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Chapter 2

Lying in bed in the morning thinking about what I should do was becoming a debilitating habit. What could I do next in my career? I picked up my phone from the nightstand and searched for jobs matching my skills. ‘Love Mondays’ was the advertising slogan of one of the job websites. What job would make me love Mondays?

I had a mild hangover which made my eyes and head hurt as I scrolled down the seemingly endless list of job results. At least I didn’t have to worry about a lack of open positions when I was ready to apply. I put my phone back down on the nightstand to give my dry eyes a break. I had another distraction to handle — morning wood, which wasn’t going to go down by itself. It had been a few weeks since I had been on a date, let alone had sex. It was too soon to call Keira, but I could try someone else I liked. I’d had lunch with Jane a few times as work friends. She worked in HR at the bank. We never took things outside work, which created some sexual tension between us.

I sent Jane a message: Hi. How are you? You probably noticed my office is up for grabs. Hope you find a new lunch buddy ;)

She replied within minutes: Hey! Didn’t know if I’d hear from you again — I didn’t get a goodbye :( Guess what — I’m leaving too!

Me: Wow! I didn’t expect that. Where are you going?

Jane: An executive headhunter…I’ll tell you more when I see you

Me: See me?? When?

Jane: Isn’t that where you were going?

Me: LoL Was I that obvious. Want to go out one evening soon for dinner?

Jane: I’d love to!

We exchanged a few more messages and decided to meet the next evening. I was happy to have a date to look forward to. The anticipation distracted me from getting back to my job search. I didn’t mind being at home knowing I had a friendly neighbour. I lived alone and had no job for a while, yet I felt connected to someone. If I felt lonely, there was someone close by I could reach out to. It was like being back at university — having a friend across the hall whose door I could knock on when I wanted to do something. I did just that. George was home and he invited me in. The apartment was messy with clothes and luggage strewn on the floor and the sofa. George apologised for the state of the flat and started clearing his clothes away.

“Please don’t tidy up for me — I’ll sit at the table.” I felt guilty for inviting myself over. George had been working on his laptop on the table, next to which were official-looking letters in Greek. It was the first time I was in the apartment next-door. It was stylishly designed and furnished — much nicer than my place. It seemed like the owner had an understanding of how to make a place feel homely, even though they didn’t live there themselves. “How was your morning?” I asked George.

“I woke up without the company of a woman so I had to occupy myself,” George replied with his signature grin. “I’ve resorted to working as you can see.”

“What is your work, if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked George.

“I work for a bank in Greece. I’m an account manager.”

“We have something in common then — I work for a bank too… well, I did until yesterday. I just resigned.” I was starting to feel lost in conversations when I didn’t have work to talk about.

“Oh, any reason for leaving or did you just want a change?”

“I was getting stale looking at financial reports and spreadsheets all day. I wasn’t moving up anymore, so I decided to move on and look around. I’m only going to live this life once and I don’t want to live it behind a desk going nowhere.”

“I like that philosophy! I can definitely understand that because some days my work is the same, except now I have the Greek government account, which is a lot more interesting.”

I wanted to get to know George personally, so I asked about his life back home. His employer gave him the flexibility to split his time between Athens and Crete as they had offices all over mainland Greece and the Greek islands. He grew up in Crete and his parents still lived there. He talked about his family and how they would get together on national holidays for a big meal cooked by his mother at his family home. I thought about my own mother. I missed her and how she kept our small family together. In George’s culture there wasn’t as much of a struggle getting family together as there was in mine. In Greece you were still treated like an adolescent by your parents until you were about thirty. I could see how that could foster closer family relationships as well as an extended period of irresponsibility.

We talked a lot about the differences between Greek and British life and culture. George had experienced the differences first hand as he had attended university in Aberdeen. I mentioned that the North of Scotland and London were worlds apart. He agreed, but explained that having a London-centric view of Britain ignores traditional perspectives that haven’t blended with the cosmopolitanism of an international city. Greece treasured each region’s culture and history to the point that things changed very slowly or not at all. The way George could express his analysis and opinions in English made me feel inadequate at being monolingual.

“I have some bad news, Daniel. My work in London will be finished this afternoon, then I’ll fly back to Athens. I was hoping to stay one more day…we could have gone out again. That was a good night!”

“That’s a shame, mate. It was nice having you as a neighbour. Do you think you’ll be back soon?” I was disappointed George was leaving so soon.

“It depends on the Greek government department I work with. They wanted me to attend a meeting in London. I don’t know if there will be more, but I hope there are.”

Why would the Greek government or George’s bank — whichever organisation was paying his bill in London — arrange for him to stay here rather than a hotel? The flat may be rented out as a corporate rental. I only had one opportunity to ask George about the owner before he was gone. I was much more interested to know who owned the flat next door to mine than I had ever been. While I was working so hard, I was too busy to care. Now I wanted to know who the visitors were and the purposes of their visits. I had idle time to be a nosey neighbour. Maybe the owner was simply renting it out for short periods of time through an agent or online.

“You might find it strange, since I live next door, but I don’t actually know who owns this flat. I hear people coming and going every few months, but you’re the first visitor I’ve actually spoken to. Do you know who owns it?”

“No, I don’t know the owner,” replied George. “It surprises me that I should stay here and not at a hotel. I was given the keys by the driver who picked me up from Heathrow airport. The contact who set up my meeting in London required that I only stay at the address the driver took me to. There was even a secret word the driver should say so I knew he was the right guy. Maybe because it is confidential government work, they don’t want to risk my room being bugged or hotel maids stealing my laptop,” George said, relishing in the secrecy of his trip.

The elements of potential espionage intrigued me. “Your work with the Greek government sounds more exciting than most jobs in finance — you could be spied on!”

I could tell that George was telling me the truth. He showed no signs on his face or through his body language that he was evading my question. He was more open in his answer than I expected. George also revealed he had been asked to only use cash so not to leave a trail of electronic payments. That was another reason not to stay in a hotel that would require a credit card and passport. He was given the cash he needed on his trip, and quite a lot of cash. Maybe it was meant as a bribe for George to favour a decision or complete a transaction?

“You seem to like your job. Any tips for me? I’d like to find something interesting too.”

“I don’t know enough about you to say what captures your interest. But, think like this: What would make you give up a date with a beautiful woman?”

“Not much, mate — I can tell you that!” We both laughed. I was thinking ahead to my date with Jane and how long it had been since I had had sex.

“We had a good time last night. It was a shame those girls were too drunk to come home with us. How did it go with the girl you spoke to at the bar?” George asked changing the subject.

“She left early to have dinner with her friends, but I got her number.”

“Maybe you can call her soon?” asked George.

“I think I’ll have to wait to call her because I have a date with someone else tonight.” I said conscious that it sounded like I had a lively sex life, when it was quite the opposite.

“Wow! Perhaps you are better off without a job. You can keep yourself busy meeting beautiful women.”

“You just came at a fortunate time for me. Trust me, it has been a while since… you know.”

“Then I hope tonight your date ends well,” George said patting me on the shoulder.

“Thanks George,” I said, amused at the immaturity of our conversation. I hoped my dry spell did end soon.

I thought back to the drunk, obnoxious man at the bar who picked a fight with George. George was annoyed when the man made a blanket statement that Greece was a corrupt country. Did George take bribes as a banker in Greece? Did he have a problem taking the money for his trip to London?

“I’ve never been given money directly by a client, but I’ve been treated to lots of expensive dinners and bottles of wine. It makes me wonder how much of our work is simply greasing the wheels of something much bigger than us, and whether the greater purpose is unethical.” I said, hoping not to offend George.

“Yes, there’s money involved — we work for banks — there’s always money involved! Or, it could be another currency like influence, power or position. If you try too much to disconnect your actions from money, you can’t get involved in most ventures. Things would change, but you would have no determination in them. Definitely consider whether the venture is ethical. The challenge for employees is getting down to the motivation of whoever is driving the initiative”

I viewed my work as amoral in the sense that it was just providing financial services or trading to enrich the bank’s shareholders and employees. I didn’t see the nefarious plans that the media accused bankers of concocting to make massive profits. Maybe there were such plans. There could also have been altruistic intentions, like creating more jobs in the financial sector and in the wider economy. George’s opinions resonated with my own experience. I didn’t want to be part of the leadership in my old bank to avoid the risk that I might make a bad decision.

Although George was as keen to talk as I was, I was mindful that I had interrupted him working. “I should let you get back to work — you have a meeting to prepare for.”

“It’s no problem, I’m happy you came by to talk,” said George.

“Since you’re flying out this afternoon, this will be it for now… let’s try to keep in touch.”

“Yes, definitely — I have a new friend in London! Take my number and email address,” George said, writing down his personal details on the back of his business card.

“I’ll email you my contact details later today. Thanks for knocking on my door when you did and inviting me out. I don’t think I would have done the same. I never thought of myself as reserved — now I’ve met you, I think I am.”

“That’s who I am! I’m very far out there, so don’t think you are reserved. Daniel, I really do hope we meet again.”

We shook hands and George pulled me in for a hug. It was awkward hugging a man I had known for only a day, but George didn’t do things like everyone else. I started to think that I shouldn’t either.

I resumed my job search that afternoon and updated my online career profile. I applied for a few positions that I thought would be interesting. I kept the TV on one of the news channels in the background. The news was usually on an hourly loop with the same events for the day repeated. The real events also seemed to be on a loop of their own. Civil wars had flared up in the Middle East and Africa, which led to millions of people escaping to Europe. Many drowned crossing the Mediterranean Sea in flimsy boats and fake lifejackets. I had been guilty of tuning it out because I thought I could do nothing to help the people seeking safety.

I felt lethargic being at home all day. Without a twelve hour work day I had nothing substantial to focus my energy on. I needed to get out and move to numb my frustrations, so I went to the gym. I did a full workout even though it was very late. I treated each exercise as a challenge and it felt good to accomplish my targets. The same news played at the gym. The reporter was interviewing a man in Barcelona who had taken time out of his job as a human rights lawyer to command a rescue ship for migrants crossing the Mediterranean Sea. Could I do something to help and be exceptional like him? The hero being interviewed had a sailing heritage and must have cared a lot about oppressed people working in human rights. I had no career skills I could apply to saving or helping people escape war or extreme poverty. Nor did I have any nautical skills to leverage. I assured myself that I shouldn’t feel guilty about donning my tailored suits again soon, rather than waterproofs and a lifejacket.

I returned home after the gym and watched a TV show to unwind. I was weary rather than sleepy, still, I tried to sleep just after midnight. My body was tired, but my mind wasn’t — the worst kind of insomnia, because it goes on until you find something new to challenge your brain. It was about two in the morning when I gave up trying to fall asleep. I pottered about my flat for a while thinking what could tire me out enough to sleep. I went into the hallway again and looked across at my neighbour’s door. The door was slightly open again. I walked to the door to close it. As I approached the door, I noticed the light was on inside. I knocked and waited for a response for a minute. There was no answer. Peering inside, I could see into the living room, which was empty of George and his belongings. I ventured into the apartment slowly and looked in the bedrooms. George’s clothes and suitcases were gone. What was I going to do now? I was starting to regret resigning from work — maybe I should have stayed on until I found a better job. I couldn’t rely on random visitors next-door to keep me occupied.

I had the most terrifying dream that night. It was far worse than a nightmare because I didn’t wake up when the dying part happened. I’ve had nightmares where I couldn’t run fast enough from a wild animal or a person trying to attack me, but I always woke up before I was mauled or assaulted. I was in the sea alone with the waves lapping around my neck as I treaded water to keep my head above water. I could see an orange lifeboat speeding away from me. I shouted at the top of my voice and waved my arms. The lifeboat didn’t turn around and was soon out of sight. Nothing but deep black water surrounded me. The moon was the only luminary of my bleak situation. It pulled the waves around me, yet couldn’t pull me to the closest shore. To my amazement, several pairs of hands rose out of the water on all sides of me. Then, they disappeared after a few seconds.

I waited for them to come back thinking how I could use them to save me. My feint hope turned to sheer terror as the hands grabbed me from underwater and pulled me down under the surface. I used all my strength to tear the hands away. They wouldn’t budge. It was like I was trying to uproot tree stumps with my bare hands. I tried to quell my confusion and fear by focusing on holding my breath and telling myself the hands would let go. I couldn’t think of a reason they would want to kill me. They held on, continuing to pull me down without a hint of reason. My lungs felt like they were on fire as the urge to open my mouth and gasp for air grew out of my control. The hands let go of me once they had dragged me down beyond hope of living as if they had accomplished their goal of drowning me. I desperately swam up to the surface, which looked too far away to make in time. My brain started playing me a movie of my life in reverse as if it was discharging all my memories to make me feel one last time and say goodbye to my family and friends the only way I could. Then nothing — pure emptiness.

The nightmare rattled my nerves. I was shaking and sweating in bed. No way was I going to get back to sleep right away, nor did I want to. News about people drowning captures my attention because I had a friend who drowned in the sea while on holiday. I visited his parents soon after his body was repatriated. His father sat in an armchair with a large picture of his son above him. “What a waste,” is all I can recall him saying of his son who had achieved so much so young. He didn’t mean it in any negative sense. He wasn’t a waste to me. Would I waste my life, or could I change and achieve something? How about the drowned migrants washing up on the shores of Europe, were they merely human waste? What a terrible word to ascribe to a person.

I could rationalise why I had such a bad dream by connecting the fate of many migrants to my friend’s young death, but that didn’t mean I could dismiss my thoughts. I didn’t want to ignore what I was feeling. I didn’t know how to turn my need to help into action. Over the past ten years I took pride in my career and invested almost all my time in it. I was inseparable from my work until it was over. I needed to connect to who I really was. In the dead of night I wanted to go back to my childhood home. I felt compelled to try to see the boy who had loving parents and lots of friends. I wanted him to talk to me happily.

It was silly to think I could find my younger self, but I could talk with school friends about how we used to be and what we did. I had disconnected myself from a lot of my school friends when I moved to central London. Most of them stayed in the area where I grew up and I didn’t make the effort to stay in touch. It had been playing on my mind the last few years as a deep regret. Not only had I lost friendships, but I’d also lost of part of my personal history. What I was like at school or what I did would never be written down, but could have been recollected until old age with old friends. My life had lost its continuity and had become distinct periods separated by ruptures in which people and places all changed. I could go back to visit where I was raised — the place I called home, my old school and the routes I used to take to meet friends. I felt for the people on the news migrating for safety, and the countless more who weren’t recorded who were forced to leave home and couldn’t return.

The biggest rupture in my life occurred when my mum died early. She was fifty-seven when she died, and I was twenty-eight. She had breast cancer in her early fifties. We were all devastated when she told us. Due to a breast cancer screening through the NHS, it was detected early, which increased the efficacy of the chemotherapy she received. The cancer went into remission and we were all so relieved. She kept our small family in touch with each other while we were all focused on our separate careers and lives. We wanted her to have a long life which included a deserved enjoyable retirement. We also each knew that to lose her early would mean that my father, sister and I would drift apart.

She was cancer-free for a few years. Then the cancer came back in too many places to give us hope that we had anything more than a short time left with her in this life. We each spent as much time with her as we could. I moved back to my parents’ house so I could be with her after work. My sister just had her first baby and would visit during the day. Most days one of us would shed some tears as the time was the epitome of bittersweet family reunions. My mum didn’t complain or curse her bad luck or genes for developing cancer. We asked her about her life from a little girl and our own lives from babies. The time was a blessing in the sense that we would never have learned so much about each other without knowing that one of our lives would be ending early. I felt my mum valued the closeness as a blessing too. She lives on inside me, my father and sister. I think every person wants to be known and remembered.

My dad was there for her as he always had been, but the thought of her missing out on the rest of her life and his life without her was too much for him to hide. Coming back late from work some days, I would find him contemplating or crying alone while my mum slept. A few times I had to pick him up from the floor as he curled over while he wept. Any thoughts I had had about the malaise in my parents’ relationship were proved wrong in these moments. The predictable progression of their suburban life often led me to consider if I wanted to get married and have children. I thought that if I did, then I would constantly be looking for excitement somewhere else.

All my kitsch memories of childhood and family life were buried deep by the grief I felt when she died. I had no forum to keep the memories bright and happy. We buried her on a Saturday morning. The cemetery occupied one side of a hill in a small town on the edge of Greater London. It was a fitting place for her: rolling hills and a church spire punctuating the sky, yet connected to the cosmopolitan heart of the city through transport lines running into London.

If my mum was alive, what would I do differently? Would I be more connected to my family and old friends? I wanted to turn my loneliness into a positive objective. I made a promise to myself to try to reconnect with family and old friends, though I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I had time in between jobs, but everyone else had a job or a family keeping them busy. I couldn’t just call an old friend and expect them to make time for me because I was suddenly interested in them again. It wouldn’t be an easy journey back. Maybe I could attend the next school reunion as a start. I checked on my old school’s website and saw that the next reunion wasn’t for a few months. I wanted to do something immediately. I decided to visit my childhood home in the morning. That way I could at least mentally reconnect with the boy who had a family and lots of friends and thought about more than just himself.

My dad and I cleared out the house soon after my mum passed away as he wanted to sell it. He said wherever he went he would have a heavy heart but he knew he would be paralysed with grief if he continued to live in our family home. My sister and I understood his feelings and supported him, though we both felt that not having our family home to return to would make our family memories set at home harder to recall. Our house sold quickly to a family with young children. It was comforting for us that there would be more happy memories created in that house.

My sister and I both asked our dad to stay with one of us. Even though my sister lived closer to him, he chose to live with me as he didn’t want to impose on her family life with her husband and baby. My dad didn’t stay with me for long because he wanted to get away from reminders of his loss. He had some friends who had moved to one of the Spanish coasts in their retirement. He stayed with them for a few weeks to try it out, and then visited a friend in Goa. He chose to stay in Goa as he felt the Spain’s coastline wasn’t too much of a change since there were so many English people there. He loved the change in climate and relaxed culture he found in coastal India. He said he wouldn’t stay away from London too long as he didn’t want to miss seeing his granddaughter grow up. He was gone so soon after my mum passed away that I felt orphaned. I think it wasn’t as hard for my sister to cope with the loss because raising she was raising a baby, which took over every aspect of her life. I chose to focus fully on my career to try to push out my grief. My colleagues and clients became my surrogate family. I never talked about my personal losses much.

There I was looking at a house in which my mum held our family together, thinking how much of a family we were now. I saw my sister occasionally, but we weren’t dependent on each other and I didn’t have children who would play along with hers. I told myself “it’s just a house now,” and then headed back to the train station. But it wasn’t just a house and I knew it. I wouldn’t have been there if it was not connected to me. On the way back to the train station, I passed an old cemetery. It wasn’t where my mum was buried, yet I stopped to say a prayer for her. I’m not religious but she was, so I thought she would appreciate it if she somehow still existed. I prayed that she was with her first child, a girl who died at just a few months old. My mum told me that she died one night while sleeping in her cot. My mum used to say that she hoped that there was an angel or a god for young children who died before their parents. The thought of her baby lost in an afterlife alone without her pained her greatly at times. Often I would look at my mum and know that she was thinking about her lost daughter, especially when she was around young children. It was as if after my sister and I were independent, she welcomed the opportunity to be with her baby wherever she may have been. If there is another life, I hope they’re together now.

I used to take the train a few stops to school. It was one of the best private schools in the country. My parents sacrificed all they could to pay my fees. A boy was wearing the same uniform I used to wear. He looked mature, like he would be finishing school within a year or two and going to university. We were standing opposite each other — I was heading southbound and he was going northbound. He was standing at the end of the platform at the point where the exit would be at his destination station. A time saving ritual we had both performed hundreds of times. Our uniform consisted of a dark grey suit, white shirt, black shoes and a black tie diagonally striped with the your house colour. My house colour was orange. His was white. When I was at school, the white house won most of the inter-house sports competitions. Back then, I wished I was in the white house to feel the pride of winning regularly. The boy’s black and white tie flapped in the wind like a flag of surrender. Was the white house still successful? Was he proud to be part of the white house?

The school boy was standing at the edge of the platform looking out for the next train to come around the bend. It was due, but delayed as usual. He looked anxious. Other commuters were checking their phones and watches while they waited mildly frustrated. Was the boy going to stand on the edge the whole time? His backpack and violin case were placed against the station wall behind him. Maybe he was playing in a school orchestra practice. He wouldn’t have been required to wear his school uniform in the summer holidays. The picture was off. No one else seemed to notice.

I was looking straight at the teenager. It was a hot day, yet he was wearing his blazer and his shirt was buttoned up to the top. He looked impeccable in his school uniform. Behind him, his backpack and violin case leant against the wall like a dedication to what he did. I felt he was setting up a small memorial to himself. Was planning to jump in front of the train? I never imagined I’d be in a situation where someone was trying to kill themselves right in front of me. I had no mental preparation for what I would do. What could I do to stop him? The distant sound of the train approaching spurred me to action. I had a minute at most to stop him if he was going to jump. Why would he want to end his life? He was a picture of achievement. It was a narrow station with a walkway bridge connecting the two platforms. I walked quickly without running as I didn’t want to startle him or draw attention to what the boy was attempting.

As I hurried across the bridge, I thought how I would approach him and what I’d say. I considered if I was taking away his choice to end his life. It was unimaginative to end a life on the same route a person took every weekday for years. Was it part of the problem that he couldn’t imagine another way — a way out perhaps. Why not go out in a big way?

There was a man standing a few metres away from the adolescent. He was the only person close to him. The draw of familiarity kept my focus on the man for a few moments. He was the same man I had seen looking up at my building the morning I resigned. What was he doing at that station? He looked at me like he knew me. The sound of the train approaching in the distance quickened my heartbeat and forced me to act quickly. Grabbing the boy’s school bag and violin I called out to him “Don’t forget your bags!”

No response. The sound of the oncoming train clunking on the tracks as it slowed wasn’t loud enough to drown out my voice, but the young man was in his own world. I stood behind him and touched him and gently held his shoulder. Still he didn’t look my way, but his postured change to suggest that he was walking back from the edge in his mind, even though his feet hadn’t followed yet. I withdrew my hand. He turned to face me. “Thank you,” he said looking relieved. I passed his bags to him as the train arrived on the platform, both of us maintaining eye contact in silence. The train doors opened and shut. He didn’t get on. As the train departed the platform, he exited the station.

I thought it wasn’t the first time he had been on the brink and come back, seeing how calm he was when he walked away. I had maybe brought him back from the edge of hopelessness for a while. He could try again. I had a choice between taking the train back home or trying to talk to him. I chose to try to connect with him. I could see him walking down the hill as I hurried out the station. I walked quickly to catch up to him.

“Sorry for bothering you, do you want to talk?” He was startled to see me again, looking up at me without responding. I expected he might be lost for words. “There’s a café over there, which I don’t think any of your school friends would go to. We can talk about anything you want, it doesn’t have to be about… you know.”

“OK… thank you,” he answered shyly, forcing a smile. He seemed quite calm despite having been on the edge of a train station platform minutes before.

We walked the short distance to the café without talking. There weren’t many people in the café thankfully. I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation, so I chose a table at the back. I started to become conscious of how the boy and I would look to the staff and other diners in the café. I was too old to be his friend, but not old enough to be his father.

“I went to the same school as you… and took the same train,” I started, wanting to relate to him without knowing much more about him. “It was about fifteen years ago now… you’re probably not interested in hearing an old boy drone on, sorry.”

“I wasn’t going to jump. That’s not how I want to go. I wanted to feel what it would be like to do everything up until the last moment. Sounds perverse to you, doesn’t it?” He was straight to the point.

“If you told me that a week ago, then I probably wouldn’t understand how you could feel that way, given what I’m guessing your life is like. I wouldn’t even be here. I would be at work following my linear path in life. Now, I know a few small tweaks in life can change everything. What’s on your mind?”

He looked around the café to check no-one he knew had come in. “It feels odd to tell a complete stranger for the first time, but this way I know my secret is safe. I’m gay. You’re the first person I’m telling.” He seemed relieved to confide in someone and I was happy that he opened up to me.

I didn’t see immediately why being gay could drive someone to contemplate no longer living. “I’m glad that you shared your secret with me. Does it need to be a secret? Can you tell your family or friends? Is that why you’re feeling down?” I probably asked too many questions directly.

“I can’t tell anyone,” he said despairingly. “I’m a role model at school — my friends and teachers idolise me. I’m like the poster boy for the school — whenever there’s a promotional event or photoshoot, I’m asked to represent the school. I already have a place to study at Imperial when I finish school next year, I’m on all the school sports teams and almost everyone likes me. But that will all end… well the friends and admiration part, if my friends find out. Won’t it?”

“I’m not going to lie to you and tell you nothing will change — we both know it will. But, if there’s ever a time when it’s easier to come out, it’s now. A boys’ private school is not the easiest place to talk about anything personal, but I don’t remember anyone being seriously bullied while I was there.”

“It’s not only about how friends will treat me if they stay my friends, but how I’ll be if I’m open about being who I am. All my friends are in Ibiza right now and I made a shit excuse for why I couldn’t go. If they’re all going to be chatting to girls, am I really going to look for gay guys with them? No, I’ll be going to different places. I mean… um… what if I like someone like you?”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant by liking someone like me, and that was the crux of his predicament.

“I just want to be the same as I am and find someone I go to school with or work with. But, I’ll never be as free as a man who wants to speak to a woman he likes.”

“If you wait a year when you’re in university, it will be easier — there are LGBT communities at all universities. Sorry, I know it’s terrible advice to say do nothing for a year because kids can be cruel. I sincerely think that when you get to uni it will open your eyes to so much diversity that you won’t even think you have to conform anymore.”

“I want to look back on my school years and know it was a time when I was honest with myself and my friends. Waiting doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not going to pretend to know what you’re going through or what your friends are like. But, going through such a courageous event like coming out will tell you who your friends for life are. The rest you can do without.”

I didn’t feel like I could help him any more than talking to him. He was depressed because he was hiding a big part of who he was. I felt I was hiding something too, but I didn’t know what it was. He looked happier after we talked. As we left the café he thanked me for taking the time to talk to him. I hoped he would find a way to talk to his family and friends. I couldn’t think of an appropriate way to keep in touch with him, yet I still gave him my number. I wanted him to know he could call me if he ever felt this bad again.

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