Sarb had the key. I knew it. Sarb knew it. Even Tom knew it. The skag walking past with his rottweiler knew it. Zaki had left to go and do fun stuff by this time. But he would have known it too.
Tom: ‘Where’s my key?’
Sarb: ‘I dunno.’
Tom: ‘Where’s my key, Sarb?’
Sarb: ‘I dunno, man.’
Tom: ‘Seriously. Where’s my key, Sarb?’
We’re sat in the car. Outside rehearsal rooms or on a road close by. That detail is not important. Tom is in the front seat. Sarb is in the back. Tom is scouring around looking for, sorry hunting for his flat key.
I didn’t help. I commentated.
‘Look at your face, you’re bottom lip is going! You know Sarb has got it, but still you are so wound up. This is hilarious.’
It was hilarious. I cackled. Its not helpful. But that’s just how I laugh.
Tom: ‘Where’s my key?’
Sarb: ‘I dunno.’
Tom: ‘Where’s my key, Sarb?’
Sarb: ‘I dunno, man.’
Tom: ‘Seriously. Where’s my key, Sarb?’
There was a 2% chance Sarb didn’t have that key. But he was smiling. He had it. The doubt killed Tom. his bottom lip quivering. In overdrive.
30 mins later, Sarb brandished the key. We drove back and relived the moment again. Each one of us. With a different perspective. Each bringing their own detail. Appreciating I think that the story had become an important detail. Cos we like stories.
I don’t think I realised it at the time but we were family to Tom. He spent all of his time with us. His family were back in Jersey and he was able to dedicate all hours to us because we fucking needed him to, but also he needed to fill a void and we fit nicely.
