I Am the Messenger

Spray paint.

Marv is suddenly interested in going to church on Sunday. I tell him the plan and know without doubt that I can count on him. This is one area Marv excels and delights in. Juvenile behavior can be his specialty at times.

We steal both my ma's and Ritchie's barbecues, I ring up and book a jumping castle, and we borrow one of those karaoke machines from one of Marv's mates who works at the pub. We also get a few kegs, a half-decent deal from the butcher on sausages, and we're set.

Time for the paint.

We buy it from the local hardware on Thursday afternoon and descend on the town at three that morning. Marv's car staggers to a halt at my place, and we decide to walk into town from there. At each end of Main Street, we write the same thing in giant letters on the road:

MEET A PRIEST DAY

THIS SUNDAY 10 A.M.

ST. MICHAEL'S

FOOD, SINGING, DANCING,

AND

FREE BEER

BE THERE OR MISS OUT

ON ONE HELL OF A PARTY

I don't know about Marv, but I feel a camaraderie as we kneel down and do the paint job. It feels like youth as we write the words. At one stage, I look across at my friend. Marv the argumentative. Marv the tight arse with his money. Marv with the girl who vanished.

When the job's done, he smacks me on the shoulder and we run off like handsome thieves. We both laugh and run, and the moment is so thick around me that I feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.

I love the laughter of this night.

Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.

For now, just let us run.

We run straight through the laughter of the night.

With the arrival of tomorrow, everyone's talking about it. Absolutely everyone.

The cops have been around to the father's, asking him whether he knows anything about all this. He admits to knowing about the day, but nothing about the advertising techniques undertaken by some of his flock.

Over at his place on Friday afternoon, he tells me all about it.

"As you can imagine," he told the cops, "I have some rather dubious clientele. What church for the poor doesn't?"

They believed him, of course. Who wouldn't believe this man? "Okay, Father, but let us know if you find out anything, will you?"

"Of course, of course," and even when the cops began to leave, the father added one last question. "Will I be seeing you guys on Sunday?"

Apparently the cops are only human, too.

"Free beer?" they answered. "Can't say no to that."

Brilliant.

So it's all set up. Everyone's going. Families. Drunks. Complete bastards. Atheists. Satanists. Local gothics. Everyone. Free beer will do that. You can count on it. It's safe as houses.

I still work on Friday night, but I've got Saturday off.