Archie's Place

I wanted to go to Archie’s place, because, let’s face it, he grows the best weed.

You said we should go to Johnno’s. And I know why. Johnno’s been a friend of yours since you were in school together. You feel safe there, and it’s full of nostalgia – he’s had the place ten years now, you helped him build it. You helped him dig out that spot at the back with the shield of thick trees and wild blackberries. It’s a nice place, I know, there’s views across the harbour, and across the valley. I can see what the appeal is.

And you always get what you want, don’t you?

#

Now look, Johnno isn’t a bad guy. He’s an old friend, and he’s a buttload of fun. He tells the worst Dad jokes out there, and still has a way of making us laugh with them. He’s totally laid back, you could say anything to him, and he’d just shrug and think, and then there’d be this pearl of wisdom just sitting on his tongue ready to come out. And you know, his weed is okay. It’s green and spikey and home-grown. It puts you in a good mood, sure. It just doesn’t have the kick that Archie’s does.

I’m just saying.

But you get the bit between your teeth, and you want what you want, and you know everything. And so here we are at Johnno’s; the sun is shining, there’s music playing, spilling out the doors and windows of his sprawling, messy, lovely bungalow.

It’ll be fun to stay at Johnno’s.

And Johnno comes charging out to meet us. He jumps on us, one at a time – no, it’s all right, he’s not some weed-growing dog – wrapping us up in our own individual bear hugs. He could be a bear. He’s a big guy, and he’s got a bushy, untamed beard. He repeats the hugs, he calls out, “It’s so good to see you guys! How long has it been?”

“Two years, in person,” you say, though the two of you chat online a fair bit.

“And how long have you two been married now.”

“Four,” you say.

He looks at me, “Is he in trouble? Did he get that right?”

“He’s not quite senile yet,” I say.

Johnno chuckles, “Ah, give it time. He’ll be forgetting your name and mistaking you for a hat in no time.”

I could correct. I don’t. You tell me I can be irritating when I do that, and I don’t want to be irritating. So.

“Get inside with you,” Johnno says, “Let’s have some cold beers and chips and talk, eh?”

Johnno’s fun. I know that. Johnno’s heart is good. I know that too. And seeing you and he together does make me smile. And hey, his weed’s still pretty good.

#

We get our chance to test that out. Like we knew – and okay, like we intended.

The sky slides from blue into purple into black, painted with red and ochres for a while. There’s plenty to chat about, and oh so many chips to go around. How many packets of these does he have in that walk-in pantry?

But I look across the valley, at the verdant bush, the yellow spread of gorse – like a vein of gold in a cliff face – at the few triangles of roofs that break the horizon.

“So,” says Johnno, “who wants to get happy?”

We do, of course.

Johnno rolls them big and messy, appealing. And he’s right, this is happiness in a tube. When he lights mine up and I take a deep breath, it does feel as if all the worry and darkness are just flowing away – along with my lungs and a few brain cells, I know, I know. I lie back amongst the bean bags and stare at the ceiling. Amazing the kinds of patterns the stains there can form. It really could be a night sky, those little grease stains could be constellations if they wanted to be, in fact, really, anything can be anything if you just think hard enough about it, and just believe and believe until your face hurts and your mind bursts…. I’m floating on a cloud of freedom.

You and Johnno reminisce. You dive back into the old times, and you talk them as if you’re living them. You guys have a twenty-year head start on me, and there’s nothing I can do to catch up. Time’s a race where you can’t change your position, you can’t go from last to first. You’re tied down, a little vine around your ankles that keeps you in place no matter how hard you pull or what ways you try to cheat… ah, I can feel it, that stoned thinking that lets your mind go every which way it feels like – or doesn’t, sometimes, but let’s not go there.

You and Johnno talk about old girlfriends. It was bound to come up. And there’s a part of me that wants to say “hey, I’m right there, you know.” But that part is buried right now, in a swimmy haze of herb. That’s why I don’t really mind. Why I lie back and let my curiosity guide me.

But then you mention Valerie. And it all comes to a screaming halt. She’s a crash-sobering word, Valerie. She’s a memory of willowy limbs and blue eyes, and the kind of goofy smile that makes men’s hearts melt. I can hardly even blame her, since you were so much the aggressor, and since she pulled away and you just kept following, diving down after her. Shaming me. And if I’m honest, it was the shame that hurt the most, the seeing myself through the eyes of the too-many people who knew.

And still. You mention Valerie.

I want to hold onto the high. But I can’t. Once Valerie enters the picture I just can’t. And so I tell you two I need some air, and I stumble out the door, feet bare, legs bare – though the night is cooling – and I pick my way through the garden. I like to imagine that Johhno is scolding you in there right now, telling you that you need to have a bit of sensitivity. But I don’t know. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Are you listening? Do you ever listen?

#

I know this is bad. This borders on hypocritical.

And I can’t really blame the weed.

I like to think that I just sort of ended up here accidentally, but I’m not sure if that’s really true. But I’m on the other side of the valley now, I’m climbing the fence, and I’m walking up that thick, wooded hill. I know it’s a bad idea, and not just because the ground is full of prickly, hard things that stab and scratch my naked feet as I walk.

The sky is beautiful though. Once I get to the ridge and I can stand there and just look up at it. Turns out Johnno’s ceiling is no competition for the real thing, for this panorama of white on black, going on in all directions without limit. The stars seem stark, pale, unearthly – and they are, aren’t they? - and the void seems utterly emptied of colour – but isn’t it? – just a few brush strokes of white mist here and there. And the sliver of a crescent moon hanging over me as if it could either protect or pass judgement.

And I don’t mean to run into Archie, though I know this is his place. It’s big. And why should he happen to be walking out in it anyway at night? But he is. And he’s here. And he knows me on sight, and of course he’s calling and waving.

I run over.

It’s been a while. A hug is okay.

“How are you, how are you doing?”

“I’m good. Good.”

“Stoned?”

“Not any more. Not really.”

“Smoking up with Johnno?”

“Yeah.”

Archie gives me a tiger smile, “I can always hook you up better.” There’s a bit of a rivalry, Archie and Johnno. From way back.

“He can’t compete,” I say frankly, “But Thad wanted to stay at his place. You know how it is.”

“They go way back. How is Thad, anyway?”

“He’s good.”

“What’s it been? It’s been five years?”

“Four.”

“But you’re happy?”

“Sure.” Sure?

His face changes. And I remember: it’s a face for expressions, it’s a face that can hold such a fantastic array of emotions, and it can change so fast and so completely, like he could almost be another person when he’s in another mood. “Sophie, are you happy?”

I look him in the eyes. “I’m happy.”

We walk awhile. I’m not stoned enough to tell him any secrets, but we talk about old and new times, and he takes me down to the plantation and shows me the rows and rows of green, jagged bush. It’s an impressive sight. And so long as I’m being honest, Archie’s not a bad sight either, he’s kept himself together pretty well, he’s lean and muscled and his sandy hair is cut more-or-less tidily, just a hint of that beachy, slightly ginger stubble. I get it, I can see where I was coming from…

“We had it good,” he says.

Not looking: “I know.”

“Are you sure you don’t regret….?”

Letting him go? It feels like the worst moment to be hearing that question.

“Because look, if you and Thad are happy, then it’s all good, and here’s my blessing right here, and I want the best for you both. But if you’re not…”

“Archie…”

“Let me finish. If you’re not, life is too short and precious to spend it marking time and making the best of shit. You have to seize the good stuff, okay? Even if it’s not easy or comfortable or whatever, you just have to.”

“And you’re the good stuff in this scenario?”

“We did though. We did have it good. We had it sooo good. Does he know?”

“No.”

“Are you ever going to tell him?”

“No.” And in anticipation of his question: “Because it’s over. Been and gone.”

“But here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Do you want to smoke something incredible?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

#

I get back before dawn. Only just. There’s a touch of fire in the sky. And the two of you are stretched out over the beanbags, Johnno with his arms wide, you with your legs outstretched, and one of your shoes off. You could be boys again. You could be a pair of teenagers. I wonder what it could have been like with Archie. Better or worse. I wonder that way too much, really, especially in the bad times.

This isn’t a bad time though, is it? Really? We’ll all wake up in the afternoon, and we’ll hop in Johnno’s van and we’ll go down to the quay to get breakfast and laugh at the surfers. The air will smell like salt, and the sun will be burning, blinding; the sky will be impossibly blue.

I find myself a spot beside you, lie down, rest my forehead in the hollow between your shoulder and your cheek. You make a soft sucking noise, you shift a little bit, but you don’t wake up. I can at least say that I mean this when I whisper in your ear, “I love you,” and I wonder if those words will slither into your dreams and what they’ll become once they’re in there.

I rest one hand over your heart to keep it safe before I sleep.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work