. That, said Carlos Santana proudly, is
when you
know
you’re in the ideal bath.

I was lying in the ideal bath in my hotel room in LA, late on the night of the 20th.

And I was thinking about Carlos Santana while eating a tiny packet of nuts. I’d taken them along with a couple of tiny cans
of beer I’d nicked from the plane journey. I’d felt I had to hide them away, because the man next to me had been reading an
article on addiction and had frowned at me every time I’d asked for another tiny Heineken (or tinyken). He’d shot me a look
as if I’d belched and then ordered a bottle of Scotch and a straw.

Hey, I wonder if Carlos Santana drinks bottles of Scotch with a straw.

I really had to stop thinking about Carlos Santana.

And so I crushed my empty tinyken and I thought about the plan instead.

The plan was unnervingly simple.

Ben Ives would walk into the Garden Bar at 2 p.m. and be looking around the room, trying to find a man who looked like he
had something to get off his chest about life as an animal. He’d be wanting to sit down and get the whole thing over with
as quickly as possible, but be confused by the fact that, instead, he had seemingly randomly bumped into an old friend he
used to work with at Argos. Which is when I would reveal that ManGriff the Beast Warrior had been
me
all along. We’d then spend an hour or however long he could spare chatting and laughing, while he slapped his thighs and
shook his head, and said, “I can’t believe you got me! I am a fool and you are a genius!” Maybe he’d cancel work and we’d
hang out all afternoon. Maybe he’d show me LA by night.

Whatever we did, we would do it as friends. Friends reunited. It was the perfect plan.

But then… the inevitable paranoia…

It had all gone so well so far—Michael, Anil, Simon, Cameron and Tarek had all welcomed me back into their lives with open
arms. But with Ben, there might always be
that thing
between us. Would getting him back lead to an entire life of one-upmanship and revenge? What if he took it badly? Would I
have to keep looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Would I have to treat every email, letter or random phone call
with suspicion, just in case it was him? Or would this bring an end to things? An evening-up? A balance?

I got out of the bath and convinced myself I was being stupid. I was on top of things. I was in charge. Ben had no idea whatsoever
that I was ManGriff.

I opened the minibar and took out a tiny bottle of Scotch. It might help me sleep.

But then I couldn’t find a straw, so I put it back.

In the morning I awoke bright and early and with what seemed like many hours of rest under my belt, and I wandered outside,
and into LA.

I was staying near Robertson Boulevard, not a million miles away from Rodeo Drive, and took in the hipster boutiques with
a Pretzel Dog in my hand. A Pretzel Dog was a fairly new experience to me, and one I’m not at all concerned didn’t come to
me sooner, managing to fuse as it does a pretzel with a hot dog, while also managing to be nowhere near as nice as either
a pretzel or a hot dog. I binned it, and looked around. I was outside a shop called Kitson. Through its vast windows I could
see sneakers, and jackets, and row upon row of vintage T-shirts.

I have a particular fondness for vintage American T-shirts—one I’ve had since I was a kid. I love the sense of unfamiliar
history each shirt seems to have. Once worn to celebrate the achievements of a minor football team in some backwater town,
or a Scout jam-boree in North Carolina, or a spelling bee in Tennessee, or a mayoral announcement in Idaho, somehow they find
their way from little-known towns and cities across the country to shops just like this. Each one meant something to someone
at
some
stage of their life, but for whatever reason wound up out of fashion or out of favor, and discarded or donated or handed
down, until there was no one left to hand it down to except a complete stranger in an unknown shop.