The Crack of McWinslow

Euan McWinslow was a damn contradiction. He was a thoroughly right wing conservative, who loved American surf punk and smoking weed. He started University at sixteen, but carried himself like a middle aged banker. He had a weak constitution, pale skin and strawberry hair, but he partied harder and longer than anyone else I knew, and threw himself into one extreme beach sport after another. [For Euan, vomiting was a form of punctuation.] One night I saw him ad lib a six minute rap about a plush toy lizard. [The inimitable ‘Gecko Superstar’.]  Later he spent two hours explaining rent control, with no noticeable dip in enthusiasm.

We knew Euan from New Hall, but he went to Gatty when we went to Fife Park; same shit, different end of town. We knew Euan well enough to like him, and also well enough to know that his dial-to-eleven speaker system was better off at the other end of town. I visited maybe twice all year. True to form he lived in a punk rock house, where he studied economics fastidiously.

The other thing about Euan that I remember vividly, is that Darcy Loch fell for him in a big way.

‘How hot is Euan?’ she asked me, one day. ‘Those pecs are devastating, and his ass is like some kind of dimpled rock formation.’

That was the first I knew of it. It did not please me to consider Euan in this fresh new light.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘We’re probably not going to find a lot of common ground here.’

‘Oh come on, it’s not like you can’t tell who’s the best looking amongst your friends.’

‘I can tell,’ I said. ‘But I don’t. Just like I don’t check out their baloney at the froth-trough. This is the way of things.’

‘I bet you do, sometimes,’ she said.

‘You know nothing of men.’

‘Fine,’ she grumped. ‘I was just saying.’

‘He’s nice,’ I conceded. ‘You could do worse. Don’t mention his rocky Greco-Roman arse dimples again.’

‘I didn’t say Greco-Roman.’

‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I’m almost sure you did.’

‘Do you think he’s too young for me?’

‘Fuck, you’re the one who talks about maturity. Whatever.’

‘He doesn’t seem too young, but then sometimes he does. He’s like, forty going on seventeen.’

‘You better like loud music something chronic. That’s the worst I can say.’

‘He’s sooo hawt. That party we had last week.’

‘The Gecko Party,’ I said.

‘You could feel the tension.’

‘Huh,’ I said.

It was a huh moment. I guess I thought we had the corner on sexual tension. But, obviously, ours was the back burner kind.

‘Like, all electricity and hotness, and wow!’

‘I don’t think I know that feeling,’ I said; a half truth.

‘I almost ripped the pants off him right there,’ she said. Then she said it again.

‘Huh,’ I said.

I could sense the frustration in her voice. And I was winded by my own bilious jealousy.

‘I don’t care,’ I said. Out loud, but to myself. Firmly. ‘I don’t care. It’s none of my business.’

‘What, you don’t think I should?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I think he’s into you. It’s all good.’

‘Well, I didn’t mean to make things all weird...’

‘No,’ I said.

‘If it’s because he’s your friend or something,’ she started.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Why does everybody think that matters?’

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘I guess. Look, though. He’s a good one. You’ll have fun.’

‘You think it’s probably just a thing?’

‘Everything’s just a thing.’

‘I mean, you think he’d see it as just fun?’

‘I don’t know. I guess it depends how you play it.’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I get it. You don’t want to talk about it.’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just... are we alright? Are we properly friends?’

‘Totally,’ she said. ‘Really good friends.’ Her voice went up a pitch, frank with worry. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘No, we’re fine,’ I said. ‘If you say so, we’re fine. There’s nothing wrong. Only I just don’t know what happened, you know, the other week.’

She took a deep breath.

‘Cassie,’ she said.

‘That her name?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What did I do to deserve that?’

‘Sorry I was a bitch,’ she said. ‘You just had to go is all, and I didn’t know how else to say it so you would.’

‘Yeah, fine,’ I said. ‘You were a bitch. But I was talking about her.’

‘Quinn,’ she said.

‘Did you even see the way she looked at me? It was like she wanted me to die.’

‘Quinn, she’s not well.’

‘As in ‘mentally fucking ill’ not well.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I was just kidding around.’

‘She has trust issues with men. That’s all you need to know.’

‘At last someone thinks I’m a fucking man,’ I said.

‘Jesus, Quinn!’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘I fail to see how it’s my problem.’

‘It’s not your problem, but have a bit of human compassion. You’re being a prick.’

‘OK, well how should I be about it?’

‘Patient,’ she said. ‘Well, I have to be patient. You have to be gone, and that’s just how it is.’

‘What did I ever do that she gets to decide when I go?’

‘Nothing. But don’t bother playing the discrimination card, here, Quinn. You don’t fit the demographic.’

‘Oh, so I can’t feel bad about it, now, either.’

‘Get over yourself, Quinn. Really.’

‘Whatever.’

Darcy looked at me. Bit her lip. Decided to spill the beans.

‘When she was younger, every man she knew abused her. All of them, seriously. Her whole family. I’m not going to talk about how. I shouldn’t even be telling you this.’

‘Shit,’ I said.

I had probably figured it was something whiny and inner-child up to that point, because I remember the sinking, evil feeling I got when Darcy opened up.

‘She got ‘rescued’, when she was twelve. I’ve been looking out for her a bit this year. But it’s hard fucking going, and you’re making it harder.’

‘Fuck.’

I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips.

‘She’s not ever getting better, is she?’ I realised.

‘It’s really not about better.’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Fuck.’

‘Puts things into perspective.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know where it even fits in.’

‘You’re lucky,’ she said. ‘Even though you don’t know a thing about anything. I mean, honestly, not a thing. Sometimes I think you’re a blank slate.’

‘I’m better at some things than others,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

We just sat there in silence after that. I don’t know how she felt, but it wasn’t a deliberate act of respect or gravity that kept me quiet. I would have talked, if I could. I would have gone right on and rated every one of my male friends by buttock firmness rather that sit there in silence. It just didn’t seem like there was anything you could follow it up with that wouldn’t be out of place.

And I remember thinking that it would probably be hours before I could tell another stupid joke, or make some comment about boobs. And I remember thinking ‘Time will fix this awkward moment just fine. But some people are broken.’ And there were a million things I didn’t think. There could have been a neon sign, and I would have missed it, but I never even wondered how Darcy met Cassie, or where.