by David Scott
“That’s right.” Carl said, shaking Simon’s hand fervently again, before releasing it and pointing to the man still looking at Molly, “And this is my older brother, Vaughn.”
Vaughn turned away from Molly, briefly, and shook Simon’s hand firmly.
“Pleased to meet you Vaughn. I’m Simon.”
In the dim lights of the bar, shadows airbrushed out imperfections; Vaughn looked movie-star handsome.
Simon always felt uncomfortable around attractive men not only due to his feeling inferior but also from his conscious need to conceal his inner desires which might be readily revealed by a reddening of his face, or a sweaty palm. Simon was sure he felt a bead of sweat on his brow, and looked away.
Of course, Molly would not permit any awkward silences.
“Oh, no one calls him Simon. It’s Si.” Molly said, as though she had known Simon her whole life, and they were the very best of friends.
The truth was that all of his family called him Simon, and he didn’t really have any friends. Now, it was time for a rebirth. A change. It felt special to have a nickname, even if it was only a shortened version of his name, and Simon liked it. He was happy to be “Si”.
“Well, Si, how old are you my friend?” Carl asked.
“I recently turned 18.” Simon said, in a matter-of-fact way.
“Ah, so you are old enough to have a drink then.” Carl quickly picked up on an easy prompt, “What can I get you? Another beer?”
“Sure. Thanks Carl.”
“There is a price though. You have to come to the bar with me to help me carry the drinks,” Carl continued without waiting for an answer, “Molly, the usual? Vaughn, beer-submarine?”
Both casually nodded, already having sat back down, facing each other. They started talking, unintentionally excluding Carl and Simon through their closeness.
“Well, Si, it looks like it is down to me and you.” Carl said, focusing his attention on Simon, “Let’s leave these two to it.”
Simon rested his arms on the bar. The polished wood was sticky from all of the alcoholic overflows; the lava-like foam spewing over from the head of the various beers on tap, and slowly flowing down the cold pint glasses to leave the bar re-surfaced. He worried that his new shirt might be stained but his thoughts quickly moved on, as he was keen to re-engage with Carl.
Simon struggled to think of what to say. He desperately wanted to be funny or interesting. Frustration built up inside him, and the longer he left the silence, the worse it seemed to feel. Not that Carl seemed to notice, as he stood on the steel bar that skirted around the bar, to gain extra height to help him get noticed by the bartender.
“So, how old are you Carl?”
Simon figured that he could not be criticised for this question, as it was the same one that Carl had used.
Carl quickly looked across to Simon and flashed him a smile, revealing his ridiculously white teeth.
“Guess, Si. Go on, guess.”
Simon knew this was a dangerous game. It was always safest to guess lower than you think. Simon had reckoned that Carl was a little bit older than him, but not much.
“I would say you are the same age as me, so I will guess that you are 18.”
“Oh, I love you already.” Carl said, squeezing Simon’s hand tightly and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Simon was not used to affection, and suddenly looked serious. Even this small gesture sent confusing tingles running through his body. Maybe Carl was gay too, and liked Simon. Simon immediately pushed such thoughts out of his drunken mind. He knew better than to hope for such things. Disappointment had always followed in the past.
Carl did not notice Simon’s reaction. He was too busy following the bartender with his eyes; summoning every ounce of charm and charisma to try to attract his attention to get a drink. The effort he was putting into it was as though he was courting the love of his life. The bartender walked past him again, choosing a pretty, young girl instead. Unfortunately, in the hierarchy of bar clientele, Carl was not high up on this occasion. If Simon was serving, he would have been his first choice.
Carl returned to the conversation.
“22, my friend. 22. Ancient compared to you, eh Simon?”
Simon was genuinely surprised. Carl did not look that much older.
“And Vaughn is 24, even older than the both of us!” Carl said, laughing.
Simon didn’t know what to say. He genuinely did not care how old they were. It was only a conversation piece but now Carl was somehow suggesting it might be an issue. Simon needn’t have worried, Carl had already moved on.
“So, Si, would you like to try a beer submarine too, the same as me and Vaughn?”
Simon had no idea what a beer submarine was, in the context of a drink, but did not want to show his ignorance or disappoint Carl. He nodded, over enthusiastically. Carl laughed. It was the right answer, of course.
Nearly everyone else had been served and the bartender, at last, came over. Carl disguised his frustration at the long wait, not wanting to lose his turn and only too aware of the ultimate power of the bartender; no matter how rich or powerful you are, the bartender will serve you only when they are ready to do so, and there is nothing you can do about it.
“Three beer submarines and a Mojito please my good fellow.”
For some reason, Carl ordered in an over-the-top English accent. The bartender just looked at him and rolled his eyes. Carl looked at Simon and grinned, mischievously.
The bartender placed three large glasses in front of them and filled them nearly to the top with beer. He took three shot glasses and poured Sambuca into them. Then, carefully, he placed each of the shot glasses into the pints of beer. The shot glass sunk to the bottom, and the concoction started to fizz, as the alcohols comingled angrily together.
“And there it is, my friend, a beer submarine.” Carl said, watching the beer bubbles race from the bottom to the top of the glass, like a diver racing for the surface of the sea, having run out of air.
Simon felt his stomach churn. Just looking at this drink made him feel nauseous but there was no going back. His pride simply would not permit it.
Simon glanced over to Molly and Vaughn, who were still deep in conversation. It looked pretty intense. Carl followed Simon’s gaze.
“Why don’t we have a quick drink here before going back?” Carl ventured, “Just you and me? It looks pretty heavy going over there.”
Simon quickly agreed. Carl hadn’t paid yet, and the bartender had been agonising over the finish of the Mojito, as though he was the ultimate cocktail impresario, so they still had time to order more drinks.
Carl did not ask what Simon wanted to drink, and just ordered.
“Can we get two shots of Tequila on the side,” Carl called over the bar, “while we wait for you to finish the Mojito? Good man.”
The bartender poured out the golden liquor, and placed a salt-shaker with two wedges of lime on a small plate next to them.
Simon scrunched up his face and looked quizzically at the display. He had pretty basic tastes, and really only drank beer. Tequila was new to him. Carl immediately noticed and offered up some words of encouragement.
“Bottoms up old chap.”
Simon went to take the shot glass to drink.
“Woah.” Carl said, taking hold of Simon’s wrist to stop him from drinking. Simon looked at Carl quizzically.
“You need to have the salt first, my friend.” Carl explained, as though this should be obvious. However, it became quickly apparent to Carl that Simon had no idea what he was talking about, as Simon stared blankly towards him, eyebrows a little raised.
“Ok. I will help you.” Carl offered, “Give me your hand.”
Simon hesitated but did as he was told. Carl gently licked the soft rim between Simon’s thumb and forefinger. It was probably the most sexual thing anyone had ever done to Simon but he didn’t flinch. His heart beat faster as his breathing quickened, turning into short, sharp gasps.
> “What, what are you doing?” Simon stammered, feeling some sort of protest was necessary, as this was not normal behaviour.
“Don’t worry, Si, this isn’t some kind of foreplay.” Carl said, chuckling to himself.
Still holding Simon’s hand, Carl poured salt along the sticky rim of saliva. He then did the same thing to his own hand. Simon did not take his eyes off him, watching Carl’s wet, pink tongue shape an arc for the salt. Whatever game this was, Simon liked it already.
Simon noticed some of the salt spill on to the bar. That was bad luck. He couldn’t risk it, and picked some of it up between his thumb and forefinger and threw it over his left shoulder to ward off the devil. A silly superstition learnt from his grandma, and adhered to ever since. It was Carl’s turn to look puzzled but he simply shrugged his shoulders and carried on.
“Now then, are you ready? You lick the salt, down the shot, and then quickly suck hard on the lime. Let’s intertwine our arms to do it. You know, like a bride and groom might to at a wedding toast. It makes it more fun!”
Carl’s energy was so infectious, Simon hung on his every word and was ready to do whatever he said.
“After three,” Carl began, “One, two, three, go!”
Simon licked the salt, at first enjoying the thought of tracing Carl’s earlier presence, but the salty shock soon made him recoil. He winced and screwed up his face, then quickly tried to wash it away with the tequila. It was so sharp that it made his face contort even more. He sucked hard on the lime, which just served to make him cough due to its bitterness. Gasping, swallowing, choking.
Simon realised his eyes had been shut throughout the whole process. He opened them. Carl was staring back at him, laughing hysterically; Carl’s eyes oozed honey-gold tones of pleasure, and Simon soon found himself joining in with the laughter.
The bar tender watched on with bored eyes, having seen this routine hundreds of times before, waiting. When they had finished, he handed over the mojito, and set it alongside the other drinks. He passed an oversized, foam-made top-hat to Simon. It was black, with a gold belt buckle and a large, green shamrock painted on it, as well as the name of a well-known, local drinks sponsor.
“What is this for?” Simon asked, admiring the garish article.
Carl answered, as the bar tender just walked away to a prettier companion, “It’s a promotion. We get it free because we bought so many drinks.”
Carl took the hat, placing it firmly on Simon’s head. It fitted perfectly.
“There. It looks lovely!” Carl said, “Now help me get these drinks over to those two lovebirds.”
Carl put his arm over Simon’s shoulder, and led him back over to the table.
Molly and Vaughn broke from their trance-like state, as they noticed their companions approaching. They turned to Simon and Carl, and looked happy to see them return with the drinks.
The rest of the night was somewhat of a blur to Simon. He remembered Carl turning and twirling him on the dance floor, knocking his hat off each time, quickly forgotten and to be repeated each time, as Molly and Vaughn danced in a closer embrace nearby. There was a flashback to all four of them later joining in synchronised dance routines to loud pop songs, each of them now wearing a top-hat, and many photographs; desperately trying to preserve forever this moment of pure joy. Repeated proclamations of new, forever friendships. And, finally, staring down for hours at a small pool of water in a white, porcelain toilet bowl; with the smell of bleach rising up, enticing the onset of a migraine, as the many beer submarines resurfaced from the acidic depths of his stomach.
From then on, the four of them became an inseparable clique. An easy set of compatible permutations. Molly and Simon readily found amusing small-talk as the brothers bickered with one another. Carl and Simon’s tactile tom-foolery balanced the serious huddles of Molly and Vaughn. And Simon and Vaughn found an unexpected connection, with Vaughn looking out for the youngest in the group, acting as his protector. Likewise, Carl treated Molly like his younger sister, pick, fetching and carrying after her, and constantly acting like a fool to make her laugh. It just worked, and they were happy together.
The inevitable departure loomed over them, and their final week together was a somewhat sombre affair, with many sad smiles and elongated embraces. No one wanted to leave, and the thought of their imminent separation was deeply painful.
Simon suspected the relationship between Molly and Vaughn was closer than they let on. This was confirmed to him when he and Molly said their goodbyes to Carl and Vaughn at the airport. Molly held everything in until they were out of the sight of the boys, and then she let it all go. She sobbed uncontrollably, devastated.
Molly confessed all to Simon. She was, of course, in love with Vaughn but it couldn’t work. They were from different worlds. It could only be a holiday romance.
Simon tried to console her; it was necessarily half-hearted, as he was struggling with his own emotions, and the feeling of loss he felt from leaving Carl. Not that anything physical had happened, he didn’t even know if Carl was gay, but there was something special between them. A rare connection. At last it felt as if Simon’s lonely days were over and, at least, he had found a true relationship. He felt for the first time that he was capable of being loved, in whatever manner, for being himself.
The tears of a clown are some of the hardest to bear, being alien and unexpected. Carl’s big brown eyes welled up heavily as he forced a last smile, and said goodbye to Simon. Simon had been unable to speak and had simply hugged Carl with all of his might, not wanting to let go. No gradual separation or drifting apart. It was such a definitive end. Simon thought he heard Carl crying as he turned the corner, and wanted to run back to him. But he didn’t, that would have been too big a gesture for Simon, too much of a risk; he still regretted it to this day.
That was in the past. On their return home, Molly had tried to stay in touch with Simon, but it wasn’t the same without the phantom threads which held the four of them together as a group. Molly had stopped calling Simon as often, met with him infrequently, and now they only sent the occasional message to each other on social media.
Not that this was all Molly’s fault. Simon had also let their relationship fade. Small-talk could only take them so far, and the less they saw of each other, the harder sustaining conversations became. It therefore came as somewhat of a surprise that Molly was so supportive of his party. It almost felt like the first time they met, with Molly taking the lead to make Simon feel wanted, included. Simon dared to think that the party might yield the same life-changing surprises that happened on that first night in Dublin; he hoped to meet someone as special as Carl, although he did not really believe that was possible.
Simon had spent hours cleaning on the day of the party. He was determined that the house would look its best, and not cause him any embarrassment. He had scrubbed the kitchen so hard that even his hands smelt of disinfectant.
But some things still disappointed. Simon had hoovered the living room twice but even now the cream sheepskin rug, which lay in front of the fire, held a slightly yellowish hue, looking like the colour of some cheap vanilla ice-cream. The guns hanging above the fireplace remained covered in dust, Simon fearing to touch the loaded weapons. The smell of manure from the farm hung cloyingly in the air, no matter how much air freshener he sprayed.
Simon had given less attention to the upstairs rooms, figuring that anyone going up there would either pass out in an alcoholic stupor or be more interested in a passionate coupling than the cobwebs in the lightshades. Simon also did not like being upstairs alone, even in daylight, as he always felt like he was being watched.
There was so much alcohol in the house that Simon ventured that he might be able to open his own bar. He lined up all of the bottles on the scratched surface of the old sideboard. Perfectly aligned, the glass regiments stood stiffly to attention; an alcoholic army ready to infiltrate and delight young brains.
Simon could not cook, and certainly could not c
ater for a party. Instead, he had persuaded the local pizzeria, which was over 10 miles away, to deliver to the farm. Given the size of the order, the owner had agreed. Of course, Simon could not be sure how many people would turn up, but he felt pretty certain that he had ordered enough. If anything, he had bought too much, and would likely be eating pizza for the next week.
Mandy and Max were the first to arrive; the terrible twins. Although one of them was a boy and the other a girl, they sported the same, short spikey hair style and tended to wear similar outfits; when they did, you really could not tell them apart.
They delighted in toying with people. It was not uncommon for Max to pretend to be Mandy, and vice-versa. The elven-like twins loved to confuse and play with the emotions of their prey. They didn’t take it too far, just quick kisses, sexy dances and groping hugs, but their poor partners never knew what was happening to them until it was too late. And then they were tormented further by the twins’ mirthful teasing. If it all went wrong, they would never be left alone, as they had each other. Mirror images and personalities, the best friend you could ever wish for.
Max and Mandy were happy dating either boys or girls themselves, so they were quite happy to play this game. They were very open about their sexuality; gender was irrelevant, and they did not have a type. Instead, it was all down to confidence and charisma. Needless to say, Simon had never drawn their attention but they were attracted to Molly, and would take any opportunity to be within her social sphere. And they both liked to drink and party.
They had each brought someone. A muscular, handsome looking, older guy with a shiny bald head and lengthy, well-shaped beard, accompanied Mandy. Whereas Max’s partner was a svelte woman with large dark curls, tied back with a red bandana, who was wearing a polka-dot yellow dress and large Audrey Hepburn-styled sunglasses. The twins had already agreed with each other to swap half-way through the night, unconscionably, without telling them. Everyone looks the same in the dark, a mouth is a mouth, so hopefully they wouldn’t mind, even if they did find out.
