Tadgh Ahern

SPF

Short story

Throughout my life, I have grappled with a peculiar yet intense anxiety, an affliction that’s woven into my very being. It seems these feelings were present from the start, sown by early experiences that hinted at my struggles with self-acceptance. My mother’s frequent frowns suggested that my discomfort stemmed from a lack of fitting in. At the same time, my father’s brusque remarks indicated that it was just a matter of not being manly enough, dismissing my feelings as mere weaknesses.

I can still vividly recall the frustration I felt at the thought of applying SPF 30 sunscreen on what seemed like an ordinary, sunny day in a climate where my peers went about their business with SPF 20 or less. I was forced to make a more extreme choice. These days, my worries have evolved; I’m more anxious about the earthquakes in a country I’ve never set foot in and the myriad scandals linked to those in power, revealing the depths of human depravity. All of this far eclipses the trivial anxiety over oily skin or summer sweat. However, I must grudgingly admit that puberty provided its own kind of shield against those early struggles.

The pinnacle of my anxiety came during the sweltering summer months spent in Memoir, the same town I still inhabit. The heat would flood the streets, pressing down on me, melding into the air, sharing its suffocating grip with everyone in its path. It had a way of amplifying my own feelings of unease, as if it took residence within me. I remember slathering myself in SPF 30, wishing to escape the relentless sun without the hassle of reapplication. I was aware that reapplying was vital, but doing so would mean exposing the sunscreen bottle, another source of discomfort. The bottle was starkly blue, a hue that stood out against the other kids’ more muted colored SPF bottles. Something that I have found to this day is that opting for a foreign-made brand can cause colour hue issues across the board, as the brand I now use only comes in white, neutral, and clean colours, without any high or low options.

I recall one particular morning so vividly, or at least I would like to think so. I often question whether I’ve constructed these memories to convince myself that I cared in earnest about my well-being, an aspiration I now recognise as wholesome in its own way. Yet, my ongoing fear resurfaces every morning when I catch news snippets while getting dressed, feeling a rising dread as I see powerful men wreak havoc on the world around me, men who, in my eyes, seem to wallow in defeat far more than I ever will.

As I made my way to the edge of the water, I stumbled upon a serene section formed by towering boulders that enclosed a portion of the ocean. The water flowed gently from this abyss, creating a haven for us kids. They had constructed a pontoon there, complete with a glorious slide and diving board, an inviting escape that allowed us to confront our fears and play without reservation. Climbing onto it, I was often assisted by another boy, a kid who was my physical equal but exuded an air of confidence I could only envy. His posture remained perfectly straight, unaffected by the bright sun or the distractions surrounding him. Even when shining light caught his eyes, he remained undeterred, striking a stark contrast to my own constant insecurity. There’s a lingering thought that perhaps I live in a state of constant excess, but grappling with that idea only deepens my discomfort. A rising anxiety inevitably accompanies this understanding, manifesting physically as beads of sweat that form on my forehead and race down toward the ground. As I share the memory of my last carefree plunge into the ocean, I sit on a pavement nestled behind stores, the atmosphere familiar yet overwhelming.

My feet rest on the warm cobblestone, tinged with nostalgia. Even though the sun strays behind clouds today, it doesn’t dim the charm of the area. The small pet shop I pass is bursting with life, as kittens once confined in cramped crates now tumble about freely, their little bodies darting in and out of view. One adventurous tortoiseshell kitten, brimming with energy, leads the charge outside, its paw just brushing the threshold of freedom. Still, it’s snatched back by the store clerk in a swift motion, hinting that if such a gentle paw would touch the outside world, it would be tainted and lose its beauty and perhaps its value.

It’s impossible to resist the urge to reach out to these kittens, a longing so natural. Yet, as I contemplate the connection, anxiety swells within me again. What if affection leads to obligation? The fear of being pressured into purchasing a kitten looms large. The thought of such a looming and somewhat enticing scenario alone has me worried that its simple growth can quickly spiral out of control.

As I stand there, anxiety radiates through my body again. The first beads of sweat emerge on my forehead, quickly followed by the familiar sensation at the nape of my neck. Those early experiences with SPF serve as a reminder of my struggles, fighting against not just personal battles, but also the broader implications of an uncertain future. I attempt to absorb the moisture with the back of my shirt, but the haunting fear of sweat stains overtakes me.

In a moment of panic, I dash to a shady corner of the street, away from the kittens but inwardly lamenting this choice. With my back against the cool brick wall, I pull my shirt slightly away from my waistband, longing to escape the burden of sweat touching my shirt to my skin. I can’t know whether anyone would notice the marks I fear might appear, but the mere thought of it gnaws at me, as if someone might bear witness to my moment of weakness. It’s as though an internal vote takes place; the faintest nagging doubt holds sway over my more robust self, leading to swaying ideas that subtly remind me that vulnerability is a risk that requires careful navigation.

In a daze from my troubles, I hear the tumble and drum-like pattern of a bicycle charging towards me. The cobblestones play the bike like a resounding roar of percussion against its own deep creviced fingers. The frame, slightly loose to itself, would create a racket of dings and dangs as the rider plunged it further down the cobbles. The cobbles, having been victim and witness to this type of invasion many times, simply stood their ground against such an onslaught. The sun’s beams clearing his path from me and the kittens perhaps led the boy rider to stay true to his path with speed and determination. And to the speed he kept. His skin glistened in the sun, and his bag, now clearly seen wrapped over his shoulders like a sack, was overfilled for such an adventure. He rode with such confidence and glory that his smile stretched from ear to ear. His skin glistened, reigned true from top to tail.

The cobbles in all their seasoned, tamed life had decided against the boy, and they caused his wheel to bounce upwards ever so slightly, combating the once true path and now having a thorn as such. I winced verbally and with my limbs convulsing inward against my will. I saw the boy crash. His wheel had gone up with grace and came back down with everything but. He hit the floor so gracefully, with his cheeks filling the gaps in between the cobblestones, letting out the air from his stomach as he did so. He landed then all at once; the rest of his body tumbled with a heavy, thudding sound, and he began to slide forward for a few metres and then nothing. He just lay there.

I wanted to go and check on him, but the sun’s beams had begun to overwhelm the alley. I had yet to move from my position, except for the occasional toe tap to see if the sun’s rays were a mirage or not. They had yet to be anything but reality so far.

The ever-present orange blooming rays caressed the boy on the floor. He lay there ever so till, like he was in a deep slumber after a day of chaotic fuel and majestic like young man errands. I stood there with my body still against the wall as still as I could be, but then my foot slipped from under me, and I felt my cotton shirt touch the nape of my back in a complex, grotesque breath. I shattered back into myself, reverting, effort once made. I look out at him and shout the best I can:

AHOY THERE, DEAR BOY!

I leaned my neck as far for myself as I could while staying shaded, but he did not reply to my call.

PLEASE, BOY, PLEASE MOVE TOWARDS ME SO I MAY CHECK YOUR WOUNDS.

I thought shouting would have worked by now, but there he lay dying, I think at least.

My shout made the kittens curious. They appeared in pairs in the windows, and the door was held hostage by that gorgeous gem of a tortoiseshell. Their eyes reflected the deadly sun’s rays out; the shine they had in them was something from a folktale, of passion and crime. How beautiful they are, out of grasp; it adds to the beauty knowing I will never have them, for if I did, the beauty would not outlast the day’s warmth.

Well, one good tune deserves another after all. So I try again,

PLEASE BOY

PLEASE MOVE A FINGER, A LIMB… I WILL SETTLE FOR A BLINK

BUT WAIT, HOW WILL I SEE YINK HMMMM

DEAR BOY, GET UP, PLEASE

IT IS ALL I ASK!

ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU MOVE YOURSELF TOWARDS ME SO I MAY CHECK YOUR WOUNDS

The shopkeeper, whom I hadn’t thought was a real man, but another of the many mirages that the sun brings forth, was not what I had imagined. The store would not be empty, but this man, with his thick facial hair and perfectly plump body, did not hit the spot I had envisioned. He had eloquence in his disgrace, towards the outside world that I can only envy and harbour jealousy towards. And, not to be forgotten was the way the light hit his skin; he had that plump glow that is the main benefit of being a larger man – the soft, supple skin that comes with thick elastic approaches. He approached the door with the tenacious kitten between his legs, tail alert, teeth ever so small, bearing at the whole world without a thought of fear, a thought at all. He looks over at me, then at the boy, back at me, and with his last look at the outside world, he lets a deep sigh roar from the depths of his being, his belly motions like the deep waves as he musters it up, the sigh that, with such power, sends him back inside.

I look back at the boy, and the simple leather item with two long straps wrapped over his belongings, scattered its contents. I hadn’t noticed this before, as I was focused on him and his body directly. It had yet to occur to me that the person he was was all in that bag, and now, since the crash, he was scattered all over the cobblestones.

I have greater judgment with no greater judgment than before, no greater shade than before, nothing greater than at any point before. Yet, it feels greater to try this time as a fool of joy blossoms within me, believing that I can save not only the moment but also the boy and myself from the relentless sun, fostering a sense of hope and determination that somehow I could do it all, one way or another, convinced that deep down, I possess the strength and willpower to navigate through this challenge and emerge victorious, despite the overwhelming odds that seem to loom over us, casting shadows that try to whisper doubt into my heart but only fuel my desire to prove that all it takes is a spark of belief and a touch of courage to change the course of our fate together.

BOY, PLEASE HEAR MY CALL

MY CALL TO YOU, BOY

MY CALL OF CARE, TENDER CARE

All this shouting is beginning to take the moisture from my throat and send it elsewhere, a banishment of my own health in the efforts of protecting others. A cruel system is this system of fair and equal pain. Yet, here I am once again looking at that dear boy as he lay there. I focus on his face once again, so pale now, the tanned skin is gone. What else is he losing in his deep sleep? I start to look at his lips, turning purple like a fine wine, freshly bottled still with a flake of grape skin lingering. Separation anxiety is still fresh from the feet of those who pressed them.

But I stop and think of the boy’s mother.

Before the thought can become anything with flesh and charisma or the like, I am interrupted by the sun’s sudden indiscretions. It is hidden behind a crowd in the sky, a big white fluffy one, too. I’m staring straight at it. Staring so hard, I feel my feet begin to slip from my little curbed paradise, slight flecks of concrete beneath me, and tumble the few inches of terror that is into the floor below. I shuffle backwards into the wall as much as I can. I have been tricked by these CDs before; they cover the whole sky, making it all so peaceful and eloquent, perfect for smiles and laughter. Just then, like that, they whisper on by.

The shopkeeper, in all his glory, of man versus beast, has appeared. His lacklustre appearance is growing on me in times like these, as slicked hair, a stained shirt, and residue from product and the establishment, such as this fine establishment, had presented him as a man of a can-do attitude. He looks out at me across the street, over the cobblestones, and a small leap over the boy, and there I stand, still, in waiting. I look back at him across the crevices of the street and gently over the boy and right back into his own very eyes. And there we are, looking at each other; I wonder what it all means. Wondering why we both stand where we stand and not where we think the other should stand, and says we should do what’s best when it comes to the moment, where, seriously, time, but seriously this time, eye to eye. And we both, with guilt and shame and lies stuck in our teeth, smile at each other and stay precisely where we are. He goes back inside, and the rubber band of guilt overwhelms me. I swallow it up, but it gets lodged in the back of my throat. It’s too much to chew and too much to digest, so it just swells up from any moisture lying around, not doing what it should be.

As I had first thought, the cloud had gone; now whispers on through, then lingers on and retreats all in one smooth, calculated, most prevalent weather condition, the most monstrous default, the most sinister. And, not even the boy would notice such a thing, for there he still was, passing the day on by. Asleep through it all, through all of its happenings. There is a jealousy that I owe to those who skip it all, just let it be. Of course, the circumstances aren’t ideal, but when are they ever?

It had felt like a while since I had failed at trying, so why not try again, this time with hope?

BOY, ANSWER MY CALL I BEG OF YOU

ONE HINT OF YOU IS ALL

A SMILE

A NUDGE

A LINE OF SPEECH

TELL ME SOMETHING

TALK TO ME

My hands were now gripping the wall behind me with all the strength that I had not known existed; the same crumbling that happened to my foot had occurred again, of course, less of it. I’m just adding a fact to a fact.

FIN