Mitch and I go way way back, he had some motor scooter that typically didn’t belong to him but had borrowed on longer loan from some ex-girlfriends brother, not that they wouldn’t get it back, but first they needed to find him.

I had an old Honda bought off a friend from back in the sticks, he’d sold it to me thinking that any day now it would fall to pieces, not recognising that optimism and lack of detailed attention could keep it running.

We raced each other and I fell, foul of a long twisting bend, he came back to pick me up but nothing could keep away glint of joy in his eyes that I had crashed where he had not.

We went for a beer instead of continuing to the party we’d arranged the night before with two girls we were no longer sure of.

Later when we left the pub and made it to see them, they were less than happy to see us but five minutes of Mitch talking and they seemed happy again.

We left the next morning swapping tales of who had done what and when. If I remember well, we never saw them again. Though he and I had established a ‘mateship’

Mitch came from what appeared to be a happy home, but once the youngest brother left home, mom was gone, rarely to be seen again though ever present in Birthday and Christmas cards. Though sent to the kids, none ever were sent to her ex husband.

Mitch rarely talked of these things excepting the occasional late night when anger dissipated or he too drunk too swing fists, he would stone faced tell of fights and bitter beatings from those he still professed to love.

This was a way we had then, drunkenness could excuse many things, the falling in love with improbable women, the ‘blood up’ fights we had with each other and descents into near tears over slights occurred years previous. Support in such meaner times meant encouraging banter of revenge and ritual disembowelling.

Only occasionally would the real targets present themselves, these we would snarl and sneer at, encouraging them to fight and provide the excuses we needed to hurt.

Instead we fenced ourselves into a world of them and us, those who would hurt us in ways we knew and we had to get our retaliation in first before their damage could begin.

I misrepresent him here; he was a good friend, a great ally in times of struggle, need.

We were young and foolish, looking for answers different from those offered, found wanting from those older than us.

We could ride our motorcycles all night, riding drunk with life and beers taken with others like ourselves.

Finding women who valued only sex and warmth and drinks bought by happy boys with jokes and funny stories to tell. And still find work in the morning.

These were different times, jobs easily available and found.

We usually worked anywhere for two to three weeks before we got fired for our lack of timekeeping, our pranks that somebody would take exception to, long beery lunchtimes, the married women Mitch would be found in some supposedly quiet corner with.

Our lack of interest in anything but the cash given at the end of the week was generally cited as example of our bad attitudes, we were young enough to wilfully misunderstand this as our potential creed.

We weren’t sure yet of what our destiny was only that we had one. Nothing appeared to hold for more than the shortest time.

If one of us ‘fell in love’ always an occupational hazard for Mitch, in that he would put it anywhere he could, the recipients would see lust for love and encourage him to move in.

Such arrangements could only last until he felt the thirst, whether for beers, new pussy or itching fists.

Reverting to previous he’d arrange a falling out, either long enough to give permission for a two-day rowdy absent binge or enough to create the schism to find elsewhere to live.

The women he lived with were always blonde, always quietly attractive and eternally needy for a man to allay their fears of the darker world outside the door.

They would put up with my visits, visits from other friends but making plain in passivity our lack of continuing welcome.

Mitch would ignore their wishes, wanting friends around him reflecting his glory.

When they showed signs of independence he left or resorted to rage, then we could not visit until bruises had gone, this was not stated or ever discussed, though unspoken we knew of such possible fading pain.

Now, judgements come in to rush as to Mitch’s failings, his violence, aggressive two-fisted ways with women, but then we knew no better, strategies for finding, keeping love were beyond us, all we had ever known, knew and continued with each other and others to know was aggression. Violence was just one part of that painful mix we generated.

I too had my peculiar ways: I would leave my women as they shopped on Saturday afternoons or as they visited their mothers.

I could always find excuses, their lack of understanding at my inability to keep jobs, earn a living, so, they were better off without me was my reckoning. These strained conversations tended to occur after they discovered my sleeping with their friends or neighbours or after another extended weekend with Mitch and the boys.

My speciality was quiet little ravers: those who look like butter wouldn’t melt… girl/women who turned into hot movers once the curtains were closed.

Those who withheld orgasm were not for me, the pre orgasmic were no fun, I wanted, needed those who were ready to crash through barriers in the search for fun.

Unfortunately, most of them had the good sense to recognise my temporary presence.

They might threaten pregnancies, babies to hold my roots in place, but these only created more urgent needs to get out amongst the world.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want love, I could soak up that care forever, more that I hadn’t yet absorbed enough of it or made the discovery that I too could give that, my head was so chockfull of buzz keeping out good noise for me to sit and listen with any self understanding for sense to catch.

I would leave, note on the mantelpiece, bags packed and keys pushed through letterboxes, no backward looks then though now I recall clearly the settings, weather and notes later passed on by friends.

I created pain much as Mitch, mine by words his by fists, there can be no hierarchy of pain, we all stand side by side.

‘Phone calls late in the evening to come on out, he needed a hand.

This could be anything from towing cars back from some out of the way place to forming a foursome.

Taking him from A to B and finding a party in progress and how could I possibly leave? Small rooms and shagging sisters in the same bed, not wanting to listen, having no choice and finding further excitement in female cries as they both built toward coming, hearing the other talking dirty to him, then mine pitching in with echo, point, counterpoint to outdo further.

Later during the night, changing places to aid comparison.

His had the better looking underwear, mine the better blowjobs, where they went after these outrages we neither knew nor cared, possibly only I recall these things.

Another time one falling asleep so sharing the one sister, tossing coins to see who got pussy or who got mouth. She playing ‘skier’ sitting in the middle of us, wanking.

Callous as callow youth only can create.

Then he met true love. Gina, golden and beautiful. He wanted to be dutiful; we slowed down our drinking sessions, the arriving late, leaving work early routines.

They created a baby more beautiful than mom and he seemed happy for the first time.

I carried on in my own way, trying to find something that could stick. I liked Gina; she was a warm generous girl turning into woman as I watched.

She liked me but recognised my threat to her happiness and stability of relationship; she smiled but let seconds develop between us. I stayed away as much as possible.

My own life started taking strange turns, the motorcycle thing became stronger, I began mixing with odder crowds who wore strange names and difficult attitudes.

To girl women I became a convenience, a way to properly piss off the old man, blackmail device to ensure they got a car next birthday.

Whether I knew this is by the by, I enjoyed their sex, their newer ways of being and the money they briefly blew my way.

We had each side of the road, fields, anywhere where purchase could be got without too many onlookers, though truth to tell once in rose bushes the middle of a city.

Gina told me Mitch had left, she couldn’t cope with his jealousy, apparently he’d drive by the house ‘just checking’ if she was there by herself.

They’d fought and finally she’d kicked him out. I never saw him, or her for three years.

I settled a bit during that, to live with Laura, a stick thin girl, I can’t tell you any more about her now, except one day six years had gotten behind us, she hated me and I? I don’t recall anything with accuracy but memories of a room I smashed to matchsticks and a cold bed.

She has married now, popping children regularly as the years, all uglier than the last, all with eyes not seeing the next day or each other.

To invent here would be the kinder to Laura and perhaps to me but the stick thin girl of wide eyes and innocence is as collapsed as her pelvic floor and appetite for life without drudgery.

If she can blame here that would suit certainly for denial is a better shield than admittance or shared responsibility; she too hated me late but fanned better cards at table.

Late in Laura and my time together Mitch knocked the door, full of suntan, smiles and sickly kids, spawned by what he eventually would say by a Sea witch full of spit and booze.

Though then he called Doreen. They stayed for few days; Mitch and I reminiscing over friends and fun times, Doreen and Laura circling together over the stove as the kids sprayed food in all directions.

They left, Mitch with ‘phone numbers in pocket, we would meet again on his trips into town, drinking again, fighting foes real and not yet. He’d found Trucking, this gave excuses for nights away, freedom to travel and prowl for other stranger pussy.

We went to Spain, me as helper, riding high over sunburnt prairie, endless distances strewn with dust and deadweed, drinking with other trucker knights of the road.

We had a ball, new places, new women, new beers though none seemed to stick longer than the next.

Driving by day, carousing by night yet uncomfortable, too much time together in too little space.

Hotel Bar, tourists and truckers, darkened from the sun.

Watching Mitch. Drinking depth charges: a shot in a glass inside a beer, seeing him get more and more swacked, then struggling to hold him up when he began to fall.

Some tourist in twisted shorts, face and attitude starting on him. Mitch responding, trying to throw a punch, being hit, falling, then kicked, me trying to pull the guy off.

Pain as fingers tore into my eyes, hot tear in my ear, feeling something, somebody on my back, tearing away, gouging.

I ran backwards into the wall, elbowing them off, turning to punch… the tourists’ wife.

Blood on, in her mouth, hands up stopping my almost landed punch, hit from behind again, another fighter, Mitch now up on his feet, kicking, punching, pulling, shoving, teeth snarling in rage, the bar volcano’d, tables, chairs, bottles smashed, truckers against tourists, feeling hot running down my neck, wobbling under punches, throwing more, hearing screams from women, shouts, curses from men.

Then over.

Giggling in fear, relief to be alive, standing amidst debris and the few jeers from cowards who hadn’t faced during but now wanted bravery post event. Walking, seeing others faces scared at mine, then kindly hands with cloth and hot water, telling of ripped ear and blood.

Ambulance called and Mitch hanging onto the side, foreign voices, mispronunciations and stitches.

Mitch arriving, driving his truck to get me out of there.

Later, me being known as Vincent because of the bandaged ear.

The story getting bigger, better on the way home, of tourists losing their holiday to pay for damages, sides taken by those who’d been bullied previously, reflecting on favours done for all but self…

Mitch went home to Doreen, me to one who couldn’t understand but could use the story to engineer her own martyrdom.

Everybody wanted a share of this madness.

Doreen got dumped after complaints of absence, to raise the kids and her own indignation, she tried to follow but could no longer find me as a way to him.

Gina reappeared on the scene, he moved in promising change love and faithfulness.

The wedding was great, friends from over the years, togetherness and family feeling, marred only by the occasional spat.

But too soon Gina was feeling hemmed in again, scrutinised and sadly pregnant.

Shortly after the baby was born she wanted him to go again, but now he was running out of space, to stay here was too close to Gina, return to Doreen was out, he disappeared into long distance trucking again.

I moved on too, working away, finding lesser painful fun with milder strangers who talked of anger but did little with it.

This was easier on me for a while as wounds healed. We bumped into each other late one cool summer night, he inviting me to meet Carol his latest flame, another blonde, quiet and timid in ways guaranteed to irritate Mitch, I could see this in the first few seconds, pure and simple, a firestarter.

I would drop into their bliss every few months, catching up, hoping to find happiness and easy company, most times this happened.

Carol went to her twin sisters’ place one weekend; she had cancer and not having long to live.

Mitch inviting me to come down and party, he already had the girls in mind, we picked them up, bought them beers, took them back to his place, adequate sex and goodbye.

I drew the curtains, all velvet and tiebacks to hide my sins from neighbours. Carol on her return noticed the difference in folds and knew what had happened.

The greatest detective but not the smarts to leave.

That was to be the last time I saw Carol as she complained of my moving the curtains, next time I arrived she was taking a few days at her Mom’s. Her sister’s cancer now having killed her.

Mitch & Carol had been to the funeral he told and the family had started on him in the church.

He’d said to leave it but they carried on saying how he was a violent, bad man to Carol and should leave her alone.

Having had beer to get him through the funeral he backhanded another sister in the mouth, ‘now leave me alone’, the horde pitched in, until, Mitch his back against the vestry wall took on the whole family, dishing out smacks to the face: women, punches to the head: men.

The Vicar had stopped the mayhem just as the father had received a split lip for his cheek, Mitch was still angry for having been picked on, his body jumping as he described each blow to whom, anger at looking bad in church, wondering too when Carol would come back and whether we should go for a beer?

Oh, we went, what else is there to do with your evil tow-headed step twin when he’s down in his cups, lost in his disgrace and not wanting to recognise the world has just grown a little smaller?

I haven’t seen Mitch now for some ten years, I wonder whether like Gina, Carol and our violent youth, he lies dead somewhere out of my reach.

I no longer would know how to say hello, I miss him if not how we were, I miss the knowing of him, the joy he had for life and the joy of stunts pulled and living to tell the tale.

Neil Benbow

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