Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (18 page)

And then… as the first few strokes of dark, thick varnish went down on what had been a light and golden table…
then
… I remembered Ben Ives…

The reason Ben Ives and myself first became friends was due, in some small way, to Adolf Hitler.

Please don’t close the book.

You see, from where you’re sitting, “Hitler” probably has a few negative connotations. And you’d be right—the name Hitler
does
have a bit of a history to it. But in the 1940s and before, there were probably rather a lot of people going by the name
of Hitler. There were probably Hilary Hitlers, and Phillipa Hitlers, and Dr. Billy Hitlers, and each of them could well have
been a lovely individual who was carbon neutral and only bought free-range eggs.

But then along came a frowning dwarf named Adolf, with lots of grumpy speeches and silly ideas, and ruined it for the lot
of them. The lovely Hitlers of this world had a tough choice to make: keep hold of their names and be looked at oddly when
paying by credit card, or sacrifice years of family history and change their names to something a bit less… y’know…
fascist.

This is the secret tragedy of the Second World War that you only rarely read about. This, and the fact that tiny mustaches
went
right
out of fashion.

And so most of the nice Hitlers had done the sensible thing and chosen new non-Hitler-sounding names, like Lambert, or Butler.
Some just adapted the name Hitler, and became Hatlers, or Hotlers, or Hipsters. And once they’d done that, everyone would
have nodded and clapped and congratulated each other on having skillfully avoided the very worst name in the world.

All, I would think, apart from one man. One man whose name I first saw scribbled across the top of a copy of the
Bath Chronicle.
One man I had to deliver newspapers to as a teenager. One man who’d managed to choose
the only name
in the
world
which was
actually worse
than Hitler.

Which is why it was my job to deliver newspapers to a man named Mr. Shitler.

It was extremely difficult not to be fascinated by Mr. Shitler. His house was near the very top of Lyncombe Hill, up a long
and winding driveway under fir trees that would do their very best to slap me round the face and neck as I struggled to lug
my bag towards the door.

Now, Mr. Shitler had probably never had anything to do with the Nazi party. He’d probably never even
been
to a Nazi party, with their Nazi canapés and Eva prawns. He was a lovely old man with Germanic roots who’d leave me a pound
in an envelope at Christmas. Of course, it never fully made up for the war crimes of his former namesake, and I think he
knew
that, but it was at least a step in the right direction.

Mr. Shitler’s wife, who I think was called
Mrs.
Shitler, had passed away some years before, and the Shitler house became slightly grubbier for it, with dusty windows and
mud on the porch, and a screw missing from the small brass sign on the door that read, simply, SHITLER.

It was a nice house.

But with the familial decision to go from one name to the other, this kind and gentle old man managed to carry with him all
the stigma of the name Hitler, while reaping all the rewards of having a name that began with the word “shit.” It just goes
to show, I remember thinking, as I popped that morning’s paper through the letterbox—no matter how bad you think things can
get, there’s always someone worse off than you. For every Hitler, there’s a Shitler, and I fully expect that phrase to appear
on T-shirts very soon.

But it was this discovery of the one name in the world even
Hitler
would have been embarrassed by that first and fully bonded myself and the next name in my address book. Ben Ives.

I’d just given up my paper round in favor of a Saturday job at Argos, where Ben had started the week before. Ben was at a
different school to me. Had different friends. Lived on the other side of Bath. The odds were against us from the start. But
the very moment I’d casually dropped Mr. Shitler into conversation, Ben did what any of us would have done in that situation:
he hit me back with three Cockheads who apparently lived in Swindon. He knew they were real, because he’d checked in the phone
book, after his mate, Big-Faced Tim, had told him all about them. I told him I thought there were a lot more than three Cockheads
in Swindon, and he’d laughed, because that’s quite a good joke when you’re fifteen.

And so, on our first break together, we got the phone book out to check for weird names. And we found them. And we laughed.
And our friendship began to grow. And suddenly—I think it was the moment we found the name Vernon Bodfish—we were mates. Mates
bonded by Bodfish, and Shitler, and the drab gray and beige world of gold-plated nine-karat Argos catalogue shopping.

And so that was it for me and Ben. Saturdays became fun, and eventually so did Saturday evenings, as we’d head back to mine
and watch
Gladiators
and
Noel’s House Party,
and play Mega Bomberman until our legs fell asleep and our thumbs fell off. Pretty soon, it was Sundays as well, when we’d
cycle around, or sit in McDonald’s, or head down to Quasar for “serious fun with a laser gun.”

Soon we discovered a love of pranks, and we’d rejoice in each of them, no matter how small. Ben was the first person I called
when my mum returned from two hours of shopping still wearing the bright green sign reading I AM A WISE OLD SWISS WOMAN that
I’d pinned on her back that morning. Ben rang me to let me know that the local paper had printed the letter he’d written on
behalf of his neighbor declaring he was leaving the country to start a hospital in Kenya and was inviting donations. When,
using hidden speakers and a microphone, I convinced Mum the cat could talk, I immediately told Ben. When Ben did the same
to his, he immediately told me.

Ben was brilliant. Ben was a laugh. And it was with Ben that I’d spend long afternoons looking out of my window with a tiny
pair of my parents’ opera glasses (never otherwise used) until we saw someone walking past the payphone outside Boots. We
had the number of the payphone on speed-dial, and this was the best moment of our Sunday afternoon. I’d signal to Ben to turn
the radio up in the background, and, as soon as the unsuspecting stranger answered the ringing payphone, I’d shout, in my
very best DJ voice, “THIS IS DAVE CASEY FROM EXCELLENT FM! FOR TEN THOUSAND POUNDS…
WHAT’S THE PASSWORD?
”

“Oh, Christ…” the person would inevitably say, “I… oh, my… ten thousand… er…”

“FOR TEN THOUSAND POUNDS…
WHAT’S THE PASSWORD?
”

“Um…”

Ben would be either doubled over or crying into the binoculars at this point.

“I HAVE TO RUSH YOU—WHAT’S THE PASSWORD?”

“I knew you were doing this,” the person would lie, seeing as no one in their right mind would listen to a station named Excellent
FM, “but, um… I’ve forgotten the password.”

Now the acting would come in.

I’d give Ben the nod and he’d switch the music off.

“One second please,” I’d say, and then Ben and I would pretend to have a secret conversation.

“Oh, no. Ben the producer, they don’t know the answer.”

“Oh dear. That is terrible. Because we have to give this ten thousand pounds away today. The bosses here at Excellent FM have
said so.”

“Yes,” I’d say. “We definitely have to give this ten thousand pounds away today. It is lucky this is not live. Perhaps I could
give the person we have randomly called a clue, and then we could call them back and see if they have the answer, after taking
that clue into account?”

“Yes,” Ben would say, “that sounds like a fair idea. Provided the person doesn’t mind waiting for a few moments.”

“I’ll check,” I’d say. “Excuse me, but I’ve been talking to Ben the producer, and as we have to give this ten thousand pounds
away today, we wondered if we could give you a clue and then perhaps give you a call in a few moments’ time and see if you
get the answer right?”

“Yes!” the person would shout. “Definitely!”

“Okay,” I’d say. “It is an eight-letter word, and octopuses have these.”

“Right!” the person would shout. “Okay!”

And then Ben and I would put the phone down, and make a sandwich and drink a glass of Fanta, and Ben would keep his eye on
the person next to the phonebox while I had a pee or another glass of Fanta.

And then, ten or fifteen minutes later, we’d call back.

“THIS IS DAVE CASEY FROM EXCELLENT FM! FOR TEN THOUSAND POUNDS—
WHAT’S THE PASSWORD?
”

And then the person on the end of the line would shout something like “TENTACLES!” And I’d say, “No! I’m sorry! The answer
is ‘Gullible’!”

And then we’d hang up and collapse on the floor and fight over the opera glasses and who got to watch the person walk away
looking confused and counting the number of letters in the word “gullible.”

Our pranks continued for a long and warm summer. We’d write letters. Invent news stories. Play phone pranks. I once phoned
the Halifax head office to tell them I was Dave Casey and I was lost in their Bristol branches and could they fax me a map
of how to get to the checkout. Apparently they sent the manager out to check for me. Ben spent twenty minutes on the phone
pretending to be a journalist named Dave Casey and asking a local councilor for their reaction to the breaking news that a
local school was to be demolished to make way for Britain’s only rubber church.

And it was good. And fun. And
great.
We were mates at the top of our game; a team to be reckoned with. And I was happy.

But then, one day, Ben overstepped the mark.

The unwritten rule in those happy teenage years was that we were a team. And the team never played pranks on each other. The
team was as one.

You may find the following rather harrowing.

It was a Saturday morning. I was dressed in my ill-fitting slacks and gray Argos tie. My hair was badly gelled and I cut an
awkward, gangly figure as I lolloped down the hill to work, the winter sun bringing every single dented beer can and waterlogged
cigarette end into sharp Saturday focus. Everything was normal as Bath recovered from the night before: the payphone had been
bashed and smashed as usual. The subway had been given a fresh lick of mildly offensive graffiti. And, as every week, someone
had inexplicably left a single chicken nugget on top of the postbox opposite Millets.

The first of the day’s shoppers were milling around Southgate shopping center (“Bath’s largest covered shopping area!” was
its only sad boast) waiting for the keycutters to open, and I left the beauty of a bright morning for the flickering striplights
that painted the bags under your eyes and yellowed your face.

I’d bought a coronation chicken sandwich and a can of Tizer for me and Ben on the way in, and my first vital mission was to
make it to the staffroom to deposit them in the fridge. But there was something not quite right. Something different, as I
walked past the wonky pile of catalogues by the door. There were glances, and smirks. A giggle and a nudge.

I nodded a hello to the girl whose till was one down from mine, but she avoided my eye and pretended to be studying the homemade
tattoo on her arm. The woman in the jewelry section—whose alarming enthusiasm with make-up has since been made illegal in
nine countries—was simply smiling at me.

Nevertheless, being a true and proud Argos professional, I pressed on, through the double doors with the peeling silver windows
and up the too-steep steps to the staffroom, where I would make a cup of tea before the doors opened and the horrors began.
I was looking forward to seeing Ben that day. I had something funny to tell him, and as well as
Gladiators,
there was going to be a very exciting edition of
Noel’s House Party
that night, because I’d seen a trailer and Lionel Blair got a Gotcha. It was going to be a
magical
evening.

But then… then I saw it.

Up on the noticeboard.

Neatly tacked in, a pin in each corner.

A letter.

A letter with
my name
at the end of it.

Which was odd, because I hadn’t written any letters. And I certainly hadn’t written any letters
here.
Why would I write letters from Argos? I was confused. Concerned.

I stood closer, and began to read…

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

Eh?

This was a bad start. A bad start to something that suddenly seemed likely to get a lot worse.

I broke into a sweat.

To: Dr. Riversticks

The Reinhardt Private Clinic for Young Men

10–12 Lime Buildings

Chippenham

RE: Your letter of August 18th

Dear Dr. Riversticks,

My name is Daniel Wallace, and I wish to point out that your assessment of the so-called “outstanding” balance on my account
is plagued with a startling presumptuousness.

What? What
was
this? Who was Dr. Riversticks? What was the Reinhardt Private Clinic for Young Men? And where had I learned a word like “presumptuousness”?

When I originally embarked upon the Genital Exfoliation treatment…

On
what?!

… I was led to believe that the overall outlay of £280.25 would easily cover the scheduled twelve sessions…

Twelve
sessions? I’d had
twelve sessions
of genital exfoliation!? I didn’t even remember having
one!
I think I’d remember having twelve of
anything
involving my genitals!

Besides my extreme dissatisfaction with the “results” of the surgery, your final balance of £1,326.35 is entirely unacceptable.

Why had I written the word “results” like that? What had happened with the surgery? What had happened to my
genitals?
Was it possible to over-exfoliate them? Who had over-exfoliated my genitals?