Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (23 page)

“Oh… you know,” he said. “They’re friends of the family. Hey—did you say you got a new He-Man?”

And we went and played with Ram-Man.

Later that evening, the limousine gave me and Cameron a lift down to the school play—where Cameron was preparing for his role
as a magical tree in an enchanted forest (a role that consisted mainly of him standing very still and every now and then squeezing
a small bottle of talcum powder which represented fairy dust)—and we got out, like Hollywood stars.

As it would turn out, all this had actually been a small moment in world history.

“I remember that!” said Cameron, putting his pint down. “The guy with the main guy was supposed to make sure that he didn’t
give away any secrets about Fiji. But your mum got it all out of him within ten minutes. She got Fijian military secrets from
him. And while he was away, Rambuka held a coup in Fiji. He made himself President. All while your mum was making them little
sandwiches.”

“My mum got secret information out of the Minister of Defense?” I said, shocked, as Cameron nodded. “Using little sandwiches?”

I bet Mata Hari would be pissed off she didn’t think of that one. Which reminded me of something… something to do with Berlin…

“It was quite a coup!” said Cameron, and we both fell about laughing. Cameron looked delighted with his pun. This was brilliant.

“I think that the limousine outside our house was the first time I actually knew about… your secret.”

“My secret?” said Cameron.

“Yeah… your secret…”

Because it
had
been a secret. At least from me, and despite the clues. Only after he had gone did I find out my best friend Cameron Dewa—the
smiley Fijian kid going to the standard state school in the middle of Loughborough—was essentially…

“You’re third in line to the throne of Fiji.”

Yes. Third in line. To the throne. Of Fiji!

“Oh, that,” said Cameron, dismissing it. “That wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t think it was very relevant. And it’s not exactly
third in line. It’s more like part of an extended royal family. I really didn’t think you’d be all that interested.”

“Not all that interested? Cameron! You’ve just said the words ‘royal family’! Do you have any idea how many people I told
about winning the swimming gala? How many people I told about the conker championship?”

“Hey, I come from Fiji.
Everyone’s
in line to the throne…”

“That’s not true… wasn’t your granddad, or your great-granddad… oh,
what
was he, again?”

“Well… kind of the King.”

“
That
was it!”

“But
I’m
only a chief.”

“
Only
a chief?”

“There are a few chiefs in Fiji.”

“It must be
great
being a chief in Fiji!”

Alcohol brings out the truth, doesn’t it? Because it
must
be great being a chief in Fiji! This was great. It was me and Cameron! Together at last! We were on our third pint and I
slapped his arm in a look-at-you-you-big-Fijian-chief kind of a way.

But he turned and looked at me with fury in his eyes.

“NEVER TOUCH MY ARM!” he yelled. “IN MY COUNTRY IT IS A SIGN OF GREAT DISRESPECT TO TOUCH THE ARM OF A CHIEF!”

My arm shot back so fast it left a vapor trail. If I could’ve tucked it inside my body I would’ve.

Cameron looked furious.

And then, suddenly, he didn’t.

“But seeing as it’s you,” he said, “another pint?”

*   *   *

An hour later and we had reminisced about the Great Loughborough Fun Run, about school playtimes spent on nothing but running
around, about our families, our friends and our pets. We talked about school, and about old teachers who’d gone unmentioned
for
years.

“Do you remember that frightening one? Mrs. Adams?”

“Yes. I used to feel a little bullied by her.”

“Me too,” said Cameron. “I wanted to join the orchestra but she wouldn’t let me because I wanted to play the trombone and
she said that was unbecoming.”

“I used to get my own back,” I said. “Once, during the summer holidays when I knew she went back to Wales, I used to phone
her house and leave messages on her answering machine, when answering machines were incredibly rare.”

“What
kind
of messages?” asked Cameron.

“I used to get high on bottles of Panda Pops, and then ring up and just say ‘Potato’ down the phone.”

“Potato?”

“Yeah, but I’d put the effort in. I’d shout ‘Potaaaaatooooo!’”

Cameron’s eyes widened.

“You shouted ‘Potatooo’ at Mrs. Adams? Why ‘Potatooo’?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“How often?”

“Every day or two for three or four weeks. When she got back she had about forty messages, all just saying, ‘Potaaaatooooo!’”

“Potaaaaatooooo!” said Cameron.

“Potaaaaatoooooooo!” I said, which I believe made the point.

“And she never found out it was you?”

“She recognized my voice immediately and told my parents I was abnormal.”

“Ah. Well. You used to like doing stuff like that,” said Cameron, and immediately I thought about telling him about ManGriff
the Beast Warrior and Ben Ives and Argos. But Cameron had a glint in his eye, and he held up his mobile and said, “Do you
still have Mrs. Adams’s number?”

It was so tempting.

*   *   *

As the pints went down and the glasses piled up, hunger set in. We found a Burger King round the corner. I asked the lady
behind the counter if she had one of those golden paper crowns, and if she did, could we borrow it because my friend was a
Fijian chief, but she looked at me like I’d been drinking.

“Hey, I brought something with me!” I said, slurring ever so slightly.

“What is it?” said Cameron, sitting down.

“A poem!”

Cameron made the kind of face all nearly-thirty men make when you declare you’ve brought a poem with you.

“A good one, though!” I said.

I scrabbled about in my bag trying to find the small, colorful notebook I’d last used in the 1980s. The one with NO GIRLS
ALLOWED written in it and various doodles of classmates along with brief character assassinations.

Cameron started to munch down on his Whopper while I found the right page.

“Aha! Here it is!” I said, and then cleared my throat to read.

I began. Loudly. Solemnly. With deep and meaningful resonance.

Cameron Is My Best Friend

By Daniel Wallace

Cameron shifted about in his seat a bit. He looked mildly uncomfortable. But I took this to be humility—after all, it’s quite
a thing to have your name in the title of a poem. Especially a poem as important as this one—one that told the story of an
entire friendship. I continued.

Cameron, Cameron!

With your face like a plum!

Skin soft as a baby’s bum!

You are my best friend! My best friend!

A rum pum pum pum.

I think that rhyme still stands up today. I continued.

You have come to my school!

Where we both played the fool!

And now you must go!

To Fiji!

Wherever that is.

We didn’t take geography until high school. I pressed on.

I will never forget you!

We will be friends for all time!

Our friendship can’t be summed up!

At least not while making it rhyme.

Goodbye old buddy!

And, with a flourish of the hand, I brought the piece to an end.

Cameron sat, in awed, stunned silence.

I allowed him a moment to take it all in. Sometimes to truly appreciate a piece of work like this, you have to give someone
their space. There had been a lot of important imagery to appre ciate.

And then I looked to one side. There was a man staring at us. He was wearing a blue cagoule and half an onion ring was hanging
from his mouth. He’d been listening to my poem, and watching carefully as one grown man sat in Burger King and read out a
poem he’d written about the other grown man. I suddenly realized there was no way of explaining the situation—no way of telling
him I’d written that poem when I was eleven and this was the first time we’d seen each other in nearly twenty years and so
to mark the occasion I’d decided that Burger King was the place to read it out. Because, as unbelievable as this may seem,
that would sound even
weirder.
He clearly thought I’d written it this afternoon, and then summoned Cameron to Burger King to let him know just how I felt
about him. I managed to communicate all this to Cameron using just my eyes. He managed to communicate a panicked “I
know!
” using just his. Quietly, we finished our burgers, and silently made our way to the door.

We stood by a bus stop outside and looked at each other for a second. This had been fun. Good, honest, childlike fun. We both
knew this would be the moment we would say goodbye. And we both wanted to delay it a bit.

“So… we’ll have to do this again,” I said.

“Definitely,” said Cameron. “We’ll have to email each other or something.”

“Sounds good, yeah.”

But had we done enough to be pals again? Had tonight been enough to warrant a definite beginning to our friendship again—or
had it just been a fun night out?

“So… do you still have royal connections?” I asked him, just for something to say.

“Nah,” he said. “I mean, back in Fiji I get more privileges. I can stay in my village and people have to give me free food
and lodgings, and be very quiet around me.”

“You have your own
village?
”

“Nabuso. My village is the area regarded as the people from the bush. The tough and violent people. No one messes with us.
My people recently wrote to a church in England to apologize for eating a reverend 136 years ago. He’d taken the comb out
of a chief’s hair, which is frowned upon, so they cooked him and ate everything except his boots.”

“Your people
ate a vicar?
”

“A reverend. But yeah. Hey, you’ll have to come out to Fiji one day! I’ll show you round the village!”

I nodded. But, like our grand plan to see Michael Jackson, it seemed like just one of those things people say. Especially
if they’re minor Fijian royalty.

There was a slight lull in the conversation, signaling, I thought, the end of the evening.

“Well…” I said, extending my hand.

“Listen,” said Cameron. “What are you doing now?”

I shrugged.

“I was going to go home.”

“What? The night is young!”

It wasn’t. It was already applying for a bus pass.

“What do you suggest?”

“The American Embassy.”

“The American
Embassy?
Why the American Embassy?”

Cameron smiled.

“There’s a karaoke party on.”

“A karaoke party? At the American Embassy?”

Yeah. Cameron still had connections.

And so the chief and I caught the bus.

What followed that night is, I imagine, bound by some kind of official secrets act, but let me tell you one thing: ambassadors
can’t dance for toffee.

We sang, and we laughed, and we said our goodbyes and exchanged numbers, and I was certain that
this
time, I’d got Cameron back for
good.

I went home, buoyed by the happy randomness of the evening, and made myself a cup of tea.

I stood there, and thought about how, actually, that poem wasn’t all that bad. Maybe I should write
more
poetry. Yes. I should definitely write
more
poetry.

And then I turned my computer on, and, though my eyes were blurry and my typing slightly drunken, I had a go…

To: Ben Ives

From: THE STORMY LEOPARD

Cc: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

Subject: RE: My per formance

Meeeeeooooowwwrrrrr.

Hi Ben,

It’s Alison here—the Stormy Leopard!!

I believe you and your colleagues have agreed to listen to some of my poetry and thoughts on the 21st at 1pm in your offices
in Llllllos Angeles. I will need a suitable space and also a changing area so if you have any ideas thank you

Here’s one for you, would appreciate you’re comment’s. It is called, simply, DANGERFACE.

Night time!

Danger!

There’s a noise over there!

I strive, stealthy, stalking my prey, because I am a leopard

What a day

Night time!

Night time!

Move like a panther, clouded like a skyline

At night

I am a woman, I move like a leopard, which is what I am

I am Alison—are you? No. For we are as one…

In the dark.

Thanks Ben, see you all soon, with bells on (literally!!!)

The Stormy Leopard

P.S. I will need volunteers for some of the dances.