Imaginary Kingdoms

“Come on, do something! Do something!” he says excitedly, jumping on the spot and playfully punching me on the arm. It was annoying three minutes ago and, five minutes of looping audio and motivational hitting, it’s getting painful.

The thing is, I can’t really stop him. To do so would cause me to look strange. You see, this bar is crowded, I’m sat alone and no one else can see Charlie. If I yell at him, I’m going to look like a crazy person. (Which I am, of course, but I don’t want the scattered patrons to know that)

Charlie wants me to, in his words, “buck my fucking ideas up” which is something (minus the swearing) my Grandpa used to say when he felt people were wallowing. Charlie knows that because I know that. That’s the thing about imaginary friends, most of their views and opinions are rehashed. He’s telling me what I already know. I know my ideas need to be ‘bucked up’ but, you know, where to start?

Charlie stops and slumps down into the empty seat opposite. He starts drumming on his legs, unable to keep still. I wish I had his imaginary energy.

“You can’t keep living like you’re living now” he says, looking around the bar. “Because it’s not really living is it?”

He’s right. In a way, we both are. I know things are bad right now. I know that I need to start pushing out the negative stuff and pulling in the good but it’s easier said than done. When you fall into a rut, the rut gets bigger.

Charlie starts to waffle with what seems like a thousand words a minute. It’s hard to keep up. I just want to finish my drink (which is pretty flat actually) and go to sleep. When I’m asleep, I can at least dream of a better position in life. A few dreams ago, I was the captain of a space ship and my crew were all witty, tough and dependable and nothing like the people in my office who are bitchy, weak-willed and mostly racist.

Charlie talks about old times. Old times for Charlie consist of a fantastical, imaginary world I created, a world he was born from. In reality, I was running around my Grandparents garden with a plastic sword. I loved it but Charlie loved it more. After I grew up and started living in reality, there were no magical realms, no princesses to save and no Charlie.

Until today, when he emerged from I don’t know where, pissed off at being forgotten about and incredibly angry about the man I have become.  He doesn’t understand. How could he? I don’t understand and that’s the reason I’m here, drinking alone with my old friend.

“We used to be adventurers! Do you remember that time we fended off that Cyclops? We faced a powerful opponent that day but we defeated him. Do you remember that?”

I do. I found a sword that was powerful enough to pierce his chest and puncture his heart. It was pretty convenient but it was tea time and I had to wrap things up.

“We should do that again sometime” Charlie says.

I want to tell him that it can’t happen because a grown man running around, talking to himself is a sure fire way to end up where my Uncle did.

“They all miss you there” he says, with a weird, reflective calm. He then stares out of the window. Everything is quiet now.  I feel bad because he feels bad.

“Fine”

His eyes widen. A huge smile.

“How do we do it?”

I am talking to myself in a bar. People don’t seem to notice, or care. (Good for them and I hope they enjoy their meals)

Imagine this, a grown man, newly purchased plastic sword in hand, running around the park; laughing and yelling. Picture it, a worn down office worker; stuck in a rut with no real hope, swinging a bright yellow sword with a glee not known for many, many years.

People passing by, joggers and such are confused by the sight. They have every right to be, of course. I would be too if I were them. But, you know, I can’t think about that now, I’m with my best friend, catching up on lost time and saving our kingdom.