I
once had a friend I used to scare with a floppy arm.
It
wasn't a fake appendage, made especially for me or of the poor taste
joke shop kind, no, it was all mine: it belonged to me, but I was
able to make it, at will, go dead, limp and lifeless, and for some
reason this terrified her. I, however, found it hilarious, and would
tease her mercilessly with it, let it suddenly flop across our shared
hotel bed in Spain where we'd crashed out because the afternoons were
too damn hot, the ceiling fan spinning overhead, over us and the
beside tables with our personal effects, crackers and bottled water.
Lord,
how she'd shriek. I guess my teasing (and her pleas not to) were
similar to tickling. The latter's not allowed now, without consent;
maybe arm flopping isn't either?
I
can't remember if I favoured a particular arm...nor do I know if this
is uncommon. I never considered it my party trick; I don't recall
showing it or mentioning it to anyone else, until now. We weren't
kids, we weren't adults. Just old enough to go away on holiday, drink
fruity watered-down cocktails (responsibly, not until we were
plastered or threw up) and get carried into bars. Girls, any girls,
were a commodity bars always needed more of.
It
had all been my friend's idea. The holiday. The destination. Where to
stay etc. I don't remember having much say in any of that, aside from
meeting at the travel agent's and handing a credit card over. Perhaps
I'm wrong...perhaps I was more involved in the plan than I recall.
Whatever. I happily fell in, went along with it. A jaunt. A spree of
ten nights, I believe, maybe fourteen.
Yet
compared to the youth of today (and even back then) we were tame. It
was the night-life that called; to dance until we could dance no more
because once on a dance floor (anywhere) we were rarely off it. It
was all about the music. And stamina (without the aid of legal or
illegal highs). And dark clubs with neon, pulsing lights. Night after
night like the twelve dancing princesses who escape via a trap-door
and a hidden passageway, to return with their shoes worn right
through and no explanation for another pair having gone to pieces.
Except there were only two of us and we had no need for a trap-door
or a hidden passageway to make our nightly escape, though we did have
to wait until the appropriate hour. Tiptoeing was also unnecessary,
for there were no kings or queens lying awake or staying up late,
long past their bedtime and fretting. We were our own bosses, not
that that we didn't butt heads, though not over princes as none were
met; well, none we agreed on. It wasn't really that kind of place,
and if you'd gone with that in mind (which neither of us had) you'd
be disappointed. Sorely and sometimes cruelly, too.
All
I can say is we were young (still in college) and the young do
impetuous things. And this holiday was one of them, as was conduct.
Those friendship codes, never spoken of, never agreed to are harder
to stick to when you don't know what you're sticking by. A good time
was allowed
to be had that's all I'll say. There were expectations (presumptions
of character) to live up to and both of us failed in the eyes of the
other, I guess, though even now I'd say the blame lay more one way
than the other. But then of course I'd say that; time (and age)
hasn't altered my sense of righteous indignation, but I think my
friend, if I knew her still, would state the same, possibly in more
vehement tones too.
Nothing
happened that might be covered by the law of the stag or the law of
the hen; both of us, looking back, were mere innocents in that
regard, yet somehow still managed to surprise as well as disappoint
each other, and learn as friends we weren't suited: the time had come
to part. Isn't that a common experience on holidays though? And more
especially on those where you're trying to let your hair down and
find your adult feet?
So,
overall I can't say I have altogether fond memories of that brief
passage of time, just fragmentary memories, as if the brain
deliberately stops you from remembering (in full detail) anything
that's unpleasant, and of course, the arm. The dangling broken wing.
The symbol of a friendship, that in the end, ironically, didn't last
much beyond that early adventure.
Picture credit: Cat Catching a Bird, 1939, Pablo Picasso (source: WikiArt).
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
