| "Then sings my soul..." |
[Jul. 15th, 2008|12:10 am] |
It struck me, at a quarter past one Saturday afternoon, that a church is no place to be when viciously hung over. Despite my friend getting married beneath the balcony on which I sat, the situation seemed demonic, if only for my illness. I held a monster behind my eyes. I sat there, sweating out the drink and searching around for good looking women. These are all Christians, I thought, and devout Christians at that – too loyal to their faith to fuck this evening. Not that they would have fucked me anyway; my skin had flared up from the night before.
The hymns were spine-chilling, though. They carried through the building, rushing against the plaster and the woodwork and into my ears like a shoal of fish. Ignore the words. Let the melody and the passion behind them deafen you so romantically.
Everyone mingled outside. Joe Bird, a former classmate from university, walked over. “Alright lads.” My friends all hated him yet shook his hand. Such formalities didn’t bother me so I turned and ignored him, lighting a cigarette. In the church hall, I could hardly stand the hangover. I ate cakes and drank juice. There were woman looking immaculate and intact. I eyed up their calves and their shoulder blades. Me and my atheist friends lingered in the corner while people trod on the bride’s dress.
The reception was down the road in an old corset factory. The bride’s father, a dull fellow and a preacher with a wonky toupee, informed me that the old company held balls in the room where we were having our meal this evening. “Imagine that!” I said, “A ball in a factory where they make corsets. I bet the women were good.” I don’t think he appreciated my comment. He had also worked in the building services industry and said a few words to me. I couldn’t hear him though and wasn’t interested enough to beg his pardon. My friends sat round a table in the foyer while photos were taken. “Fuck this, I’m going outside. You lot look like you’re at a wake.” And I went outside with a Pimm’s I had stolen – “One per person!” the waitress had said. I watched the photos being taken, feeling uncomfortable that anyone might think I was trying to worm my way in. The bride called out my name. I hardly knew her but felt flattered anyway. “Hello, Rhys! How are you?” “Fine thank you.” What do you say to someone so in love and unknowingly soaking you in envy?
We sat down at our table, in front of our name-tags and awaited a drink. “Christ, I need a drink.” “Me too.” Rowan pulled out his hip-flask. That bastard drinks too much. Our table filled up with other guests. A couple sat down opposite me. The girl looked just like Hannah. She was a spitting image of Hannah. It was Hannah sitting in front of me. My heart ached a little. When she smiled she was Hannah, and she smiled a lot. It became too much for me and I excused myself to think things over outside.
The speeches were made. As me and Rowan watched, a little girl of about four ran over to us and began blowing bubbles from some little bottle. The bubbles went all over us. I got angry. Rowan got angry. Simon found it hilarious. This girl would not stop blowing bubbles at us. Ignore her and she’ll go away. “I’d love to glass this kid,” I said to Rowan and he laughed. Eventually she gave up.
Dave’s speech was littered with his own peculiar sense of humour that my friends and I got so well. I was in tears, perhaps because of my delicate state but also, I sense, because I was truly happy for him.
The tables were moved aside to clear space for a ceilidh. The bar was finally opened. Everybody began dancing. I stood with my beer, watching, and feeling myself slip into a mood distraught with jealousy. The people were so happy and none of them drank. It frustrated me. They laughed like it was all they knew to do and they danced the jigs. Barely one of them went to the bar. Are these people so in love with God that he rains happiness down upon them in vast amounts?
The little girl came over to us again. It scowled at her. “What table is this?” she asked.
“The loser table.” said Rowan and away she dashed. I roared with laughter.
All the young people were in a couple. I stood there; I saw them with my own eyes. They all had a partner. Their arms were wrapped around each other. The girl who looked like Hannah sat with her boyfriend, smiling, and, O, I ached! I was in a purgatory inflicted by couples holding hands.
Joe Bird was leaving. “See you later, lads.” My friends muttered goodbye. Full of vitriol and coarse anger, I shouted out sarcastically to him: “See you soon.” My friends looked at me and spluttered. “Rhys Miller, you are poisonous,” remarked Simon.
Aware that the room was full of abiding Christians and desperate for a woman, I fell pointlessly attracted to the sweet-looking barmaid. Perhaps I conversed with her to guarantee a drink once the bar had closed but she refused me nonetheless when the time arrived. I tossed her a resigned “goodnight” and went downstairs to leave.
Everyone was seeing the bride and groom off in the car park. I stood in the crowd, in a cloud of my own smoke. “This is just great. Dave’s going off to get laid and the five of us are going back to some third-rate motel on top of a pub.” People turned around and stared. Rowan punched me. “Shut up, will you?” “Christ, man, leave me alone! I’m in a bad place. All these happy people are depressing the hell out of me. Let’s get out of here.” Maybe Rowan was right and I needed to sort myself out. Ah, let them identify with social graces. Bollocks to all of that. If they can make it so obvious that they are happy off God, I can make it obvious I am sad off life. The car purred through darkened country lanes and I stared at the oncoming headlights through a gap in the window through which my smoke and ash flew to the world outside.
When I got back to the motel, I requested my pen. It is a time to write. However I couldn’t find the pen and could not write. Heartbroken, I poured myself a red wine and lay down on the bed. Drifting into sleep, I felt Rowan take the glass from my hand, saying, “You’re going to spill this.” |
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