Moving and Shaking

So that was me, at my worst. As much of my worst as I can stand to tell, at any rate. Maybe you’re thinking that, despite my best efforts, I’ve come off as a whiny prick. If so, I wouldn’t worry about it. The only thing you need to worry about now is that you’ve made a minor commitment to reading a book about someone who started out as a whiny prick. I feel your pain. Could be that it seems like this is going to be a long read, and for all you know the twist at the end is that I don’t have a character arc. I’ll do my best to mitigate that.

Let’s not forget that you’ve seen my friends at their worst by now, as well. And, you can trust me, they turned out alright. Frank, who can at times seem cavalier and indifferent is charming exactly because he’s so low maintenance, his heart so genuine, his friendship so unshakeable.

And Craig, as particular, fussy, and demanding as he can be… well. I guess the thing about Craig is that he’s unshakeable in a different way. Craig is like the Gym teacher who always demands more than you think you have, takes no quarter, has no time for weakness, but leaves you surprising yourself all the same. Although, unlike with the Gym teacher, there is no revelatory moment of acceptance or praise with Craig; you never actually make the grade. [There’s also slightly less inappropriate touching, but not so you’d notice.]

I don’t hold it against him. He was so consistent and exhaustive in his dissatisfaction, I rather think it might have been its own punishment. Besides, he was good for me. He was very fucking motivating company, and that shouldn’t be underestimated.

Craig pushed me constantly, and I needed it at the time. It doesn’t matter that he would have done it anyway, even if I hadn’t needed it at the time, or if I only sort of needed it or, hell, if I was just passing. Talk about a moot point. None of it would have been the same without him. I still need him, truth be told. I bet he’d shake me right out of this funk with a few days of belittling and coerced physical exercise.

‘It’s the gym for you, Butterball,’ he’d say. ‘Get your bag’.

Later he’d question the quality of my food intake, and then my parentage.

Craig was a peculiarly complementary personality [well, in one sense of the word], but not a role model. Much as I valued his presence in those formative years, I wouldn’t have wanted to emulate him. Frank, though, I don’t know. I was jealous of Frank. Frank didn’t get fazed, ever, by anything, and I desperately wanted that quality.

Outwardly, Frank had nothing to teach, and he was anything but motivating. He was just a mate, but he always seemed to have the answer. And the answer was always to worry less. Mostly I found it impossible to worry less, but I liked the idea of it. Frank was a reluctant mentor.

‘Quinn,’ he said, during one tellingly metaphysical chat, ‘firstly, the very fact that you’re asking for help chilling out worries me so, as you can see, no man is an island. Secondly, if I were in a position to offer that advice, it would be – in the nicest possible way – to shut the fuck up and stop listening to the voices in your head, which is also what I’d say if your request made no kind of sense to me, or if I thought you were basically crazy.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘That wasn’t advice,’ Frank said. ‘That was why I’m not giving you any advice. My advice is to roll yourself a man-sized joint, and by yourself I mean us. Gear’s on the table – Doctor’s orders.’