a thirteenth new story...'shit-faced by tomorrow'

‘You are going to get crucified by life anyway. You might as well get crucified for something or someone you believe in’. And with that Aidan cracks open another beer. The stars are out, the night is cold. They have blankets, blankets and beer, and thirty years behind them, sixty between.

Clay spits into the dark off the back porch. ‘I believe’, he says. ‘I believe because I have to believe’. ‘However impossible …’ says Aidan. ‘However impossible it may be for some people, I have to believe, otherwise it will never happen’.  The two of them, two old friends making sense of the world, the wreck of the past, the present getting wrecked, and the future - whatever will be.

‘You have a connection’, says Aidan, tugging at the ring pull of his beer can. A connection. Clay sighs: ‘Don’t sound like my female friends’. Clay has three female friends, four fingers and a thumb on a hand, two hands. ‘What do girls want?’ asks Aidan, half rhetorically. Clay makes a hissing sound through his teeth. ‘Money’. ‘Money, and a guy with big brass balls’. ‘I’ve a gold tooth at least’, says Aidan. A mayfly appears, buzzing grossly, stupidly in the glow of the porch light. ‘They don’t want gold teeth’, says Clay. ‘It’s worth a cent or two’, says Aidan. And a big hole in your face.

‘Remember Clementine’, says Clay, and takes a slug of beer.  ‘You’ll get misty eyed’, says Aidan. ‘Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, Clay warbles, stamping his feet in mock jollity … ‘Oh my darlin’ Clementine’. The mayfly has settled on the roof beam running the length of the back porch. ‘Know the next line?’ says Aidan.  ‘Gone forever’ says Clay. Clementine – stalwart lover, first, second, third, and every other. ‘She’s married now: two kids, two dads’… ‘Sex in the Laundromat?’. ‘Yes’, says Clay, ‘and after that we sat and watched our clothes merge in the tumble dryer’. ‘Hot’, says Aidan. ‘She was five years older’. ‘Still is’ says Aidan. ‘The rhythm of life …’ says Clay, smirking, winking at Aidan. ‘Two steps forward, one back, that’s what my father used to say’, says Aidan. ‘Non-linear’, says Clay. ‘Like driving an old Sedan wonkily along the road to nowhere, engine spluttering, cutting out every half hour’. ‘Or a pick-up with a three decades of crap in the back’. ‘Sitting in a crock of shit’. ‘I’ll drink to that’, says Aidan, and starts laughing harshly, hoarsely. ‘Pass the smokes’, says Clay, ‘time is staggering on!’. Here today, shit-faced by tomorrow.