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DERELICT MANCHILD

T he Next Day

We walk over to Timmy's truck, which is parked on the bustling street that lines Sandspit Passage, a busy canal that cuts right through the heart of the resort strip. He grabs his giant coconut hat from the back, plopping it on his head with a grin as he spins around to face me.

“Film me!” he demands, standing outside beside the truck as cars whiz by, his voice charged with sudden excitement.

I have no idea what he’s up to this time, and with Timmy, guessing is futile. But I comply, pulling out my phone, holding it steady as I hit the record button. And then, right on the sidewalk, as cars rush by, he yanks his board shorts down, revealing stripy underwear as he shakes his hips, grinning like a kid getting away with a prank. A few pedestrians glance over, looking both amused and bewildered, and a couple of drivers honk their car horns as they go by.

“Oh my god, Timmy! You’re ridiculous.” I say through my laughter, shaking my head as he wiggles his butt, the oversized coconut hat flopping with every exaggerated shake.

He straightens up and snaps a few pictures of me sitting in the truck with my feet up on the dash. That’s when I notice a big bruise forming on the underside of my thigh, a slightly painful but undeniable souvenir of the night before. It’s weirdly hot, if I’m honest. Timmy’s uninhibited personality carries over into the bedroom in the best possible way.

Back at home a little later, he makes me ramen. The aroma is incredible—the rich umami scent filling the room as I take long, soothing sips. He’s gone all out, adding lots of extras like fish balls with the squiggly pink patterns that remind me of the movie Saw, as well as fresh cilantro and a ton of garlic, which he knows I love. I can’t help but feel charmed by all the little touches.

We settle on the bed after eating, laughing at some silly movie, and out of nowhere, Timmy turns to me with a strange kind of pride in his eyes. “I am a manchild!” he announces, beaming.

“Huh?” I quirk a brow at him.

“Yep! I am!” He’s grinning like he’s just won an award.

“I heard what you said, but that’s not… a good thing? Are you trying to say you’re young at heart or something? Because that’s not what that means.”

“Yeah, something like that,” he says, with the tiniest hint of doubt.

A moment later, he continues. “I am also a derelict !” He says it with gusto, as if being a derelict is something to aspire to.

“Um… that’s a weird thing to announce.” I squint at him, my head tilting like he’s some rare species at the zoo. “Pretty sure that’s not a compliment. You know what derelict actually means, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure I do,” he explains, as if he holds a little-known secret. “People take it as a negative word, but it means someone who rejects society’s norms. Like, the ultimate free spirit. Not tied down.”

“I don’t think that’s what it means.”

“Yeah it does.” He’s not budging, but I know he’s wrong, and his insistence on his own personal meaning is bugging me.

“Um—okay, let’s google this.” I pull it up on my phone. “Here you go: derelict. In a very poor condition as a result of disuse and neglect. As in, the cities were derelict and dying. Dilapidated, ramshackle, rundown, broken down, worn-out. A person without a home, job, or property. Tramp, vagrant, vagabond, down and out, drifter ?—.”

“Okay, okay. I get the fucking point, Margaux,” he snaps, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to keep going. You think you’re so smart quoting the dictionary at me.”

“I just don’t know why you’re putting positive spins on words that mean neglected, broken down, or without a purpose?”

“It’s like a counterculture thing,” he shrugs. “Going against the masses. Everyone’s working in offices, hating their lives. I get a job here and there, just enough to live. I hang out outside, enjoy life, no rules. That’s real freedom.”

And, oddly, there is a bit of truth to what he’s saying. After all, I did just leave the corporate world to pursue my dream of becoming a writer. But I put in years of hard work to get to this point. I saved, I budgeted, I planned. With Timmy, it’s like he just falls into whatever comes along—helping this person move, detailing that person’s car. There’s no strategy, no end goal. Just existing, barely getting by.

“Went to the nude beach with two of my female friends,” he says casually, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin, conversation changing course entirely. “The wind gave me a partial boner. So everyone saw my massive dick .”

“Um, gross, Timmy. TMI. That’s not something I need to know. Why would you tell me that?” The man is full of stories, and I’m not quite sure why he picked this one to share with his partner. But I’m starting to question more than a few things coming out of his mouth.

He shrugs. “It’s just a funny story!”

“That you have your dick out around your female friends? No. I don’t want to hear about your nude beach boner that you have out around other women.”

He scoffs. “You need to lighten up. It’s not a big deal.”

I sigh.

He shifts gears almost immediately, pulling a face and adopting a high-pitched sing-song voice. “I kill you!” He says, eyes widening maniacally as he leans in closer. “I kill you!”

Damn. Timmy is on a real roll today. I’m not sure if he’s trying to test me, or if he really just doesn’t have a filter. A lot of what he says is funny and has me crying with laughter, but today nearly everything he’s saying is pushing my buttons in a bad way.

I blink at him, more shocked than amused. “Timmy, that’s a really fucking weird thing to yell. I don’t think you should go around saying that.”

“Oh, chill out! It’s just a joke.” He shrugs. “You’re right, though. I probably shouldn’t. I did get arrested for saying it at the beach one time. Made a ‘terroristic threat’, they called it. Cops were just mad because someone didn’t get my sense of humor.”

“You were arrested for making a terroristic threat?” I ask, a little unnerved now. “For saying that?”

“Yeah, they said I was legit threatening to kill people.” He laughs, not noticing my lack of amusement.

“Were you?”

“No! Of course not. It was just a joke,” he laughs again. “Everyone needs to lighten up.”

I sigh, feeling exhausted by the seemingly endless train of questionable anecdotes and misguided brags. “Timmy, I’m serious. Just stop saying it. It’s only a matter of time before someone else takes it seriously, and then what? It’s not worth it.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. Then he grins. “I kill you—kidding, kidding!” he laughs. "I’ll stop saying it. But y’all need to chill out.”

Maybe it’s my inner optimist, but I can’t help but hope he’ll grow out of this weird phase of say-anything, no-filter mentality. But every story, every bizarre moment, has me questioning a little more.