“Paul C****? Who is Paul C****?”
“Could it be that guy we met in the airport?”
“Yes! Beardy guy from Kentucky!”
“…”
“Mike E*****?”
“The wood guy?”
“Yes! Hmm. Sean? Sean. That’s all it says… Sea….SUBWAY SEAN!”
Listening to J transfer his accounts to his new phone is the best and strangest window into his world.
“I need to choose a security question: ‘What is your favorite book? What is the street you grew up on? Who is your favorite beekeeper?’”
“‘Who is your favorite beekeeper?’”
“…”
“That’s a thing?”
“…”
“Can you even name one beekeeper?”
“…”
“Are there famous beekeepers?”
“…”
“Like, was Benjamin Franklin a beekeeper?”
J: What’s blocking the rest of the moon?
Me: The shadow?
J: Of…?
J, in his best Mr. T voice: Woe betide the fool who…
Me: Wait… what? “Woe betide the fool”?
J: Surely Mr. T said “woe betide” at some point in his career. “Woe betide the fool who tries to make Mr. T get on a plane!”
Me: You are so English.
“I don’t know; how do you do Tai Chi?”
“I think you just go to a public park and act like a twat.”
“Can I braid your beard?”
“NO. We’re not there yet.”
“You can separate it and I’ll braid it…”
“No way, I’ll look like one of those biker dudes who now lives in a house.”
“What’s the point of middle names, really? They should just get rid of them completely.”
“They’re used to distinguish two people with the same name from each other.”
Long, thoughtful pause. J stares off into the distance.
“Well, fortunately, you see, I have a unique personality.”
All of these Blur memories and every one of these glorious 60 degrees here got us reminiscing over warm days in Camden, just after we met, when hordes of us used to stand outside The Good Mixer with pints of Kronenberg affixed to our hands.
“Can I put this old picture of you on the internet?”
“Oh my god, I remember that day.”
It was my goodbye drinks, the first time I left.
“There’s Tony’s van, and the fruit & veg place that’s no longer there. And those big pints.”
We talk about other nights in the Mixer: the night the red-faced man took over the snooker table and no one could beat him. “Who was it who beat him in the end? Dave?”
“No! Biffo!”
“Of course! Beans On Toast Biffo.”
I know that if it weren’t for that pub, for lazy days and crazy nights like those, I wouldn’t be where I am now, an older version of me with an older version of that guy in the picture. There’s a reason I get all nostalgic thinking about those early years.
“I like remembering what it was like back when we met not because I wish we were still there, but just because I’m so glad we met.”
“It looks like a 9, but it’s got a line so maybe it’s a 6?”
“No, I put the line on top of the 9.”
“And you didn’t put any line on the 6?”
“No, I put a line at the BOTTOM of the 6.”
A beat, then:
“You do realize why this is problematic, don’t you?”
