Author Matthew Heneghan

The more I look back on life, the more convinced I am that time isn’t real — at least not in the way we’ve been sold.

I know. Dramatic.

But before you roll your eyes and scroll away, hear me out: most of us treat time like some straight-laced accountant with a stopwatch — ticking forward, never back, no matter how hard we beg for a pause or a rewind.

But I don’t think that’s how it works. Not really.

Now, I’m no DeGrasse Tyson. I’m not Hawking — may he rest among the stars — but I am a guy on a timeline. And maybe that earns me the right to be deluded about this sort of thing.

This Wednesday, I’m donning one of my finer button-ups — my best attempt at mimicking handsome while fully aware of my limitations. I’m getting all dolled up for a night on the town with my guy, my pal, my brother conceived from another mother — Drew. Ride or die, buddy.

It’s his birthday. Forty-two. He’s officially joined the ranks of those of us marching steadily toward that greying line in the middle of the field.

Two middle-aged men off on another adventure together. By adventure, of course I mean two medium rare steaks cooked perfectly to our liking in some overpriced spot that we’ve convinced ourselves that we love. Our wallets… not so much.

See, we have definitely had adventures, Drew and I. As of this Wednesday, I’ll have known this sparkling gem of a human being for thirty solid years. Thirty!

That’s wild. Surreal, if you want to sound all literary.

But when I look at that number — 30 — it begins to seem more and more transparent. I think back to those neon soaked small town nights where he and I traipsed around with big ideas and twenty bucks between us. Usually his dime.

It didn’t matter where we were going, as long as we were doing it together.

A stop by the fabled wharf; a collection of wooden planks that wander halfway onto Shuswap lake, gifting those that walked to the end a spectacular panoramic view of surrounding towns and rolling pines.

A jaunt to the Little Store (yes, that was the shop’s name) to grab fist-fulls of ten-cent candies!

Or perhaps a cautious little walk by the Live Wire — the town’s only nightclub. At twelve, there was no way we were sneaking in, but sometimes, on those warm summer nights, we’d catch a glimpse of the ladies in line, waiting to get in. Form fitting satin hugging all the right places causing our jaws to slack and our minds to race with thoughts about things we had no idea of.

How about Blockbuster? That last vestige of our time. A giant yellow and blue illuminated movie stub standing triumphant at the top of a pole, beckoning all would be movie goers every Friday night.

Inside; bathed in that warm yellow light that only seemed to exist in the 90’s. The smells of recent popcorn, stale butter, stacked plastic — this place was a shrine to an era destined to remain ours.

This is what I mean when I say time is not real. I am a man in his forties, but when I think back to those nights spent leafing through VHS stacks looking for that perfect weekend sleepover movie, I am twelve all over again. From the centre of my chest outward, juvenile, zealous, dumb.

That is, of course, until I attempt to stand from the couch — then my knees remind me how far into my forties I really am.

Like cereal that needs a knee brace — snap, crackle, pop!

Come Wednesday, none of those aches and pains are going to matter. Time is going to take a backseat, zip it’s little mouth and enjoy the ride. Because, Drew and I are once again on the town.

There’s no Blockbuster, no Little Store, and nightclubs don’t quite hold the same allure as they once did. But there is a pause on time. A neat little fold, like a piece of paper with a perfect moment written down.

Just me, and my buddy. My brother.

Happy birthday… old man.