My Bestest Pals
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Can a fifty-something still have imaginary friends? Jack Lamb thinks so.
_____________________________________________________________________
Jack glanced round the open-plan office again to make doubly sure he wasn’t being watched. Satisfied that everyone was going about their business and that no-one looked likely to disturb him, he hunched over his laptop screen and began to read the questionnaire he had received by email earlier that morning.
He had been itching to find the time to complete the questionnaire. Now he was relishing the contribution he was about to make to such a prestigious research study. After all, he was a professional researcher himself, wasn’t he? It was only right that he should open up and share his childhood memories for the benefit of the study.
‘John Lamb,’ he typed in the space left for the answer to the first question.
‘Very fuckin’ formal,’ said Bill, peering over Jack’s shoulder.
Jack ignored the remark and proceeded to enter his gender and his date and place of birth.
‘What’s wrong wi’ using Jack?’ Bill persisted. ‘That’s yer name, isn’t it? Jack. Jacko. Whacko Jacko. That’s what folks in here call ye, anyways.’
‘Leave him alone, will you?’ hissed Ben on the other side of Jack. ‘He needs a bit of peace to do this. It’s important.’
‘So what’s Whacko Jacko daein’, then?’
‘It’s for a major research project that’s being conducted by a prominent university down South. He’s telling them about his experiences of imaginary friends when he was a child.’
‘Imaginary friends?’ Bill repeated. ‘Oh, aye, this should be fuckin’ good.’
‘Yes, Jack is very keen to participate. As a prominent researcher himself –’
‘He’s no’ a prominent researcher,’ interrupted Bill. ‘He’s a fuckin’ pollster. He asks people about soft drinks and fanny pads and tinned fuckin’ salmon. A different thing althegither.’
‘Well there’s a lot of influential folk here in Glasgow – and all over Scotland, as a matter of fact – who respect his research know-how. Mister Research, they call him.’
‘Aye, until his back his turned. Mister Research, my arse!’
There was a pause while Bill gathered his thoughts and Jack tapped away on his keyboard.
‘See, Ben, there you go again,’ Bill began. ‘Bumming him up once again. Making him feel the big man. And making sure he’s even more despised than before. Are you so fuckin’ blind ye dinnae realise that every bastard in this place would love to stick a knife in his back? And every time it’s me who has tae watch that back, to keep him alert, to gie him eyes in the back o’ his heid.’
‘You’re just paranoid, Bill.’
‘And you’re a wee fuckin’ arse-licker, pal.’
As if oblivious to the heated conversation taking place around him, Jack focused on the questionnaire. Between what ages did you have your imaginary friend or friends? it asked.
‘From about five years old up to twelve or thirteen,’ Jack typed.
‘Fuckin’ liar!’ shouted Bill. ‘Adding forty years to that last age would be mair like it.’
‘Shoosh,’ said Ben. ‘He’s trying to concentrate.’
The next question read: Now please tell us about your imaginary friend or friends. How many of them were there? Were they boys or girls? Did you give them names?
Jack typed quickly. ‘I had two friends. They were twin boys. I called them Bill and Ben after the characters in my favourite TV programme.’
‘The Flower Pot Men,’ he added in case the researchers didn’t know what TV programme he was referring to.
‘You see, we’re twins,’ Ben laughed. ‘The Flower Pot Men. Flobadob, Bill.’
‘Fuck off, Ben.'
Jack grimaced when he noticed that Harvey had left his desk and was now walking towards him. Quickly, he flipped the screen back to his desktop.
‘And you fuck off, too, ya baldy-heided English cunt,’ growled Bill.
‘Wheesht,’ said Ben. ‘Young Harvey has a lot of respect for Jack. So don’t spoil it. Jack’s his... well, his kind of mentor.’
‘What can I do for you, Harvey?’ Jack smiled.
Harvey waved the file in his hand. ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss,’ he replied in his Essex twang. ‘It’s this tender I’m putting together. Wondered if you could give me a bit of advice with it. The deadline’s this afternoon, I’m afraid, but it’ll only take a few secs of your time.’
Jack smiled again. ‘I’ve got something on at the moment that’s very high priority,’ he lied. ‘Shouldn’t take much longer, though. I’ll give you a shout soon as it’s done.’
‘No probs, boss,’ said Harvey, turning on his heels and heading back to his desk. ‘Wanker,’ he added under his breath. ‘Farting about as usual, no doubt.’
Jack hunched down again and returned to the questionnaire. He had reached the last question. It read: Finally, can you remember why you created your imaginary friend or friends? Was it because you felt lonely? Or were you threatened or frightened in some way and needed someone to confide in? Or was it just for fun so that you could go on adventures and play games together?
Jack thought about the answer for a while. The honest truth was that he couldn’t remember. Bill and Ben had always been there inside his head; bickering like this morning, of course, but also encouraging him, advising him and warning him about the human snakes around him, the ones who were out to do him harm. Their discussions were a part of his everyday life. Then he read about the study and suddenly realised who they were. They were his imaginary friends from childhood, but they had... well, they had stayed for a bit longer.
‘Just for fun,’ he typed, not providing any further explanation.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Bill groaned. ‘The twat really believes we’re his imaginary friends. Hello, ba’heid. Duh, we’re no’ yer imaginary friends. We’re no’ yer bestest pals. We’re yer alter fuckin’ egos, dummkopf! We’re you, pal, your split personality!
‘Him there, he’s the one who massages yer ego. And me here, I’m the one who keeps it sharp and nasty. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde: heard o’ them, have ye, Jacko? Well, Bill and Ben are the same. That’s why yer whacko, Jacko. Can ye hear me? Yer a fuckin’ schizo, man!’
‘Okay, okay, Bill,’ Ben pleaded. ‘You’ve made your point. Now leave him alone, will you, please? He’s happy now. He’s found an explanation for his... um... disorder... an explanation for us.’
Jack sat back, content. Above the drone of the conversation in his head, he heard a satisfying ping as his email with the completed questionnaire attached left his outbox. He smiled and beckoned to Harvey to come over.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Can a fifty-something still have imaginary friends? Jack Lamb thinks so.
_____________________________________________________________________
Jack glanced round the open-plan office again to make doubly sure he wasn’t being watched. Satisfied that everyone was going about their business and that no-one looked likely to disturb him, he hunched over his laptop screen and began to read the questionnaire he had received by email earlier that morning.
He had been itching to find the time to complete the questionnaire. Now he was relishing the contribution he was about to make to such a prestigious research study. After all, he was a professional researcher himself, wasn’t he? It was only right that he should open up and share his childhood memories for the benefit of the study.
‘John Lamb,’ he typed in the space left for the answer to the first question.
‘Very fuckin’ formal,’ said Bill, peering over Jack’s shoulder.
Jack ignored the remark and proceeded to enter his gender and his date and place of birth.
‘What’s wrong wi’ using Jack?’ Bill persisted. ‘That’s yer name, isn’t it? Jack. Jacko. Whacko Jacko. That’s what folks in here call ye, anyways.’
‘Leave him alone, will you?’ hissed Ben on the other side of Jack. ‘He needs a bit of peace to do this. It’s important.’
‘So what’s Whacko Jacko daein’, then?’
‘It’s for a major research project that’s being conducted by a prominent university down South. He’s telling them about his experiences of imaginary friends when he was a child.’
‘Imaginary friends?’ Bill repeated. ‘Oh, aye, this should be fuckin’ good.’
‘Yes, Jack is very keen to participate. As a prominent researcher himself –’
‘He’s no’ a prominent researcher,’ interrupted Bill. ‘He’s a fuckin’ pollster. He asks people about soft drinks and fanny pads and tinned fuckin’ salmon. A different thing althegither.’
‘Well there’s a lot of influential folk here in Glasgow – and all over Scotland, as a matter of fact – who respect his research know-how. Mister Research, they call him.’
‘Aye, until his back his turned. Mister Research, my arse!’
There was a pause while Bill gathered his thoughts and Jack tapped away on his keyboard.
‘See, Ben, there you go again,’ Bill began. ‘Bumming him up once again. Making him feel the big man. And making sure he’s even more despised than before. Are you so fuckin’ blind ye dinnae realise that every bastard in this place would love to stick a knife in his back? And every time it’s me who has tae watch that back, to keep him alert, to gie him eyes in the back o’ his heid.’
‘You’re just paranoid, Bill.’
‘And you’re a wee fuckin’ arse-licker, pal.’
As if oblivious to the heated conversation taking place around him, Jack focused on the questionnaire. Between what ages did you have your imaginary friend or friends? it asked.
‘From about five years old up to twelve or thirteen,’ Jack typed.
‘Fuckin’ liar!’ shouted Bill. ‘Adding forty years to that last age would be mair like it.’
‘Shoosh,’ said Ben. ‘He’s trying to concentrate.’
The next question read: Now please tell us about your imaginary friend or friends. How many of them were there? Were they boys or girls? Did you give them names?
Jack typed quickly. ‘I had two friends. They were twin boys. I called them Bill and Ben after the characters in my favourite TV programme.’
‘The Flower Pot Men,’ he added in case the researchers didn’t know what TV programme he was referring to.
‘You see, we’re twins,’ Ben laughed. ‘The Flower Pot Men. Flobadob, Bill.’
‘Fuck off, Ben.'
Jack grimaced when he noticed that Harvey had left his desk and was now walking towards him. Quickly, he flipped the screen back to his desktop.
‘And you fuck off, too, ya baldy-heided English cunt,’ growled Bill.
‘Wheesht,’ said Ben. ‘Young Harvey has a lot of respect for Jack. So don’t spoil it. Jack’s his... well, his kind of mentor.’
‘What can I do for you, Harvey?’ Jack smiled.
Harvey waved the file in his hand. ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss,’ he replied in his Essex twang. ‘It’s this tender I’m putting together. Wondered if you could give me a bit of advice with it. The deadline’s this afternoon, I’m afraid, but it’ll only take a few secs of your time.’
Jack smiled again. ‘I’ve got something on at the moment that’s very high priority,’ he lied. ‘Shouldn’t take much longer, though. I’ll give you a shout soon as it’s done.’
‘No probs, boss,’ said Harvey, turning on his heels and heading back to his desk. ‘Wanker,’ he added under his breath. ‘Farting about as usual, no doubt.’
Jack hunched down again and returned to the questionnaire. He had reached the last question. It read: Finally, can you remember why you created your imaginary friend or friends? Was it because you felt lonely? Or were you threatened or frightened in some way and needed someone to confide in? Or was it just for fun so that you could go on adventures and play games together?
Jack thought about the answer for a while. The honest truth was that he couldn’t remember. Bill and Ben had always been there inside his head; bickering like this morning, of course, but also encouraging him, advising him and warning him about the human snakes around him, the ones who were out to do him harm. Their discussions were a part of his everyday life. Then he read about the study and suddenly realised who they were. They were his imaginary friends from childhood, but they had... well, they had stayed for a bit longer.
‘Just for fun,’ he typed, not providing any further explanation.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Bill groaned. ‘The twat really believes we’re his imaginary friends. Hello, ba’heid. Duh, we’re no’ yer imaginary friends. We’re no’ yer bestest pals. We’re yer alter fuckin’ egos, dummkopf! We’re you, pal, your split personality!
‘Him there, he’s the one who massages yer ego. And me here, I’m the one who keeps it sharp and nasty. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde: heard o’ them, have ye, Jacko? Well, Bill and Ben are the same. That’s why yer whacko, Jacko. Can ye hear me? Yer a fuckin’ schizo, man!’
‘Okay, okay, Bill,’ Ben pleaded. ‘You’ve made your point. Now leave him alone, will you, please? He’s happy now. He’s found an explanation for his... um... disorder... an explanation for us.’
Jack sat back, content. Above the drone of the conversation in his head, he heard a satisfying ping as his email with the completed questionnaire attached left his outbox. He smiled and beckoned to Harvey to come over.
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of three novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar at http://the4bs.weebly.com.
And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.