Nine Doors Down

The entire country was euphoric that summer. Emblazoned with rainbow scarves and wrinkly grins, there wasn’t a granny in the parish not proudly (smugly) donning a Tá badge on their St. Bernard carrier bag or evening-stroll windbreaker: 

“Sure didn’t I twig Donnacha was a gay ever since aged nine he strode down the stair in my silk nightdress like the Queen o’ Sheeba?”

“Well if you saw the stripey head on Paul from Nuala’s lipstick! He was especially taken by the lum’nus orange one, the way the dog gets when he’s the head stuck in the fireplace. Never let the yoke out his hand!”

“Late bloomer to be at that craic. Moira from over McGee’s way tells me Diarmuid was in her strapless heels before he could crawl!”

The competition to secure the title of ‘quarest’ grandson spread nationwide.

*

Despite the country voting overwhelingly in favour of same sex marraige, Liddy’s was not the most progressive of establishments in the rural Irish realm. It had a thatched roof and sat at the end of a skinny road surrounded by fields and farms and other identical country roads. Its sole purpose was to cater to the smattering of locals still living within walking distance. At one point it had been the busiest pub in East Galway on a Friday night, back when children could stay sitting at the bar past eleven o’clock, drinking 7UP and eating packet after packet of Taytos, and folks could still hop in their cars after a few pints and make their own way home to bed. Things were different now though. People weren’t as reckless as they once were.

The pair were making somewhat of a political statement hosting their wedding-afters at Liddy’s. The pub was lively like a screaming newborn for the first time in years and the newlyweds extended invites to all the locals to appear hospitable, some of whom turned up out of sheer snoopiness. The parish bar flys observed from the fringes of the celebrations, blank stares in the direction of the grooms and their families, their curiosity overriding the disgust they felt but couldn’t fathom.

Two of the guests, Bríd and Derek, had been on their feet all day: drinking, dancing, shite-talking; skitting-laughing, sighing, pissing; adjusting straps, loosening belts, thinking non-thoughts. They were beginning to wane. 

“Same again?” 

Derek roared across the throng of mostly strangers to Bríd and her parents. He was from the other side of the county, closer to the city centre.

They were stood by the farthest wall near the loos. Tomás, Bríd’s Father, was staring at a tattered painting hanging on the wall depicting a young woman bending low in a dark bog. She had an armful of turf cradled against her white petticoat and a stack of turf at her feet. She was gazing upward at a starless sky, her bowed body twisted at an awkward angle. In his drunken state, Tomás thought the girl a comforting vision. He wondered why she was collecting turf at this late hour. He concluded that she hadn’t aspired to be the wife of a peat cutter, rather fancying herself as something more glamorous, a young artist’s muse perhaps, but wasn’t gifted enough to be a painter herself, God bless her. Coming out the other side of his daydream, he smiled behind weary eyes. He drained the remainder of his Guinness and made his way to the urinal, ignoring Derek’s question.

Derek was not a tall man. He had superb posture, straight-backed and steady-footed, from years of dance classes that gave him the illusion of stature. He hadn’t always been the workaholic actuary he was now, rarely taking the holidays his boss frequently badgered him to make use of. Tomás greatly admired this trait of Derek’s, but would never say it aloud to him.

The high arches of Derek’s feet had begun to ache. He rested one arm on the sticky bar counter, shifting weight from one foot to the other: lifting an ankle, moving it in little circles, up and down, round and round, in and out, lowering down, pressing the bones of his feet into the floor, repeating on the other side. He scanned the pub for a vacant stool, then reconsidered for fear Tomás would spot him. Bríd’s Dad had been known to chide Derek for his lack of grit on the odd nights they drank together. Derek was intimidated by his stout, silent almost-Father-in-law, though he’d never given him any indication of this.

The two most important men in Bríd’s life scarcely spoke directly or openly with one another, opting instead to bond over horse racing tips and hurling matches. This was enough for both men. Neither wished to delve any deeper into the other’s psyche simply because they both believed that a man doesn’t need to know the ins and outs of another man’s mind.

When he and Bríd started dating six years ago, Derek was a penniless postgraduate, devoid of the careerist bloodlust society wished upon him. He had been mostly concerned with playing 80s video games and watching porn in the afternoons, and cooking colourful vegetarian dishes in his damp flat in the evenings. His love of cooking is what caught Bríd’s attention long enough for him to memorise the various shades of Connaught sky around her pupils. Bríd was a rotten cook, content to live off potatoes prepared every which way, always guaranteed to taste of the burnt metal pan she’d butchered them in. 

Derek hadn’t cooked for the almost-in-laws yet, though he’d once peeled a bag of Roosters and boiled the saucepan of water for them in the presence of Bríd’s Mother. He’d sheepishly joined Tomás in front of the TV when she’d shooed him out, declaring that the kitchen is ‘no place for a straight arrow’.

Derek attempted to make conversation with the paternal figure slouched in the shabby armchair, clutching the remote to his belly with both hands like a kitten.

“Galway playing anytime soon?”

“No,” Tomás said, “they’re not, no.”

It was always there, ebbing and flowing beneath his most carefully constructed layer of skin like tinnitus, never completely subsiding to grant him respite from the hum of cluttered, crowded, blackened thoughts that lived permanently inside his brain. Though Bríd and Derek both knew Matthew, the more extroverted of the two grooms, Derek had never told his girlfriend that he knew him too.

Matthew and Bríd had been in the same class in primary school. They were Irish dancing partners for a brief time before Bríd realised, like cooking, choreographed movement was not her forte. Bríd’s strengths lay in her innate ability to manage people thoughtfully and empathetically. She could have gone into politics and made a wonderful party leader but instead chose to go down the hospitality route. She was a good listener, complimenting people often and effortlessly, and had a calm head in a crisis. Guests warmed to her in a way most managers weren’t familiar with. She had been studious at university and was now managing one of the only five star hotels in the country. Tonight was a rare night to let loose and she was taking full advantage of her time off. Years ago, Matthew had shown her up in front of friends and family, lifting his lithe legs higher than any other child on stage, making it glaringly apparent that he was the more impressive performer of the pair. The two friends grew distant after primary school. Their secondary schools were miles away from each other and their developing teenage interests were worlds apart. Nonetheless, Bríd was ecstatic to be invited to Matthew’s wedding and found Derek’s lack of enthusiasm frustrating. Bríd told the Irish dancing anecdote to Derek in the kitchen once with an air of nostalgia for silly childhood insecurities. Derek forced a convincing chuckle out of his throat, but didn’t meet her eye.

He couldn’t dispute it: Matthew was the more impressive performer of the two. He didn’t respond with his own anecdote. Instead, he stirred his sizzling pak choi, the steamy kitchen quiet except for the sound of vegetable skin charring in a hot pan. 

Derek’s anecdote was unsuitable for almost-in-laws and almost-fiancés. It was a crude story, lacking in showmanship and rushed in pace. It occurred almost ten years before Matthew’s wedding. Derek had never told anyone about it before and had almost convinced himself that he had made it up, or that it had been a stupid dream he’d had when he was hammered.

Matthew and Derek had both been involved in the same college production of Rent. Matthew was the assistant choreographer who was forced to take the reins after the lead choreographer’s family labrador died and she headed home to Carlow to comfort her distraught Mother halfway through rehearsals. Derek was a reluctant chorus member, getting involved only because his elder Commerce student cousin advised him that being a straight lad who did musicals was like being a unicorn and ‘guaranteed you a daycent ride with an artsy feek’. They somehow managed to not cross paths during the rehearsal and show periods. Derek made friends with a select few of the other chorus members who also felt like they didn’t qualify to be in the college musical theatre gang. Their personalities were too lowkey and run of the mill; not creatively passionate, charismatic or opinionated enough. Matthew had all of these traits in abundance.

Derek’s anecdote occurred at Matthew’s flat following the production’s wrap party. He went along with the hope of finally getting drunk enough to appear relatively interesting to the handful of pretty girls in the cast. There was nothing exceptionally memorable about the evening, except that the two young men were wearing the same soft cotton sky blue t-shirt. It was this mundane commonality that brought them into each other’s orbit.

“Stop trying to make sky blue happen, it’s never going to happen.”

Matthew didn’t do subtle, nor was it like him to pass on a gut instinct. He approached Derek with no qualms about what his intentions were. It was late and they were alone and high and full of post-show adrenaline. He’d always had a theory about the quiet, grave chorus member who struggled to speak to girls but moved like Fred Astaire. Everyone told him he was way off the mark.

“I don't know what you mean? I think sky blue is timeless.”

Derek was someone else now, someone he was meeting for the first time. He was bold and suave and liked playing this new role. He stepped into Matthew’s body heat and kissed him with his fists clenched by his sides. Matthew wasn’t surprised at Derek’s response, but he was pleased that he’d been right about him and everyone else had been wrong.

Derek’s anecdote occured in pitch black atop Matthew’s oak desk the night of the wrap party. It was a feral, wordless encounter. His skin felt like his skin for the first time. His mind, clouded by tequila and beer and half a yoke, had never felt clearer, like he’d deciphered a puzzle he’d been mulling over for years. The sensation of unbridled ecstasy would linger in his system for days, his stomach flipping every time an image of hot breath and pinned limbs flashed behind his eyes. Derek awoke a little before midday the following morning. Shaky and hazy-brained, he left Matthew’s bedroom in a silent panic, pulling on the wrong t-shirt in his hurry to disappear. Derek never spoke to Matthew again. He grew to accept the lead weight cloud that permeated his mind that night, distorting every thought and decision he’d ever had or made since. This became Derek’s normality.

Derek weaved in between cackling aunties and dishevelled uncles carrying three pints of black expertly held in a triangle between his widespread fingers. He was still a graceful creature, despite the alcohol that filled his taut belly and thinning blood. A pair of sky blue eyes charted his descent back into the bustling crowd, admiring his preserved elegance and impressive balancing act. The mouth beneath these eyes smiled at the thought of mixed up t-shirts. Mixed up was the word for it, Matthew thought, mixed up and fucked up could sum up about every intimacy between two people on this repressed island. He leaned in and planted a series of quick kisses on the neck of his new husband, to the whooping delight of his tipsy grandmother.

“Tomás still here?” Derek asked, looking around at the gaggle of older women who’d appeared beside them. 

“Headed on I think. I’m as far gone now and not far behind,” said Bríd's Mother, Anne.

He hadn’t said goodbye. After so many years, Derek was still adjusting to the gruffness of his almost-in-laws. At times he wished for warmer receptions at home and more communication from Bríd in general, but he knew that it was simply the way she was wired. He’d see the old man in the morning anyway. Maybe they’d get an offer of a lift back into the city. Anne was unsteady, leaning on the moribund neighbour to her right. 

“Have you the number for Joe’s there, Maureen? I’m fit for bed.”

“What do you be wanting a taxi for, Anne? Sure you’re only up the road.”

Anne shook her head at her neighbour. 

“There’s a space in the taxi here lads, who’s away?” barked one of the aunties from the door. Anne gave a brusque wave to her daughter before disappearing.

Three years after the wrap party, Derek met Bríd in a Dublin nightclub. He forgot about his fleeting interest in musical theatre and wooden desks. He swore to never speak of Matthew to Bríd but when the wedding invitation arrived like a hex spat through the letterbox, Bríd was relentless.

“Der, we have to go, we’ll be a part of Irish history! We’ll remember it forever and it’ll be a great story for the kids, they’ll think we’re so cool! And I haven’t gone out in fucking ages so I’m going whether you join me or not.”

So Derek polished his shoes and conditioned his hair and wore the pinewood cologne Bríd bought him last Christmas, because that’s what decent boyfriends do. Derek didn’t make plans to watch the hurling with the lads from work the day after the wedding. In his head, he planned what they’d do the day after. Hanging like bats, he and Bríd would trek back into the city early, shed their stale attire in the hallway, discarding them on the pile of runners and boots and flip-flops that had accumulated over the years, and drag their weary bodies into bed. They would remain there until sunrise the following morning. Bríd would nap intermittently between bouts of lazy sex. Derek would make sharing plates of pita bread and olives and tzatziki, carrying them upstairs to offer his sleeping Venus who had little interest in Greek cuisine. Derek wouldn’t let the glass of water beside Bríd dry up. He’d observe when she was too cold or too hot and adjust the window accordingly. He wouldn’t forget to brush his teeth before kissing her, not minding when she wasn’t as thoughtful as he that early in the morning. Derek wouldn’t snore, though he’d had the guts of fifteen pints the night before. He wouldn’t shit in their en suite in case the sound or smell disturbed her. When she was sleeping deeply, Derek wouldn’t think non-thoughts of three, maybe four or five or ten Adonises fucking each other into oblivion and he definitely would not Google Incognito anything like that. Instead, he would kiss his waking Venus on the hip in the dark and put a wash on before she woke. He wouldn’t let the feeling of being at home in his own skin flicker across his eyelids, not even for a millisecond, because this is what decent boyfriends do, and Derek prided himself on his ability to commit to any role.

The lights of Liddy’s flickered to announce last orders. The newlyweds didn’t want the party running into the next day so had asked the bar to shut it down before the sun came up. The aunties were laughing like school girls and the dishevelled uncles were losing their grip on formal ties and suit jackets, throwing their bodies up and down, round and round, in and out, to the Irish pop-rock song playing:  

“Don't look out before you, you know it's a long way down, 

I'll make it safer for you, your parachute won't let you down, 

Take your parachute and go, and maybe come back tomorrow, 

Take your parachute and go, stop you ever getting sorrow.”

Bríd had been defeated by her sore feet and many pints. Her strapless heels hung limply in Derek’s hand. She swayed back and forth, her head resting on his shoulder. Derek was sleepy too, but it was up to him to get the pair home. They said their goodbyes and ducked out into the pub’s car park. It was teeming with empty cars. A navy blue Honda Civic glared its dim headlights toward the door. 

“There’ll be lovely dead batteries there for some bleary-eyed eejit in the morning,” Derek joked aloud. 

Bríd was unresponsive, already plonked down on the wooden bench beside the door. Derek joined her, tiredness overwhelming him too. He closed his eyes for a second and contemplated sleeping right where they were. Everything suddenly went black. The car batteries had died.

“Stuck for a lift?”

Derek’s fading thoughts were penetrated by a familiar voice, the warmth of sky blue eyes seeping down into a melodic West coast accent. 

“No, we’re grand. Just waiting.”

Derek thought his voice came out hoarse and awkward. Matthew thought he sounded impertinent, but persevered with his civil niceties anyway, because that’s what good husbands do, and Matthew prided himself on his ability to inhabit any role. 

“We’re getting a lift with Simon behind the bar in a few. We’ll be passing Bríd’s parents. There’s space in the car for two more?”

Derek drank Matthew in. He noted how content and calm he was. He’d never pretended to be anything other than who he was and he’d dealt with the shit-bubble that accompanied living truthfully in a world that rejected him. His world had finally moulded to accept who he was, celebrating it even, and here was Derek, years later, still squeezing and contorting to fit the space he simply didn’t correspond to, always pretending it was fine and grand, settling for these unimpressive words his entire life. Bríd’s head was resting on his lap. He placed his palm over her upturned ear: to comfort or constrain, he wasn’t sure.

A wall of anger rose up from Derek’s stomach like a tsunami, but he couldn’t find the words to release it. Instead, he said:

“We’re grand here, thanks.”

The words that should’ve followed hung invisible in the darkness between them. What came out instead happened a few seconds too late, delivered without an ounce of warmth:

“And congrats to ye both. We had a great night.”

Derek broke eye contact. He looked out into the black abyss to Matthew’s left and thought that he must look cross-eyed because he wasn’t focused on anything in particular. He didn’t move off the bench, alcohol-induced tenacity and pride not allowing him to be the one to leave first.

Matthew looked at him for a few moments longer like he was studying a miserable wild animal behind a glass window in a zoo. It wasn’t that he was surprised by Derek’s callous tone, but more that he hadn’t realised how fresh the wound of hiding still was for him. He wanted to embrace Derek in the capacity of old friends, then give him a long, violent shake. But a man wired the way Derek was cannot be helped, so instead of shaking or embracing him, he uttered a single word that would provide the only closure a man like Derek deserved: 

“Grand.”

Matthew dropped what he was holding in his hand onto the tarmac. It was too dark to see anything but a small crumpled piece of fabric. He knew Derek would be coming as Bríd’s plus one and he thought they might be able to have a laugh about the t-shirts. Matthew took it on the chin when he woke to find that Derek had ducked out without saying goodbye the morning after the wrap party. He figured he was working through some stuff and respected his wanting space, then life happened and he forgot all about Derek until moving day when he’d found the t-shirt stuffed in the back of a drawer. He thought it’d be gas to take it with him to the wedding and return it to Derek. Matthew now realised that their shared celebratory night had very different connotations and there was no hope they’d ever share a laugh about it.

Matthew headed back inside to find his giddy husband on a wobbly stool doing shots of Sambuca. He’d poured one for Matthew and he theatrically downed it, slamming the glass onto the counter triumphantly with a loud ahhhh. He bowed like a figure skater as everyone applauded and cheered. They emerged twenty minutes later to an empty car park, trailed by the last remaining partygoers.

Matthew had lied when he said they were passing Bríd’s house, so instead they fell into Simon the bartender’s car and took the opposite road headed back into the city. They laughed at the hilarities and fuck-ups of the day, roaring along to the song playing on the late night radio station:

“Got my hair, got my head, 

Got my brains, got my ears, 

Got my eyes, got my nose, 

Got my mouth, I got my smile.” 

Matthew didn’t think about his encounter with Derek again. He kissed his sleepy happy husband goodnight; two heads sharing one pillow, four legs entwined like gemel trees. He whispered something lovely into the drunken grin beside him, before drifting off into a peaceful sleep. 

*

It took Derek six minutes to make the journey to Bríd’s parents’ house. With one functioning leg, he dragged his mangled foot behind him, limping the remaining length of the dark snaking road alone.

On the way, he passed nine neighbours’ houses with nine working doorbells.

He didn’t think about the people sleeping nearby, some still awake or just waking.

He didn’t think to roar or wail until someone heard him and ventured outside to investigate.

He didn’t think to turn back toward the pub to alert the one remaining bartender who had stayed late to mop.

He didn’t think to stay with her to halt the bleeding with the old t-shirt he’d picked up off the tarmac and was now gripping for dear life.

He didn’t think of anything in particular, just that he needed to walk down the rest of the road to tell her Father himself.

Tomás was dredged up from a dream that felt as heavy as wet winter soil by a thundering knock on the front door.

Derek didn’t carry Bríd back with him.

Black night skies.

Dead batteries.

Proud sad men. 

Accidents happen.

Sometimes teenage boys drink cans of cheap cider and zip around in cars on country roads on Friday nights. Decent boyfriends know this. They know not to weave their way home invisible and infuriated on these roads with a drowsy girlfriend in tow, but men donning fresh wounds need to walk home sometimes: to fulfil a role, to march in their own private parade, to carry their lead clouds alone.

Derek and Tomás won’t voice their grief aloud to anyone.

They’ll both learn to live with the feeling of drowning in a substance thicker than water. Tomás will still occasionally text the odd horse racing tip to Derek. Derek will never reply.

Sometimes, while taking a shit in the quiet of their en-suites, when the house is empty, they’ll sob and howl to a starless sky.

One day, years from now, they’ll meet by chance in the city centre. 

They’ll grip hands in dim sunlight and depart without a muttered greeting or goodbye, heading away on their solitary journeys home, thinking of bog women and oak desks and pitch black pints.