Geekhood (21 page)

PS:
Why should you? You live here too. He needs to remember that
.

The rest of the film passes with little interruption and I’m actually able to almost enjoy it.

PS:
You see. You do have the power to change things. All it takes is speaking your mind
.

This is all slightly new to me – but I enjoy the feeling
that I’m being taken notice of. I’ve got to maintain this frame of mind – and that’s going to take a bit of work.

As the credits roll, Tony gets out the other film.

“Fancy this one, Arch?”

“No, thanks. Not my scene. I think I’ll call it a night.”

“OK. I’ll wake you up around six-thirty – boot sale starts at nine, but we need to be there early.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll set my alarm.”

“Night, love.” Mum is picking through the remaining pizza crusts, looking for a good one.

“Night.”

I leave them to it, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction wash over me.

PS:
You’re starting to call the shots now. Starting to fulfil your potential
.

My Lair looks weird. With all the boxes packed, it looks like I’m about to move out.

PS:
Part of you is. The part that’s been holding you back
.

After turning the main light off, I climb under the cool, crisp duvet and glance towards my bedside table. The Gargoyle is there, hunched beneath my bedside lamp and scowling fiercely. I look closely at him.

PS:
He doesn’t need shields, he’s made of sterner stuff than that. And so are you
.

I am. I decide I don’t need him any more and put him in one of the boxes at the end of my bed. I kill the light, sink back into the pillow and try to relax by going through every part of my body, just like Sarah did when I was at her house. In my mind’s eye, I picture the Gargoyle and focus on the qualities that make it the imposing creature that it is: its strength, its demeanour, its weathered wisdom – all attributes that I need. It’s difficult at first; my mind keeps bubbling up with other things, like Dad and Tony and, of course, Sarah and the kiss. But as Sarah suggested, I try and blot everything else from my thoughts, until all I can see are the craggy features of my totem.

Without knowing it, I fall asleep and the Dream begins. I’m lying in my bed and my gaze turns to the corner of the room. The red eyes are there, burning at me from the darker shadows. Then the Gargoyle unfolds itself and stands in a square of moonlight that is shining through my attic window.

Instead of the usual fear, I feel only awe and respect for this monster in my room. And instead of the usual paralysis, I get out of my bed and stand before it, the two of us bathed in silver light. The Gargoyle towers over me and could crush me with a single blow. But I know why I’m here. I put out a hand and place it flat on the creature’s chest.

And then it vanishes.

I stand in the moonlight, looking at the space in front of me. It takes me a moment to notice my hand, how it has changed, how the soft pink skin has been replaced by weathered, craggy stone. I
am
the Gargoyle. I feel powerful.

I feel like a force of nature. The feeling lasts as I wake, although I’m slightly disappointed to see that I am returned to flesh and bone and lying in my bed. Quickly flicking my bedside lamp on, I pull the Gargoyle out from the box and put it back on my bedside table.

NINETEEN

All too soon, my alarm goes and I drag myself out of bed. I don’t think I’ve ever been up this early on a Saturday.

After yesterday’s highs and lows, I seem to have lost a little of my swagger. I can almost hear my IM in the background, telling me that the Dream was just a dream and that I’m being stupid.

PS:
But you’re prepared
.

Sarah told me this might happen. She said that until I’ve fully embraced my Psychic Self, I’ll experience peaks and troughs in my self-confidence, but it’s all part of my transformation.

PS:
From Geek into something more significant
.

It’s time for my Affirmations. Clutching the book, I stand in front of the mirror, hardly a portrait of significance in my crumpled pyjamas.

PS:
Put that from your mind. Concentrate on your inner self
.

“I am confident and strong.” It feels weird saying these things to myself.

“I am supported by the Universe.”

“I have high self-esteem.” I’m still not convinced, but I’m trying hard to believe what I’m saying. On to the
next one – which gives me a little thrill as I say it.

“I am worthy of true love.”

“I can handle anything that happens to me today.”

“Who da man?!” I can see Tony, grinning like a goon in the mirror, poking his head round the door like some overweight jack-in-the box. He does a few pale imitations of kung-fu moves and chuckles.

PS:
Ignore him. His insecurities are not your concern
.

“Bacon butty, Arch? We need to be moving soon.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be having fruit.” Sarah said I must balance my body as well as my spirit. It’s a break with Saturday-morning tradition, but I’m going to see this through.

Although it’s not going to be easy. The smell of bacon drifts up the stairs as I get dressed and by the time I go into the kitchen, my mouth is watering. Tony is poking at a few rashers in the pan, trademark cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Sure you don’t want one, Arch? There’s enough here.”

PS:
Control your petty desires!

In response, I grab a pear from the fruit bowl and with a self-congratulatory smile, defiantly crunch into it. As a counter-attack, Tony slaps three rashers on to a slice of crusty tiger bread, adds a liberal squirt of tomato ketchup and finishes it off with another slice of bread.
A pear has never tasted so bland.

PS:
He is testing your psychic constitution. Be strong
.

While on the face of it this only appears to be two people eating their respective breakfasts, my new insight allows me to see that this is more than that. What’s occurring beneath this apparently domestic situation is more akin to the first battle between Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker – Tony takes a bite and sighs with satisfaction; I munch and try and look smug. Each bite is a blow; each grunt of pleasure is like that blue lightning the Emperor could shoot out of his fingers. And Tony breathes a bit like Darth Vader as well – what with all the smoking.

After our foodstuff face-off, we load our gear into the Beemer and set out for the local rugby club, which is playing host to the boot sale. Sarah’s house flashes past with no signs of life. It’s only a ten-minute drive, but Tony seems to think that it warrants another cigarette. Within seconds, the front of the car is filled with choking, blue smoke.

PS:
You don’t have to tolerate this
.

I open the window on my side, but that just creates a slipstream of fumes that rush across my face.

PS:
You can embrace the challenge or recoil from it!

“Tony,” I rasp. “Could you either put that out or open your window?”

This must touch a nerve because he hits his window control in silence. Other than pointed coughing, I’ve never really commented on his nicotine habit, so it feels a bit odd, but bolstered by my new inner strength, I decide to pursue it a bit further.

“You should quit.”

“Yeah, yeah. One day.” His words have the hollow resonance of an addict.

PS:
Don’t let him off the hook
.

“When?”

“When what?”

“When are you going to quit?”

“I don’t know, Arch.” His reply is tetchy and curt. “When I’m ready, OK?”

PS:
Not good enough
.

“When will you be ready?”

“Bloody hell – I don’t know! Not today!”

The best course of action here is to let it go, but my PS has other ideas.

PS:
Not good enough. Spread the word
.

“Why not? It’s easy. All you have to do is get in touch with your inner strength and you can do anything. Smoking is only a symptom of your psychic disharmony.”

Tony chucks me a look that suggests I might have grown an extra head and we finish the rest of the journey in silence.

We arrive at the rugby ground and find our spot. It’s early, but there are already quite a few cars parked up and the early-bird bargain-hunters are eyeing up the trestle tables as they begin to fill. It’s a bit unnerving; Tony turns down the potential sale of a picture within two minutes of opening the boot and his customer walks away, scowling.

“Blimey,” he mutters. “Give a guy a chance.”

We unload our table and start to unpack our wares. I take one half and Tony takes the other. While he just dumps stuff on his side, I take the time to arrange my miniatures, books and CDs neatly in a way that I think shows them off to their best advantage.

PS:
Take a look. This is a physical manifestation of the differences between you. He is cluttered and unfocused. You are organized and direct. You are learning
.

Despite my directness, Tony makes five sales in the first hour and cheerfully jangles the coins and notes in his pockets. It’s another unspoken showdown; I can hear the light sabres buzzing again. He even wields a fresh cigarette with a certain Jedi calm.

While Tony gets into some hardcore haggling with a group of bargain-hungry punters, I end up poring over one of my gaming rule books, marvelling at just how much I’ve changed in so short a time. Once these pages would have set my mind tumbling with images of all sorts of childish fantasy: monsters, heroes and magical spells.
Now, I see them for what they are: a trap for the weak-minded. I need to start reading newspapers.

“Archie! What’re you doing?”

I look up and see Ravi standing in front of the table.

“Hey, Ravi.” OK, this is awkward; there ought to have been some apologies before now. From me. “Just selling my stuff.” I spot his parents at another stall, a little way away.

“Just selling your stuff? But your figures, your games – are you nuts?”

PS:
Another who must be enlightened
.

This is going to be a hard sell; Ravi’s looking at me like I’ve just announced my intention to go on
The X Factor
.

“It’s no biggie, Ravi. I’m just moving on, that’s all.”

“‘Moving on’? What are you talking about?”

This feels too weird. Ravi’s one of my best mates. Over our years as friends, we’ve battled demons, ransacked temples and conquered evil wizards. In the real world, we’ve discussed the Ample Assets of Kirsty Ford, confessed our mutual Geekhood and generally looked out for one another.

PS:
But what does he really know about you?

I have to think about that one; I’ve never really told him how I feel about stuff. Sure, he knew when my folks were splitting up, but I never really spoke about it.
I haven’t told him about Sarah. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but that’s just not what guys do. Is it?

PS:
Look harder. He is a reflection of what you once were…

Ravi’s a Geek. Like Matt and Beggsy, he’s a
fully-qualified
Geek. From his ill-fitting jacket to his scuffed-up trainers. From what he wears to what he reads to what he watches. And I’m changing. I don’t want to be that any more.

“It’s just time…” The words don’t come easily.

“But why? What about the Game? What about Games Nights? The Hovel? Don’t you like it any more?”

PS:
Show him how you are evolving
.

“But what’s it for, Ravi? What does it do? Yeah – great – it’s a game, but why do we do it? We should be out there, being what we can be, but for real!”

“Out where?”

“There!”

“Where? Where’s that?”

PS:
Do not get distracted by details!

“Wherever! Just not sat in our bedrooms, rolling dice and painting little men!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know – it’s just – well – it’s silly!”

This is a low card from a low deck, but my PS advises me that it’s warranted. All Geeks have a terrible,
sneaking suspicion that their chosen distraction is “silly”. It’s a word that belittles everything the Game stands for and says it’s pathetic and childish. As Geeks, we know that; we just don’t like to talk about it. I see Ravi’s little bubble begin to sag beneath the weight of the Awful Truth. There’s no real comeback to the word “silly” and Ravi just stands there, looking it. I feel bad.

PS:
Feel no guilt. You have chosen your path. He has chosen his
.

“The next Game was going to be at my house.” His voice is wistful and distant.

“You’re never going to meet girls that way.”

At this, Ravi takes an uncertain step back and looks at me, as though there’s a light shining in his eyes.

PS:
He can see you are changing. He feels your power
.

“Man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I guess I’ll tell the guys.”

“Yeah.”

“OK, then.”

“’K.”

As Ravi is swallowed up by the swelling crowds of bargain-hunters, I try and work out how I feel about this. I know it’s the end of something – not just the end of gaming. My IM kicks at the back door of my head, but I’m trying to listen to my PS now. It tells me that I’ve done the right thing.

PS:
The Path to Enlightenment can be a lonely one and you cannot choose who will walk with you. And who will not
.

A little kid is holding up my Fire Dragon and pretending to make it fly. I feel a stab of anger at the lack of awe that he seems to have for what is one of my finest efforts. A man, whom I presume to be his father, steps forward, takes it off him and shoves it under my nose.

“How much for this?”

“This” cost me about a fiver and several long hours of concentration and precision-painting. Part of me doesn’t want to let it go.

“Three pounds?” I venture.

“I’ll give you a quid for it.” The money is in my hand and the father and his spawn are gone before I can agree or not.

PS:
You must let go of the past. There is only “now”
.

“First sale of the day!” Tony has a unique talent for stating the obvious. “Drinks are on you tonight!”

My EM produces a smile that would wither a cactus, but Tony’s too preoccupied with selling a ceramic plant pot to notice.

Within a couple of hours, most of my Geekhood has been sold – primarily to people who don’t really know what it’s for. Each sale has been a little wound, but I try and comfort myself with the thought that Sarah was probably
just being kind when she said she enjoyed the Game; she really doesn’t deserve to go out with a Geek and this is my chance to make a fresh start. I want to become worthy of her.

“Fancy a cuppa?” Tony manages through a fresh cloud of smoke. “I think I saw a tea wagon over there.”

“I’ll have a water, thanks.”

“OK. You be all right here for a minute?”

“I think I can handle it.”

Tony chuckles in a patronizing way and barges off in search of our drinks. There’s a lull in the crowd, so I take a moment to look around the field; perhaps Sarah’ll be here. But, then again, why would she? This isn’t the sort of place I’d expect her to hang out. She’s more likely painting in her room or aligning herself with the Universe. Maybe she’s thinking about me. I wish I could call her, just to let her know that I’m really embracing this Psychic Self stuff.

PS:
You have money. You earned it. You can decide what to do with it. You are your own master now
.

I could buy a mobile! Then I can call Sarah whenever I want. Maybe this psychic stuff really does work!

As I start to count the shrapnel in my pocket, a voice snaps me from my reverie.

“Hello, son. What’re you doing here?”

There is a long and awkward silence. I know the
rule: you break it, you lose.

“I’ve got a stall further back; getting rid of stuff before we move,” Dad continues.

I say nothing.

“I sent you a few messages on Facebook.” Although Dad has technically lost, I seem to be missing a prize of any description. The Archie of old would quickly be ransacking his mental collection of lies, falsehoods and half-truths in order to control the situation.

PS:
Lies diminish you. They corrupt your psychic alignment
.

“I know.”

“OK.” I can hear the frustration that he’s trying to get a handle on. “When were you thinking of getting back to me? I’ve got a time limit, Archie. I’m leaving next weekend.”