Tuesdays Are Just As Bad

by Cethan Leahy

  Around a half hour in, something rang. It wasn’t Adam’s phone, in fact it was coming from Douglas’s pocket.

  ‘Dammit! She is always doing this to me. Sneaking this contraption onto my person when I’m not looking.’

  ‘Who’s she? Your mum?’

  ‘Yes, my mother. Hello, dear! Yes, I do know what night it is. I’m at a match. I don’t care if I need to practise. WHAT WAS THAT, KEEPER?! Yes, I was referring to you!’

  Douglas flung the phone from his hand without looking, hitting the man with the flag in the back of the head.

  ‘It slipped,’ he said, as the flag man threw it back to him.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I said to Adam, who I knew would be too timid to ask.

  ‘That was one of my jailers,’ said Douglas, without being asked. ‘Apparently I forgot to go to a vital piano lesson this evening, as if Cork versus Dundalk is somehow less vital than me banging the same few keys over and over.’

  Adam said nothing but nodded his head.

  ‘“Your Christmas exams are in three months. You should be looking at college courses, you are wasting your talents … mah mah mah.” Well, they are my talents to waste! Besides, the leaving cert isn’t for another three years.’

  Adam was struck dumb, so instead of responding, he worried at the programme Douglas had handed him earlier. Douglas’s fingers rapped the back of the seat in front of him.

  ‘Do you have this problem, Adam?’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘People expecting things. They spend their whole life telling you that they expect great things from you and then they are annoyed when they decide you’re not giving them what they require. My Bs are as good as anyone else’s, but apparently not good enough for my parents. They expect better.’

  ‘I really don’t think people expect much from me,’ said Adam.

  ‘Lucky you.’

  Suddenly the crowd exploded. I guess there was finally a goal. Douglas jumped up with joy and Adam joined him, delighted to be relieved of the conversation.

  ***

  By the end of the game, Douglas was in better form. Cork’s 2–1 victory buoyed him and he seemed unusually lighthearted. This all disappeared once he stepped outside.

  ‘You want a lift, Adam?’ he said, his offer sounding surprisingly irritated.

  A tall, thin man in an impeccable dark suit was standing by the stadium gate. ‘Douglas,’ he said, ‘who is your friend? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.’

  ‘It’s Adam, Father. Adam, this is my father.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said his father, ‘Douglas has mentioned you.’ His eyes dashed to Adam’s forehead. Adam’s fringe was hiding the scar remarkably well. You really needed to look for it.

  ‘Oh, eh, it’s always good to be talked about,’ said Adam.

  ‘Indeed. As Wilde said, the only thing worse than being talked about–’

  ‘He needs a lift,’ said Douglas, interrupting.

  ‘Well, if it’s not inconvenient,’ Adam added quickly.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said Douglas’s dad tersely.

  They walked to a car parked close by. It was an impressive one. If I knew anything about cars, I would describe its metal beauty in all its glory, but sorry, reader, it’s a gap in my knowledge.

  Adam told Douglas’s father his address, who then typed it into his GPS machine on the dashboard. He said with satisfaction, ‘Your house is on our way. How nice.’

  We drove for a few minutes before ‘Father’ attempted to start a conversation, much to everyone’s regret. ‘How was the match?’

  ‘It was good, Mr …’ Adam realised he didn’t know Douglas’s second name.

  ‘Cork won,’ finished Douglas.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘If you had skipped your music lesson for a loss, it would have been a waste.’

  ‘I could have skipped my lesson for three hours of standing on hot coals and it still wouldn’t have been a bigger waste of time than more classes with that bore.’

  ‘Luckily, we were able to reschedule to this weekend,’ said his father, ignoring him.

  ‘Woop-di-do.’

  ‘Adam, I must apologise for Douglas. I would prefer if he kept his snide comments to a time when we don’t have company.’

  ‘That’s fine. I didn’t really–’

  ‘There is no need to apologise. Adam is quite a fan of my snide comments.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt that. I can only imagine he finds them quite tiresome, just like the rest of us do.’

  ‘Well, Adam?’

  ‘Eh, I think this is my stop.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Douglas’s father.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Adam, as the car slowed down.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘See you later.’

  They drove off. Adam and I looked at each other and, in unison, said, ‘That was awkward.’

  Twenty-One

  What horrors, it was poetry night in the Unitarian church. Adam was using his evening with Douglas for the purposes of ‘ART’. His poem so far was a collection of half sentences about the night that Cork City met Dundalk. (At least I think it was a poem, it didn’t rhyme or anything.) I had no interest in poetry so I left him to compose by himself.

  Aoife was scribbling away as usual into one of her notebooks, using her seeming ability to turn the writing instinct on and plough ahead. She never seemed to pause to think even about a sentence. It was like she was writing automatically. (Not to be confused with Automatic Writing, a Victorian practice of communicating with the dead by letting your hands be possessed by a spirit and writing whatever came. Adam and I tried it once after reading about it on the Internet. He wrote ‘armadillo’. I definitely didn’t suggest this as I don’t know what one is.)

  Adam looked at his hastily assembled words and decided to give Aoife a poke.

  ‘Ah, can I ask you something?’

  ‘I believe there is no law against it … yet,’ said Aoife, who didn’t look up from her writing.

  ‘What’s the story with Douglas?’

  ‘I hope you two are comparing poetry notes,’ said Niamh. I still found her different names weird, especially as she seemed much more relaxed in this class than her school one. She was also sassier and made more jokes.

  ‘Yes, Miss, I mean Niamh!’

  Aoife laughed. She had a light laugh. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I was at a footba–’

  ‘Say no more. We’ve all been to that football game.’

  ‘Really?’

  Aoife nodded her head sagely. ‘Douglas has a few issues with his parents.’

  ‘Are they awful to him? I met his dad and he seemed fine, if a little aloof.’

  ‘It’s not that. Well, I don’t know. I’ve never met them. What I think is … well, I think Douglas is very highly strung and tries to cover it by being Douglas.’

  Adam was baffled, as was I. Out of the grab-bag of friends Adam had found himself, Douglas seemed the closest to the cool kids on TV.

  ‘See, I think Douglas is really smart,’ said Aoife. ‘Like really, really smart, so his parents expect him to do great things.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Adam. His expression suggested that he agreed with what Aoife had just said, even though it made no sense.

  ‘You should ask Barry about the time he saw Cork City versus Shamrock Rovers with Douglas. He still does the sign of the cross to this day!’

  ‘Time’s up!’ said Niamh. ‘Would anyone like to read their poem? I know how much you young people enjoy volunteering for things.’

  Aoife shifted in her seat a little too visibly.

  ‘Aoife?’

  ‘Oh ah … I think Adam said he wanted to go first.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Excellent! Adam, work away.’

  Aoife smiled a wicked grin at Adam. What a horrible thing to do. Obviously I was quite impressed.

  Adam stood up nervously. All that was on his sheet were the f
ew scribbled fragments he had before he interrupted Aoife. ‘Oh, I …’ The page shook in his hand and his foot tapped violently. Aoife only then seemed to realise her error, so caught up was she in her fun prank. Before he embarrassed both of us, I took a quick sweep around the group to check their poems.

  ‘Adam,’ I said, ‘they’re all terrible, easily worse than yours, especially Fintan’s. Yours is good enough.’

  Adam looked at his page.

  ‘Honestly, if you read this, people will like it. Aoife will like it.’

  He cleared his throat and began. ‘This … this poem is called “Tuesday Night in Turner’s Cross”:

  The footballer fell over another.

  The floodlights crackled and spat.

  I saw the linesman check his watch.

  No worries, as the watcher dipped his chips in the red …

  ‘Sorry, that’s as far as I got.’

  The circle clapped and Adam sat down as quickly as possible.

  ‘Very interesting, Adam. It was evocative,’ Niamh said.

  Adam, that sneak! That sounded way better out loud. I hoped he realised that this kind of squalid poetry was the result of not consulting me.

  ‘Who will read next? Oh, Fintan?’

  As Fintan recited his really detailed ode to his ex-girlfriend (turns out there aren’t many words that rhyme with Nicola), Aoife wrote a note and passed it to Adam.

  I’m so so so so sorry. :(

  After a few moments, Adam wrote underneath it and slid it back to her.

  You’re sorry now? Wait till you hear my other poems!

  She took the page and sighed with relief.

  Don’t threaten me, buddy. You haven’t heard my masterpiece yet.

  The sound of clapping interrupted the paper exchange.

  ‘Fintan, that was … informative. Who’s next? Okay, Aoife, go ahead.’

  I noticed he hadn’t thanked me for my help.

  Twenty-Two

  My exact nature remained something of a mystery to both me and Adam. After some research (this research being Paranormal Activity movies and a documentary on YouTube with some guy from Star Trek), we felt that if I wasn’t a figment of Adam’s imagination, I was most likely a ghost, but where did that place me in a theological context? Was I an occurrence of a previously unknown force of the universe, or was I a messenger from Heaven or Hell? I know I am not from purgatory, as that’s on Earth – I have visited and it’s an afternoon all-ages gig in The Loft.

  Before continuing, I will take a moment to describe The Loft. It looked like something out of the nightmares of an alcoholic. The clientele were sullen kids Adam’s age and middle-aged men with long beards, gentlemen whose presence at an all-ages gig would be of concern, except there is no evidence they have left their stools since the heyday of heavy metal, a period which can only be placed definitively as ‘Before your time, kid’ or ‘Back in the day’.

  This awfulness wasn’t helped when the only person who could communicate with me was busy staring at his hand. A symbol had been scrawled on it in pen by a girl with multiple piercings at the front entrance in the unlikely event that he would want to return after leaving. (One advantage of being a ghost is that you don’t have to pay for gigs, especially ones that look like they are going to be crappy.)

  ‘I think mine is a hashtag,’ said Aoife, who then grabbed Adam’s hand to more closely observe his – an a with a circle around it. ‘I think you’re an at.’

  ‘An ant?’ said Adam, making no effort to pull his hand back after Aoife rudely stole it from him.

  ‘No, the symbol at! Like for emails.’

  ‘Ah, I can see it now.’

  When Linda returned Aoife finally released her grasp and Adam took back his hand.

  ‘If you need to pee, I really recommend hanging on till you get home. It’s a sewage pipe in there. When are Douglas and Barry on?’ asked Linda, readjusting her dashing hat.

  ‘I think they’re on second,’ said Aoife.

  They were on third. First up were Defenestrated Cattle, a four-piece band with two drummers and no singers. I’m not sure what they were going for but they didn’t achieve it. Second was Cannibal Cannonball. Or possibly Cannonball Cannibal. The lead singer mumbled a bit over some screeching guitars and a laptop played clips from a war film. Finally, after their cover of ‘Hallelujah’ (key comment from the stools: ‘Bet those kids haven’t even heard the Jeff Buckley original’), Douglas, Barry and their new bassist Sinead walked onto the stage, all dressed in capes made of tinfoil.

  Douglas grabbed the microphone and screamed, ‘EVERYONE, PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR EARDRUMS MOISTENED BY THE MUSICAL STYLINGS OF … THE LAYPERSONS!’

  ‘Douglas, give us a second. I can’t find my drumsticks,’ said Barry, searching his pockets.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll stall. Ahem … audience, while the band gets ready, I shall read to you from The Laypersons’ manifesto. Number 1: we reject all notions of melody. Number 2: we embrace the cacophony of the everyday. Number 3–’

  ‘Found them!’ said Barry. He remembered he had tucked them into his shoe.

  ‘MUSIC TIME!’

  So they began. It was loud and weird and difficult to follow. It sounded incorrect at every turn, a series of intentional missteps. Also the capes kept making crinkling noises that the microphones picked up. However, to my surprise, I quite liked it.

  I looked over to see what Adam thought, but he was distracted by Aoife whispering in his ear. Whatever she said, he smiled. I looked at Linda, who was waving her arms around intensely. After a bass solo, the song abruptly stopped.

  ‘EVERYONE!’ shouted Douglas. ‘THAT WAS OUR FIRST AND LAST SONG! WE ONLY HAVE ONE, THAT’S WHY IT’S SEVENTEEN MINUTES LONG.’

  The crowd clapped.

  ‘NOW, DON’T BE ASSHOLES AND PLEASE WAIT FOR THE NEXT BAND! WE WERE THE LAYPERSONS!’

  This led to more clapping and one ‘hell, yeah’ from a guy in the corner, who was apparently very excited. It would seem a lot of people were here to see the next band, The Daughters Dreadnaught, as a crowd quickly formed at the front of the stage. Not wishing to be seen as assholes, the gang hung on for them and even moved in closer to the throng of sweaty teens, some of whom seemed to have lost their shirts.

  There was a quick tap on Aoife’s shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, I came to see this band,’ said its owner, a random skinny dude.

  ‘And?’ said Aoife.

  ‘Could you move your head? I can’t see the stage,’ he said.

  Aoife exhaled a little. ‘Dude, there is literally loads of space.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should move. I was here first.’

  ‘Buddy, there’s no need to be a dick,’ said Linda, joining her friend.

  ‘How am I being a dick? It’s not my fault her hair is in the way.’

  ‘I am actually a person,’ said Aoife, whose patience was being exhausted.

  Adam so far had added nothing to this little scene. I could see him standing there uncomfortably, squirming with indecision. The dude, however, was firm in his decision to be difficult.

  ‘I’m just saying, in this country …’

  ‘If you are about to suggest that I belong to a different country other than the one I’m currently standing in–’

  ‘Why are you making this a race thing? I just want to–’

  ‘Stand over there instead? That’s a great idea,’ said Aoife. The guy looked like he was about to say something else but then gave up. He walked away, muttering something under his breath about that not looking like an Irish tan to him, and stood at the other side of the room, choosing to express his indignation by glaring at her instead of the stage.

  Victorious from their set, Douglas, Barry and Sinead rejoined the group. ‘Aw, I knew we were bad,’ said Barry, seeing their faces.

  ‘No, sorry. You were great,’ said Linda, ‘it’s just that guy over there was being a jerk. Aoife embarrassed him though. It was pretty epic.’

  Adam said nothi
ng. His face was as red as a berry.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Douglas. ‘Does anyone wish to celebrate the vanquishing of this cretin by helping us load the amps into my mother’s car?’

  The rest nodded and, as they walked, Adam found himself at the back of the group with Aoife.

  ‘Aoife?’ he said timidly.

  ‘Hm?’ said Aoife, dragging herself back from a faraway place, where I like to imagine she was visiting a thousand cruel punishments on that dude.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t do anything there.’

  ‘Oh? That’s okay. Well, not really, but it’s not your fault. There are a lot of assholes in the world.’

  ‘If it happens again, I promise I’ll be more effective back-up.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Aoife, with a tight smile, ‘it will happen again.’

  Twenty-Three

  I wasn’t born yesterday (at this point, I was almost half a year old) and I could see what was happening, though I ignored it for as long as possible. Perhaps I was even in denial, but the truth was plain when I saw him gaze openly at his laptop. On Facebook there was a photograph from the gig, just the two of them, together. Tagged. Adam and Aoife looking at each other’s hands. Laughing, and not the usual kind of laughing together, the kind of laughing I saw that first night I explored the city in all its heat and pairings of bodies on window sills.

  ‘I sincerely hope you aren’t getting any ideas,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘That photo!’ I said.

  ‘So? It’s me and Aoife. People can hang out if they so please.’

  ‘You don’t want to be starting any hanky panky.’

  Adam considered the photo.

  ‘Do you think she and I–’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What does it matter to you anyway?’

  I had felt in recent weeks rather neglected and I didn’t like it. Granted, I didn’t want to say this out loud, so instead I said, ‘Look, sometimes you have to trust your gut, and my gut says this is a bad idea.’