A Tin of Tuna
by Luke Ambrose
Anyone who’s been hungover has discovered, or attempted to discover, a cure. Something to settle the nausea and soften the thud against your temples while you piece together the obscure fragments of the hours passed.
“I can’t believe she did that again.”
“And right in front of him.”
“Look, it wasn't totally my fault. I thought he’d gone home,” she said, coming into the kitchen last, her duvet wrapped around her and over her head like a Bedouin protecting against the sun. We’re all there in those foggy mornings, sipping or eating our way through our remedy of choice. I have friends who swear by energy drinks, flavored yogurts, whole rotisserie chickens, full English breakfasts, and one who swears by a glass of water. A plain tin of tuna does it for me. I’m not sure when I discovered it or what prompted me to try it. On the surface, it sounds like the worst option—smelly, slimy, neither hot nor cold—but it never let me down during the years of excess. Partying three times a week; drinking and smoking most nights; eating a confused diet of take out, frozen ready meals, and early morning kebabs. It’s been a while since I’ve had to overcome the likes of a university hangover, but there’s always a tin of tuna in my cupboard.
Whenever I tell anyone new about my rejuvenating elixir, they tend to cringe at the thought, and although I’ve tried, none of my friends have been convinced into trying it when it counts. I suppose once you’ve found your thing, you settle on it. Your stomach and your brain shake hands, sign the paperwork, and that’s that for the rest of your life. You stop listening to advice from then on, no matter how impassioned the advisor. After a while, you stop remembering who stands by what, as one tends to forget the names of their friends’ friends. You’ll recognize them as soon as they appear and you’ll put name and face together when prompted, but aside from that, they hold no space in your mind. Only the unusual ones stand out. The girl who passed out at your house party, or the guy who swung for you in among the strobe lights and damp dancers. They’re the outliers, the line-crossers who’ve left a footprint in your memory.
Now and then I get the chance to travel with those old friends. Not the outliers, but the ones who gathered in the kitchen the morning after. They’re the people who’ve not only left a footprint in my memory but who’ve been bold enough to claim their own piece of land there. They live quietly for the most part, not bothering my routine, but when I look for them, they’re there, leaning against the fence circling their plot, waiting to talk about the old days.
This weekend, I’m meeting them in a new city. One of those pretty cities in the middle of Europe, not much larger than a small town, but with everything a city needs squeezed amongst its narrow cobbled streets. The plane is half empty when the captain announces boarding is complete, so I move back a row to get three seats to myself. The take-off is smooth and my ears pop quickly with the help of chewing gum. By the time the flight attendant comes around, I’m thirsty, my mouth dried out by the altitude. “A water and a Coke, please,” I say, and dig in my bag to find my card, trying not to worry about the expense.
“Eleven euros, fifty cents.”
I wince at the total but tap my card anyway.
Long ago, my stomach and brain shook hands on another deal. When it comes to flying, little comforts always trump their relative expense. I down the water and sip the Coke, watching the carpet of fluffy clouds pass until I can no longer find a shape to name. Then, I stare down the aisle, watching the flight attendant and her pencil skirt finish her rounds. Once she has finished, I read the in-flight magazine for the rest of the journey. There’s always a piece of me that envies the writers who work on it. They’re probably the most-read writers in our world. Even people who have no books at home will pick it up and flick through the headlines to pass a few minutes, and for every one hundred flickers, there are probably one or two readers who get stuck into their article about the best hidden cafés in Istanbul.
I’m nervous in the Uber from the airport. The older I get, the more confused my nerves become, as if my hardware isn’t able to keep pace with my ever-evolving software. Although, maybe not—I know nothing about computers. They’re all there when I reach the hotel, drinking watered-down beer and Aperol at the poolside bar. One or two are already pink on the shoulders and nose. We’re the biggest group around, or so it seems as I look around the sunbeds and clustered tables. If we’re not the biggest, we’re the loudest. Being last has its benefits and I’m greeted with a cheer, twelve sticky hugs, and a shot of tequila.
“You took your time,” one of them says, slapping my back.
“I know. Blame air traffic control.”
“I’ll send a letter of complaint tomorrow. How’ve you been?”
“Not too bad. Better now,” I say, flirting with the truth but giving up on it in the end, as a trumpet player might give up with the school hottie after nailing his end-of-year solo.
I have another drink, this one weak enough to enjoy, and make my way around our improvised circle. Half of it is covered with shade, a thick layer of wisteria hanging above their heads. I spend longer with them, sparing only polite pleasantries with the exposed half. Heat has never been a friend of mine, and heat in a foreign country has the capacity to send me into a panic. Something to do with a bad bout of heatstroke when I was younger. That never used to be an issue, but each year I creep closer to thirty it feels emboldened, as if my climbing age heightens my sense of vulnerability. In the end, I position myself on the border between sun and shade, squeezed between two of my oldest friends. Old friends are good for a lot, but they’re particularly good at distraction—talking about world affairs, reliving the late nights in our final year, and teasing one another about signs of our age. I’m distracted when the waiter comes around with more shots and a tray of drinks to match. My distraction continues as I get into it with my old friends about moving home, exploring the pros and cons for the hundredth time. All the while, I can feel my heart keeping pace with the conversation. Distraction is one of those things that casts you in a spell, like lust and addiction—you’re oblivious to your reality until it’s too late. I know it’s too late when I feel that sour dryness on my forehead when I laugh, and I notice it when I go to the toilet for the first time and smile into the mirror. My face is red but it’s nothing a week of moisture won’t sort out. What worries me now is the dull dizziness behind my eyes and the pace of my heartbeat, racing through the alcohol as though it’s not there. One cell at a time, I feel as though I’m melting into the terracotta tiles all around me.
My room is a two-minute walk, on the third floor. Its air conditioning and double lock are too tempting to resist, so I stumble up the staircase, smiling at a couple as they pass heading in the opposite direction. I swipe my card on the door, then swipe it again because key cards never work on the first attempt. My bags are waiting for me by the wardrobe, tagged and labelled. Next to the coffee machine, there’s a welcome basket with sticky baklava and a big wedge of watermelon in plastic wrap. I unwrap the watermelon and take a bite, dribbling its juice on the tiled floor. My lips are tingling now, a sure sign I’m still just a passenger in this race car. I need another distraction, I think, reaching for the TV remote. All fifty channels crackle a little with the weak signal, but I settle on BBC World and listen to the presenter deliver the headlines, concentrating on the tone of her voice rather than the stories she’s telling. The bed is hard but comfortable and I lie on it, eyes closed, listening while I try to even my breaths. Above my head, the air conditioner hums steadily. My arms start crawling with goosebumps so I pull the covers hard, untuck them from the bed, and wrap them around my shoulders.
Outside, the sun is setting and music drifts into my room from the evening entertainment. On my bedside table, my phone buzzes with a flurry of messages. I wonder if they’re asking after me or have we passed that point of keeping tabs. A part of me wishes they’d all come up and start knocking on my door, the way they used to when I slept in after a night shift, but the rest of me hopes for the opposite. There’s only so much sympathy you can take as an almost-thirty-year-old before you feel pathetic. The music shifts from chart songs to a live band and there are colorful reflections dancing on my walls from the stage lighting. I have to battle with my head to keep jealousy from souring my thoughts, and for the most part I keep winning, batting away my self-loathing with a simple repetition of, “It’s not your fault.” But the longer my heart races, the more tired I feel, as if it’s not just my heart racing but my whole body. I ache all over and there’s a lump in my throat as I think about missing out. To have come all this way and miss out—that’s what has set me off, cold tired tears rolling out of the corner of my eyes.
Then there’s a knock on the door, a friendly voice checking up on me.
“Coming,” I call from my bed, gathering the energy to move. My legs are wobbly when I stand but make it to the door.
“You alright, bud?” he asks, in our shared accent. His smile is soft but not pathetic.
“Yeah. I just felt really sick. I don’t know why, but it just came out of nowhere,” I explain, perching back on the edge of the bed.
“I thought so. I brought you this, maybe it’ll help.” There’s a tin of tuna in his hands and he places it on the table next to the baklava and defiled watermelon. “Have you tried these yet?” he asks, holding up the baklava.
“No.”
“You’d love them.”
“I can’t believe you bought me a tin of tuna.” The lump in my throat is choking me, building the pressure behind my eyes. Another distraction, I suppose.
He unwraps the baklava and eats one from the top. “Of course, it’s your magical remedy.”
“It is.”
“I did try and get some bread, but they’d run out.”
“This is perfect,” I say, and I mean it, wiping the tears from my cheeks.
About the Author
Born and raised in Suffolk, England, Luke Ambrose moved to Haarlem in 2020. After studying and practicing journalism for five years, he turned to writing fiction, finding it the perfect art form which allows him to tell the stories he wants. He’s currently working as an independent writer and his short story collection, titled Love, Loss, & The View From My Window In Transit, will be available soon. You can follow him on Instagram – @lukeambroseauthor, subscribe to his newsletter at lukeambrose.substack.com.
