I Am the Messenger

"Any sauce?" I ask.

"I told you!" Keith accuses Daryl.

"What?"

"Well, I said we should get you some sauce, Ed," Keith explains, "but tight arse over there wouldn't hear of it."

Daryl throws back his head before answering.

"Look," he begins, "sauce is too dangerous." He points a finger at my shirt. "Look what Ed's wearing there, Keith, huh? Tell me. What color is it?"

"I know what color it is, Daryl. There's no need to get all condescending again."

"Again? When the hell am I ever condescending?"

They're almost shouting across me now as I take another bite of the half-cold pie.

"Right now," continues Keith. He attempts to bring me into it, asking, "What about you, Ed? What would you say?" His eyes are pointed right at me. "Is Daryl being condescending?"

I decide to answer Daryl's original question.

"I'm wearing a white shirt," I say.

"Exactly," Daryl responds.

"Exactly what?"

"Exactly, Keith, it is simply far too dangerous for Ed to even contemplate eating that pie with sauce." His tone is definitely condescending now. "It'll drip off, land on that lovely white shirt, and the poor bastard'll end up having to wash the bloody thing. And we don't want that now, do we?"

"It's not going to kill him to wash it!" Keith's particularly vehement on this point. "He can put a load on while he's washing that shitheap dog of his--that'll take at least a few hours or so."

"Now, there's no need to bring the Doorman into it," I protest. "He hasn't done anything."

"Exactly," Daryl agrees. "That was uncalled for, Keith."

Keith cools down a moment and admits it. His head drops. "I know." He even apologizes, "Sorry, Ed." And I can tell that this time they've been ordered to be on their best behavior toward me. That's probably why they're having double the arguments with each other.

They go on awhile longer, until they've both apologized, and for a while, we talk among the night that has dripped upon us with silence.

We're all quite happy, with Daryl telling jokes about men walking into bars, women with shotguns, and then wives, sisters, and brothers who would all sleep with the milkman for a million dollars.

Yes, we're all quite happy, until the light goes off in Ritchie's kitchen.

That's when I stand up and say, "Great." I turn to the two best arguers I've ever met and tell them I've missed my chance.

They seem unconcerned.

"Your chance at what?" Daryl asks.

"You know," I tell him.

But he only shakes his head.

He says, "No, Ed, as a matter of fact, I don't. I only know that this is your next message and you still don't seem to be thinking clearly about what you're supposed to be doing." His voice is so casual, but so heavy with something else.

Truth, I think.

That's what the voice weighs in with.