at the guitar than he had first reputed and had mastered some of its intricacies long before he had met me. He had seen a photocopied poster lying around in a hairdresser’s (I think) and admired its honesty;
“Beginners’ guitar lessons catered for by a semi-professional player with over ten years’ experience. Looking to save up and enroll at music college sometime this millennium. Five pounds an hour . . . or anything you can afford.”
I remember Benji, in our last lesson, giving me fifty pounds and telling me to go put it towards my studies. That was the last time I spoke to Benji. He would always take his watch off before practice and would always slowly put it back on after the session had finished, keeping his gaze continually fixed to the face of his watch while he completed this resolute task. He would play on a spare guitar that I had lying around the studio and so, when he left his lesson, he was absolutely free to do as he pleased. He would always walk to my house and he would always walk out; perhaps meeting his wife, his girlfriend, stopping off at a bar . . . maybe simply walking home to bed. Of course, there was something mysterious about him (there is mystery in everyone) but it was a gentle mysteriousness that was always naturally sanguine. It wasn’t a dark, sophisticated mysteriousness but more like the mysteriousness of old film posters from the fifties that you can pick up in auction houses, the mysteriousness of someone you meet on holiday who attempts to speak to you, but you cannot understand what they are saying.
I ended up, after an amount of time had passed, as anyone would; bringing my perplexities and curiosities back down to earth (with the help of my girlfriend Isabel and the comforting monotonous activities of day to day living). But it was Benjamin’s email that now hovered in my thoughts. Why write such a lengthy soliloquy? Why did he feel, in his last distraught hour, the need to communicate those life defining neuroses he calmly talks about? He obviously did not wish to cathartically expel them as he states that they will never leave him in peace. Isn’t he saying that he is these neuroses and nothing else? I soon began losing sleep to the idea that maybe he was telling his faithful readers something else. I began thinking that he had entrusted some secret message to me, to the world, and its meaning lay hidden, deep within his suicidal message. I began to wonder what this event was that simultaneously split his life into a past and future Benjamin Flew. Did he want us to discover it somehow, to unwrite his wrongs? Was he asking us to find this event in ourselves and hence set out on our own personal voyage of self-discovery? Whatever the answer was to this myriad coded message I began to realise at least one truth; that the neuroses inhabiting Benjamin’s mind had unstuck itself from his words and had found a home within my singular, commonplace existence.
After my long-awaited interview at the music college I so desperately wanted to study at, two years after Benji had died, I realised what I had to do. I could either study the ways of musical composition, harmony and cadence, or I could study the life of Benjamin Flew. After a moment’s hesitation I drew out all my savings from the last three years directed solely towards my education and decided to buy the cheapest car I could find and visit every friend that Benjamin had sent his last remaining testament to. The easiest part was finding their names; each of their email addresses were included within the message Benjamin had sent me. Not only a name, I thought, but direct contact with each and every one of them through the medium of email.
I knew this wouldn’t be enough though, hence the car; I knew that email addresses could be deleted and that names could change. The medium of email didn’t seem adequate for such a topic either; surely one would wish to discuss the difficult issue of Benji’s death face to face, in a pub, or, words shared during a short walk (but if that wasn’t Benji’s style then maybe it won’t be theirs either)?
I won’t lie to you, of course I was looking to fill the immediate present with adventure and unknowing. I didn’t want to just sit at home emailing seven people, waiting for them to get back to me, it was much more than that. Benjamin’s letter, even from the beginning all those years ago, suggested something to me about my own life, in the form of questions; Who am I? What is it that I am meant to be? What is it that I am meant to do? Perhaps I was traveling to find myself? After all, I am down on the list as one of these recipients.
Isabel would not be happy with my decision to roam around the country meeting strangers, sleeping in hotels, most probably drinking a lot. But they weren’t strangers, they were Benji’s most trusted friends, and through that trust they would become my friends too. As it happens Isabel was not unhappy because I had told her that I had enrolled at music college and would be away for two weeks watching various music recitals. I told her that we had been “thrown into the course” (I think those were my words) and that I could not afford to miss such a valuable experience if I were to prove worthy of such a prestigious institution.
What could she say? She knew how long it had taken me to save up the money, she believed I was worthy of a degree, she knew it was important for me to make a good first impression. She looked at me with this perfect mixture of casualness and concern that only women seem to be able to pull off, and the rest is history. We slept together that night for the first time in three months.
I slept a peaceful sleep in Isabel’s arms. I dreamt of three discontinuous environments without any real narrative. I dreamt of exotic birds and plants like the ones in Henri Rousseau’s paintings, I dreamt of a farmers’ market in Iowa lit up beautifully at night, with friendly people serving chili from out of these giant steaming cooking pots, and I dreamt of a little boy sulking in an indoor swimming pool.
The next day I met up with a private dealer who was selling his car on the internet and gave him £600 for it upfront. His dog (I assume it was his) was barking hysterically at me throughout the proceedings and I could see two clocks adjacent to one another, telling different times, in the hallway of the man’s house, through the front door he had left open. I drove back home whist Isabel was at a dance audition and picked up a few clothes, some C.D.’s for the car, my laptop and the usual toiletries. I left a note on the fridge for Isabel that read-
Izzy, Izzy, Izzy, I’m sure you’ll enjoy the peace and quiet whilst I’m gone! My phone is fully charged!! :) Miss you already. Love ya! Sam X
I locked the front door behind me and got into the car with all my stuff. The truth was I did miss her already. I really didn’t know what I was doing. I was already beginning to feel a bit gloomy. This obviously wasn’t a good start. I drove to a twenty-four-hour service station towards the motorway, parked the car and got out my laptop in order to write a message to Benjamin’s other seven friends. I could write the messages on my laptop (I write best on laptops with a proper keyboard) and then copy them over to my phone in order to send ( . . . oh the perks of infinite Wi-Fi roaming access). After floundering for an hour and overthinking, buying several large coffees from the service station and smoking half a pack of cigarettes, I got to work.
Dear (insert here),
I hope this email finds you well.
I am writing to you about one of our beloved lost friends Benjamin Flew.
I was a good friend of Benjamin’s and it had occurred to me that I had never been introduced to any of his friends.
Would you be interested in meeting up and having a chat? It has been almost two and a half years since his death and I really wish to know a bit more about the man he was, and indeed the friends he had.
I will be free for the next couple of weeks and am happy to travel a fair way.
Anyway, you have my email, hope you get in touch.
Blessings,
Sam
These were the thoughts going through my mind as I stared upon my fifteen lines of text hovering above a backlit computer screen; can I send this one message to all the recipients or would I have
