Welcome to the cupboard of broken toys — Part 32


Creedy and I are having to work on our social awkwardness problem. Since he came-out (finally!!) we have been dodging each other. Considering we share the same side-room, wash-room, showers, canteen table, TV room, Group Therapy sessions and many occupational therapy sessions, you would think this might be well-nigh impossible. Yet, somehow, we manage to do a good job at avoiding each other.

No we don’t.

I am in the shower and he comes in. I am naked. He stares at the ceiling while I stare at the floor. It never occurs to me to reach for a towel. It never occurs to him to go outside and wait for a few minutes while I can freak out, grab a towel and dive out, still covered in soap suds.

We are having lunch and he asks me to pass the salt. I hand the shaker over to him and our hands touch inadvertently. It is like we have both been shocked by an electric current. We spring apart and the salt cellar flies across the room, striking one of the Ward 10 guys on the head. He looks up and around in surprise and confusion while Creedy and I concentrate on the contents of our plates.

We are in Ward Group when one of the stroppy kids asks Creedy why he doesn’t like hanging out with me these days.

Aaaaaargh!! Way to go, you horrible, insensitive little git!

I am looking at myself in the mirror. My reflection looks back with a sour expression on his face.

“You are a mess, Bombardier Lamb,” he says.

“Yes,” I reply, “I already know. Thanks for confirming my opinion of myself. Bastard!”

I don’t think I can take much more of this. I am out on the Common, just sitting and generally staying away from any Creedy-infested locations. See if you can guess who comes out to find me?

It is Mulholland.

No it isn’t.

Any other guesses?

“We have to sort this out,” says Creedy.

He is absolutely correct. And, annoying as I find it, he is the one to take the initiative, while I am still operating in ‘panicky-oblivion-half-wit’ mode.

“What do you suggest?” I ask him.

“Can’t we just hang out as friends?”

It is news to me that we have ever been ‘friends’. Still, if that is how he choses to interpret our relationship I am not going to destroy his illusions.

“Okay,” I agree, “Let’s hang out.”

And we do. And it is as simple as that.

I suggest that we get passes and go out for a bike ride. I have a destination in mind.

We mount up our mean-hogs. Actually, they are both cute little Suzuki choppers and are less ‘mean’ than a pair of petting-zoo rabbits.

We bike out to Richmond, where there is a pub I know. It is run by one of the Morris-men. It is the local gay bar.

We go in and I order a couple of lager-shandies.

Creedy is looking around.

“There are a lot of guys in vests,” he says.

Later: “There are a lot of guys dressed as sailors.”

Later: “There aren’t any women here.”

“Good. You have noticed. Now, have a think: Why might that be?”

He is none the wiser.

For F*ck’s Sake!!!!

Get a grip, Creedy!!

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