Hey! Is that... Charlie?

I’m coming out of the men’s bathroom in the shopping mall when I run right into my old friend.

Both of our faces register the shock… and then the delight as we simultaneously yell out “No way!”

It’s my old colleague Charles!

Gosh! We haven’t seen each other in years.

We step towards each other with huge smiles and grab each other in a big friendly hug…

But then disaster strikes.

“Char… maaaaate! How are you!”

I may have first met him at Charles Darwin University… but my brain has just registered that his name isn’t Charles at all.

This is the pits - I’m usually good with names!

We’re on Australia’s Gold Coast for our industry’s first in-person conference in 3 years because of the Covid pandemic.

“Mate, it’s so good to see you” I say, ‘’I haven’t seen you in years! How are things?”

I’m pedalling for time, hoping my mental spark plugs might miraculously fire.

At least I’ve caught myself halfway through calling him “Charlie” and crawled under the perfect Australian cover of calling everyone “mate”.

“Charlie” is smiling broadly as we banter a little, but I feel certain that he’s seen through my chummy “mate” guise.

I mentally curse that I’ve run into him outside the conference. At least inside I might have had a fighting chance of sneaking a discrete look at his name tag to save the embarrassment.

Yet as if on cue, ten seconds after we turn and leave, Charles’ real name comes back to me.

It’s Brant.

Dammit.

I want to turn and chase him down the street just to prove I didn’t really forget his name.

So I do the next best thing.

I send him a message saying “Great to run into you Brant! Want to grab dinner tonight?”

Later, over curry, Brant and I catch up on the past few years of covid-induced stories.

I come clean about having forgotten his name earlier.

“I didn’t notice that.” He laughs,

“So maybe it really was a Charlie. You know, like some sort of alter ego that’s forgetful and full of worries that sometimes shows up, but isn’t welcome to hang around!”

We laugh and marvel about how sometimes the universe conspires to create extraordinary moments.

“Rob” Brant tells me, “I’ve loved reading your stories while you’ve been away. Maybe this will make a good story one day?”

Then he pauses, seeing my happy reaction.

“Hey, I can see that writing really lights you up. Why is that?”

But even though I reflect on it, I’m not sure why the compliment has landed so well.

The next evening, I’m sitting in my hotel room reflecting on a glorious day of conference catch ups – old friends, heartfelt stories and warmth.

Several people have told me they’ve enjoyed my adventure stories from the past 702 days of travelling the world.

And it’s starting to bug me: why does it bring me so much satisfaction when people enjoy my writing?

I stare out the window, going back through old memories trying to work it out.

Squalls of rain are coming in over the ocean.

The waves are crashing down on the beach far below.

The rain runs down the windowpane…

But then, like a huge gust of wind, a memory crashes into me.

I’m ten years old.

There’s a girl up the street that I’ve kinda fallen “in love” with.

But I’m one of three brothers… I’ve got no idea about girls and am way too timid to try talking to her.

Then I have a brilliant idea.

I’ll write her a love letter!

It’ll be the perfect way to express my ten-year-old feelings without having to actually face them!

I sneak up to her letterbox in the fading afternoon light, and pop in my envelope.

“Do you like, love or hate me?” I’ve written, after professing my undying love.

Then I creep home and hide in my bedroom for the rest of the night.

The following morning I arrive at school…

… and walk straight into utter humiliation.

Charlotte has shared the letter with everyone and the result is brutal.

All the kids, even the ones I don’t know, mock and tease.

And even now, thirty years distant, sitting on a couch in a hotel room, I can feel the smarting shame.

But that’s when the truth becomes obvious.

Why do I love to write? Why am I unafraid to share?

Because nothing I write could hurt me more than that first letter I wrote.

Because every time I publish something, I’m defiantly saying to the world “You see? Fuck you… when I’m authentic, you can’t hurt me!”

And every time someone says to me “Hey, I’ve followed your adventures – I really like the way you write”, they put a Pokemon bandaid plaster on the heart of the 10 year old kid in me.

The waves roar in the distance and it’s then that I realise that everyone forgets names and messes things up.

But you know what?

The universe doesn’t care.

In fact, nobody really cares because they’ve got their own shit going on.

Their own headaches and heartaches and childhood traumas to deal with.

So what does it really matter if you’ve forgotten someone’s name for a minute?

Chances are they’ve forgotten yours too.

My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Brant.

“On the topic of signs from the universe – I found this name badge on a picnic table outside the surf club after my swim just now…”

It’s a photo of a name badge.

And right in the middle it reads.

“Charlie”

And there’s not an alter ego in sight.