Jumping the Last Step.

2nd of June 1975.

Three boys who insisted on being men sat in a small living room on the top floor of some well-built, run-down flats. The room was square with curved corners, and every visitor marvelled at the circularity. The three boys knew it wasn’t a circle and rolled their young eyes like old men every time the comment was made. They were in their favourite corner: three panels of windows that looked out onto their wide street. They’d been speaking softly to each other since 9pm, putting on records and watching the summer sun set. Beer and cigarettes had turned into whiskey and spliffs and the clock lay comfortably at 1:30 in the morning, which made these particular boys feel particularly mature.

The conversation, which began at music, had jumped to politics, back to music and had run through issues like war and literature as if they had the simplicity of a crossword. Sully was a year into his first go at primary school teaching, and it had aged him considerably. The other two wouldn’t mention it though as Sully found it tricky but rewarding. His hair was on the way up, but he retained his kind face. Owen had called him ‘baldy’ a few times but had to stop to not upset his friend. He had found his profession isolating at times, but the company of his close friends had kept him looking youthful and untouched making the other Priests in the area jealous. He flippantly attributed this luck to God. The smoking reverend had instructed Gregor to be quiet after pointing out that a Priest shouldn’t be getting high, because Owen already felt guilty enough. Gregor was once the most beautiful of the three, but boxing had made him a fetish for those who liked black eyes and bruised lips. His thick blonde hair had been buzzed off upon the instruction of his coach, making his head shimmer in the gentle light. The circular garden table that they spoke across was the prize of the flat. It was rusty on the bottom of the black curled legs, and on top was a mosaic of a fish. Each of them had their own ashtray, coaster and lighter to avoid the surface receiving any mess. A singular, insignificant tile had come off years earlier and since then the three had taken diligent, proud and obsessive care over the object.
‘When we move out who’s getting the table?’ queried the Priest.
The Teacher grinned at the prospect of this debate and the Boxer frowned at the exact same thing.
‘I don’t want to fight about it.’
This made the Priest and the Teacher laugh too much for sober men. These were not sober men; these were drunk boys.
‘Hang on, hang on. I found it; I should take it.’
The Priest thought about this, while the Boxer laughed at his own joke.
'We all decided to go into that shop, and we all carried it back here. So, I think it would be rather foolish to base it on that,’ the Priest continued as if at a Sunday Service. ‘I just don’t think there will be a fair way to decide who takes it.’
‘We let God decide?’ The Boxer was sceptical, and the Priest didn’t like it.
‘Perhaps,’ the Priest pushed on, ‘we just leave the table in the flat? That way we all share in our grief, and nobody is jealous.’
The Teacher blew smoke out of his nose and looked out of the window at the funny clouds forming in the night sky. They were covering the stars very fast. ‘You know, that was the sort of thing God would say I reckon.’ Before the Priest could roll his eyes, the Teacher carried on, ‘I’m serious. That was actually quite clever—wise even.’

The Boxer rose and walked to the record player making sure to step over the boxes full of the trios’ possessions. He flipped the record and ventured back to his seat but didn’t sit. He began to move his fingers very fast and whisper numbers under his breath. The Teacher and the Priest silently agreed on which one should ask with a look.
‘What are you doing?’ The Boxer stopped and replied.
‘I’m checking if I’m concussed. Coach said to do my times tables.’
This brought no enlightenment to the other two.
‘Why would you be concussed?’
‘Well… I’m a boxer.’ The other two nodded in ignorance of the mysterious industry their friend was involved in and assumed it was normal. ‘And because it’s snowing outside.’
The Teacher’s forehead banged against the window and the Priest dabbed out his spliff.
‘It’s June though, is it a prank?’ The Teacher was aware and weary of children’s creativity. His nose was being crushed between his head and the glass.
‘Where are the pranksters, in the clouds?’ The Boxer laughed and began opening boxes. ‘C’mon lads, get your winter clothes back out.’ The friends scrambled and rushed to collect as many insulating things as they could before running down the stairs like the boys they really were, skipping the last step on every flight and giggling at the mere idea of a snowball fight. They had three single gloves between them and had to get inventive with tea towels, bubble wrap and sticky-tape. Gregor kept creating snow boulders and dropping them on heads with his shovelled, wonky hands, Sully climbed a tree and threw from above and Owen kept insisting that it was a miracle and began elaborate but achievable plans on a snowman. A breathless Priest fled from a very cold but grinning Boxer before being coated in snow. The laughter refused to cease and it filled the white street all night until the boys couldn’t keep their eyes open.

They agreed to leave the table where it stood.