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| The Question | |
| By Loz | ||||||
| 29 April 2008 | ||||||
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This is a short story that grew from an idea that was inspired by an old song by The Spin Doctors. Comments very welcome. Thanks Loz How could she want him when she knows she could’ve had me? That was the question. Never mind to be or not to be. Forget about life, the universe and everything. What I wanted to know was: How could she…? I asked myself the same question over and over during the muted hush of the service, then again while the photographer herded us into mix-and-match groups and later still, during the whole painful palaver that was the reception in the swanky Dublin hotel. At times the question reverberated so loudly in my head I felt sure it could be heard through the bones of my skull. I looked at Kevin and I saw myself. The exact same smiley hazel eyes, wayward tawny hair, tall athletic build. Physically we are literally identical peas from the same pod so what on earth made the vivacious and delectable Charlotte fall for dull, sober Mr Predictable? Kevin – my too-good-to-be-true twin who was popular with dogs and old ladies. Somehow I got through the responsibilities of Best Man, with the help of a glass or four of rather good quality champagne, and I was there to wave the happy couple off as their car spat gravel in its haste to carry them towards that phase of the moon which is said to be full of honey. “How sweet!” cried the tearful maiden aunts. Yeah, right. It sounds sickly sweet to me, but then it would, wouldn’t it? The vivid memory of Charlotte in that satin bridal sheath, with those pale angular shoulders of hers, stood between me and the blowsy bridesmaids all evening - for which I was uncharacteristically grateful. Instead I decided to join the rest of the lads from the hurling team at the hotel bar. Several pints of Guinness later and I didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about their bawdy identical twin jokes; instead I did what I always do, I raised my glass to the craic. I must have staggered up to room 103 some time after two thirty. I hadn’t been able to eat the fiddly bits from the buffet because the fear of my impending speech had formed a fist in my gullet, so it was no surprise to discover I was absolutely starving. There was a room service card by the phone and it was simplicity itself to order a juicy burger with chips - plus an obligatory bottle of Jameson’s whiskey, of course. An invisible waiter must have come and gone. I chugged a generous quantity of the amber whiskey into a large glass before swallowing it at the open window and, as we Irish like say, it felt like a torchlight procession going down my throat. Party noises from below were beginning to fade; I watched a bare-footed wedding guest wending a zigzag path across the grass in the moonlight, a battered hat in her hand. I turned, re-filled my glass and gave the burger my full attention. I threw aside the paper napkin and lifted the bulging bun to my mouth. Just as I was about to take a man-sized bite I heard a small voice. It was shrill and weedy. “Don’t eat me, Kieran,” it said, quite clearly, “please don’t eat me.” I stared at the burger for a moment before warily lifting the lid of the bun. There, between a slice of tomato and a lettuce leaf, was a wee green man, about four centimetres tall. I blinked. I may be Irish but I’ve never believed in leprechauns and the like. He clasped his tiny hands together, pleadingly. “If you save me Kieran then I’ll answer anything you want to know, anything at all. Any why, how, what, where or when.” he squeaked. There was something infinitely annoying about his whiny little voice that made me want to slam the lid of the bun down on him and his nakedness but then I remembered something unforgettable - the question. “Ok then, wee green man, try this one: how could she want him when she knows she could’ve had me, eh?” “Ah, yes,” he replied, “that’s a question alright, isn’t it?” I didn’t like the way his beady little eyes pinned me like a helpless moth in a collector’s case. “I’ll keep my promise to you by answering that question of yours, but you’ll have to wait till the morning, I need to be sure that you won’t eat me.” I thought about this for a moment and suddenly I felt dead tired. “Ok, it’s a deal,” I said as I wiped a blob of tomato relish off his tiny head. Then I dropped him into an empty fag packet and passed out fully clothed on top of the bed. In the morning the first thing I saw was the greasy burger lying uneaten on the tray, reminding me of the shenanigans of the night before. Then I remembered the wee green man. The cigarette packet was lying on the bedside table, I picked it up gingerly and peeked inside but it was empty – except for a small green gherkin. God, I must have been pissed. I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, head in my hands, only too aware that overnight I had acquired two major things. Firstly, the mother of all hangovers from hell, and secondly, sure enough, the answer to my question.
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