We all answer to Peter for our sins

small or large, intended or not, we confess all at the pub!

Arthur Sidman and Burt Hollins sat together supping down a Guinness at the Dandy Dog, something they had done every Friday night for the last thirty years. They’d seen their fair share of surly proprietors come and go, big breasted bar girls get pregnant, and Jack Russel’s with three legs sitting under bar stools. It’s that kind of pub, crumbling, one fruit machine, patronized mainly by London dockers of another age. Arthur, his spiny hands opening a packet, offered Burt some of his pork scratchings.

Fuck no, Arthur, they make my stomach queasy. Arthur munched away. Around them were the usual crowd of old girls, headscarves covering their heads, drinking shorts, with tough exteriors but warm hearts. It isn’t the trendiest place in Southeast London; there is no natural light, just the presence of life-crumpled locals living their social life.

You know something, Arthur, Burt said. We’ve been pals more than forty years. I got to say I was surprised when you told me you were getting married. I mean, not that I’m doubting your love for Bridget; she’s a nice girl, a lovely lady. What’s the age difference? You being eighty-seven an all and your bride thirty-two. Both men sat over their beer, thinking, trying to come up with the correct answer. Arthur’s fingers busy as the two old men sat together, unpretentious, in time-honored traditional friendship.

I mean, she’s a cracker right enough, Arthur, a lap dancer, you said. And not that you need a chaperone, fella, but you’re damn set, right, a self-made man. I mean, did you not even consider her reasons for saying yes? It’s just part of the great British social life, neatly presented in the scene of a couple of once workmates sat at a bar with little actual interest in the rest of the world. Someone under thirty would imagine the Dandy Dog to be a freak show, full of dark, spindly figures tottering in and out of heavy doors under the smoked stained ceiling, fag smoke, blown there by trembling geezers, while old spinsters with faces like creases and wrinkles of slept in bed sheets, high on air fresheners.

Arthur put his beer down, licking foam from his upper lip, and said, Hell, Burt, I reckon you’re a wee bit envious. Actually, it was pretty much love at first sight. I know there’s an age difference, but Bridget was really into me, gave me a free lap dance at the Tits and Tots. I bought her a cocktail, and we chatted. I know it was quick and all, but hell, Burt, if a girl like Bridget offered to marry you, wouldn’t you say for sure, let’s do it? Arthur took another long sup of Guinness; anyway, we just got back off honeymoon, Arthur said, and filled his mouth with more Pork Scratchings.

It seems only fair that there should be one place where the balance of life is redressed, where an adult can enjoy social freedom, even if only for a few hours on a Friday night. A place where one can temporarily drown out reason and smother the little responsibilities of life. A couple of geezers who have met all the assholes in life, been dealt a hand by tricksters, and even, when pressed, called someone a cunt! It’s a strange kind of nostalgia.

And where is she now, Arthur? She said she was exhausted from all my surprising energy, Burt. Told me to come down here and have a beer. She’s very caring, Burt. Bill looked at his mate with an incredulous look on his face. You’re killing me, Arthur; you’re not serious, man. You’ve been married a week, and already she is telling you to go for a beer? There’s just something not right about it, Arthur. What do you mean, Bill? I thought it was adorable, her being exhausted and all. I gave that naked pussy a pounding and a half Burt. Bridget is a bloody contortionist. I never saw a vagina from so many different angles, Burt. Before I came out, she gave me a kiss and helped me on with my coat, then found my stick. I needed it, my knees are still shaking, and because the elevator to the apartment is out of order. Now, you’ve to believe that’s a woman who cares a lot about me, right? The thing about a social night out is this, it feels that with all the ways life manages to throw up chaos, the prospect of a night in the pub offers a very tangible kind of certainty. Football, nonsense chat, companionship, a fucking good Guinness. It is a world aside from the things that can sometimes feel alienating or strange. Arthur and Burt’s world has become one of high-rise apartments, car parks, deep fried kale, and Prius pricks.

Well, Arthur, I’ll tell you what it means to me; it means she wanted you out of the apartment. She’s probably got a golden boy hidden away. Probably on top of her right now.

Get away with yourself, Burt. I wore her out. Her pussy must be red raw. Arthur, you’re a multi-millionaire. You have four houses, two of which are in Spain, no relatives. So, along comes Bridget, a lap-dancer at the pokey hole club in Clapham, and when she’s not dancing, she is probably making videos of herself masturbating for twenty quid a minute on the internet. You, on the other hand, are an inch from death. We buried your penis fifteen years back.

Arthur felt a little hot under the collar.

So, what is it you are saying?

I’m saying I wouldn’t have left her alone. I’m thinking she’s got a guy somewhere, and she needed you out of the apartment. That’s what I believe, Arthur. So why don’t you sup up and head back? This is my first beer, Burt. I’ll have another and head back. Peggy, give me and Burt another beer, will you? Peggy is fifty-seven, with jugs bursting out of an arguably H cup bra. She’s heard all the cracks about places to park an old man’s bike and how burning her bra would lead to severe back pain. She was never shy about telling old farts she’d fed seven kids with these tits, one till he was almost four years of age. Her husband, can you believe, is the spit and image of pop-eye, complete with a clay pipe.

Two Guinness are placed on the bar in front of them. Arthur hands over the money and asks for another pork scratchings. Opening the packet, Arthur feels some remorse. We never did anything on honeymoon, Burt. The old trigger won’t pull anymore. I would use Viagra, but I’m on nitroglycerin for my heart. The doctor said taking both will kill me before my old pecker would stand up! It’s important to acknowledge that everyone is free to use their spare time in whatever way they want, in so far as society will let them. It might even be that your idea of bliss differs from Arthur’s or Burt’s. But, of course, it might not involve spending Friday evenings slumped over a bar in London’s east end.

With a knack for telling tall tales about one’s sexual prowess or learning truths from well-meaning friends, Arthur enjoys that kind of fun until the bell signaling last orders. Understand that, even if you cannot bring yourself to understand it.

All the same, Arthur, you’d want to know, right?

Arthur grabs his stick and heads back to the apartment. It takes him fifteen minutes to climb the stairs and is puffing hard at the door. He rattles the key in the lock, hand trembling, and finally pushes it open.

Hello, honey. You’re back so soon, Bridget said, sitting on the sofa wearing only a negligee.

Burt got to thinking you were too anxious to get me out of the apartment, honey. I told him that’s ridiculous. You were exhausted. There was a deliberate pause as Arthur came to his senses. Honey, it’s only six-thirty; why are you wearing your negligee? I wanted to be ready for you coming home, Arthur, she said, patting the sofa with her hand.

Arthur feels a little stupid. Burt is a jealous asshole. Arthur calms down and walks over to the window, pushing it open for some fresh air. Looking down, he sees a beautiful red sports car with the top down, inside is a handsome young guy lighting a cigarette. Arthur, unsure of himself, puts it all together. He doesn’t know how he missed the guy on the staircase, but maybe the elevator was working after all. Then, in a rage, with his last superhuman effort, Arthur manages to upright the chest freezer and hurl it out the window. The freezer fell from the sixth floor onto the red sports car, killing the young man lighting a cigarette.

When Arthur came around, he was standing with the good-looking car from the red sportscar. Another man, strangely dressed, is standing in front of them.

Who are you? Arthur questions.

Sadly, Arthur, my name is Peter, and I’ve been waiting for you here at the pearly gates. The man turns his head to look behind and raises one arm in gesturing Arthur to look at the gates.

Arthur, we’ve been waiting for you, but you always found a way to change your schedule. What happened that we have you arrive on a Friday evening? Well, Peter…it is Peter, right? I just got married, you see, and came back from the honeymoon, and Bridget, that’s my wife, she was exhausted and wanted to lie down. So, with her consent, I headed to the pub to have a drink with a pal. But then my pal was suspicious that my wife was having a fling behind my back. I didn’t believe it, of course, but I headed home anyway. Bridget was sitting on the couch in a see-through negligee. I had rushed home, came up the flights of stairs, believing the elevator was out of order, which it clearly wasn’t, because her young lover had already got to his sportscar down on the street. With my last ounce of strength, I managed to shove the chest freezer out the window. He won’t be breaking hearts anymore. Anyway, Pete, cutting a long story short, all the effort, hurrying home, climbing flights stairs, and tipping a chest freezer out the window, well, it did me in.

Peter pulls up the bottom of his white smock, revealing sandals, and walks a few steps to a young man standing close by and looking puzzled. Peter invites the question.

The young man says, holding his head, I’m not exactly sure. If I recall, I stopped driving to light a cigarette. After that, well, it kind of goes blank. That’s truly sad, Peter says. We were not expecting you. Stand there; I’ll be with you momentarily.

Peter again lifts the hem of his frock and takes another few steps.

And you, sir. What happened to you?

Arthur and the young guy look at each other, and shrug shoulders. The third guy, shivering, looks at Peter as if he is seeing a ghost.

Pete, mate. I got to tell you, I ain’t got a fucking clue. The last thing I remember, I was climbing into a chest freezer!