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She’d talked to a therapist at one of the local outreach centres. Drum might have an adjustment or depressive disorder, except that he didn’t show the most obvious symptoms of depression. He was obstinate but not withdrawn, he had no trouble making decisions and he looked after his health.
He rejected small changes; warmer clothing and simple expenditures she was happy to share with him, she’d stopped mentioning the bigger ticket items. He was her friend and he lived in a cave because that’s what he wanted to do, because some mental imbalance, or personality disorder compelled him to, but it didn’t stop her wanting him to be different, to be a guy whose clothing fitted, who didn’t alternatively flinch or hold on too tight if they touched, who was relaxed enough to let her buy him a simple meal.
In her heart she ached for him to be just that much more ordinary; to be a guy who talked on the phone, and sent text messages, posted his sunsets to social media and fell asleep on her sofa watching TV. Maybe he was addicted to games, maybe he never helped with the washing up, or changed the toilet roll, maybe he snored, but in all these things he’d be familiar, relatable.
He reached for her hand and she gave it. His eyes swept her face with a look that made it hard to swallow. It wasn’t how friends looked at each other. There was nothing casual about it. It was the I juggle chainsaws for a living version of a look—dangerous, mesmerising, remarkable. Rad. And every time it happened it was more confusing. And it was happening more and more. His eye contact, initially fully fuelled by avoidance, grazed right on through glancing attention and shy awareness and was now gorging on acutely significant.
He looked at her with such feeling, such desire, that she stopped caring about his clothes, his address, his reticence to be seen with her in public, and had to be reminded he was a most unusual friend.
He squeezed her hand. “I guess my flaky male pride can handle you shouting me a Big Mac.”
It might’ve been raining chainsaws that was so surprising.
He laughed. “Don’t make a thing of it.”
“Me?” She squeaked that, which was making a thing of it, but it was a first among other firsts and as delightful as his laughter.
This whole expedition was another first. Until tonight he’d steadfastly avoided going anywhere off the beaches where they could be seen together. He’d told her straight up, it was no good for her, and they’d argued. Foley had accused him of putting conditions on their friendship and instead of angering him, spurring him to denial, he’d laughed, then promptly agreed to come with her into the city to watch how the city council staged a street dance festival as part of Youth Week.
And now he was agreeing to let her feed him. It was irresistible. “You want fries with that?”
He yanked her hand as he stepped away from the shop window, hauling her in his wake, but she knew he was laughing. And in McDonald’s he accepted one of their dinner meals, which included up-sized everything, without making a thing of it. It went some way towards soothing the self-loathing about her reaction to the homeless man, and her discomfort with Drum’s choices—but not all the way.
She stole one of his fries. “You’re not the same as that man and you know it.”
He chewed, swallowed and shook his head. “In the detail, no. He’s older, he’s an alcoholic, but in all the ways that matter, we’re the same.”
They ate in silence. The restaurant was full: families with kids, a bunch of teens with ‘80s hair wearing fluoro colours, there were two bike cops in their tight jodhpurs and leather jackets at the counter, a guy in a hard hat, and a couple in formal wear in the queue. In his op shop clothes Drum was unremarkable, but she couldn’t accept his argument.
“I looked at that man and saw misery. I walked past him because I didn’t want to have to deal with that. It’s too hard. I’m too weak.” She shrugged. It was complicated; shame, guilt, resentment all bound in together. “My money won’t help him enough to make a difference and yet he makes me feel responsible. He has no future without help. I look at you and see this incredible, intelligent man, who needs a haircut and some decent clothes, who needs help to—”
“Be normal.” He said it like it was a prison sentence. You are sentenced to normal for the term of your natural life, no chance of release. She knew that because that’s how she’d thought of it; normal, ordinary, deadly.
“What’s wrong with normal?” She couldn’t believe she was saying that. Felt the hypocrisy of it curling her toes.
“I’ll never be normal, Foley. Aside from the fact it’s a concept without real meaning, what is normal anyway?” He angled his head at the punk kids. “Isn’t it just the current fashion? You want me to be like everyone else: a suit, a job, a mortgage, prospects.”
&nb
sp; “Would that be so terrible; warmth, comfort, enough food, walls?” A life more ordinary, one where they might fit together as more than conditional friends.
“I had those things once but,” he shook his head, “I’m on the other side now.”
She didn’t understand his rigid definitions of what he could and couldn’t have, the line he appeared to have crossed and the penalty he’d designed for himself to pay.
She ached to ask about his life before the cave but she knew he’d shut down. Instead she said, “How about a phone so I can contact you?”
He flipped the hand he had lying on the table over and she put hers into it. Friends touched this way, it was just hand-holding and it was fresh and new tonight and she liked it.
“Are you going to live in a cave for the rest of your life?”
He frowned. “Let’s go see this event, Foley.”
“Quack.”
He opened his fingers and released her hand. “I’m not ducking.”
“Quack, quack.”
