by L.C. Barlow
* * *
It must have been two hours later, and by then the party was in full swing. Brian and I were fairly high, and Patrick blessed us with his presence. He waded through the people and spotted us in the kitchen.
His hair was wet, and the red of it sparkled. He smelled of soap and was wearing a dark grey t-shirt and light gray sweat pants. He motioned for us - both me and Brian to follow. Too stoned to care any longer about Patrick's prior behavior, we went upstairs to his bedroom.
When we got there, the three girls were laying on the bed, but only two of them looked ravished. The third, the red head, looked calm, as though it was just another day at the office. They were passing around a pipe filled with weed.
Patrick sat on the edge of the bed, and the blonde pressed her toes into his back. He touched her leg lovingly, but did not look at her.
I eyed the rosary encased above Patrick's side of the bed.
"Have a seat," he said, and he motioned to the two leather chairs by the fireplace.
In moments, we were in a full swing discussion about God.
"Alls I'm saying is, there is no possible way you can tell if there's a God. No way," Brian said at one point. He still had the apron on, but now he was wearing a towel, as well.
"Why?" I asked.
"Why? Why?! Because there's so much evil in the fucking world, man! You got kids dying of starvation. You got six million Jews being burned and gassed at the concentration camps. You got slavery. Fucking white slave owners killin' and rapin' black people and gettin' away with it for years. And God doesn't come and stop 'em?! Somethin's up with that. It ain't right. Somethin's very wrong here..."
"Of course stuff is wrong here. The Irish, of all people, know that," interrupted Patrick.
"Wrong enough to the point that God's existence would be a surprise."
"I disagree," said Patrick.
"Oh, yeah? How so?"
"I think that if there is a God, no matter what happens here, it can be mended."
"Nuh uh."
"Aye."
"There ain't no fixin' it. How do you fix having forty years of education bein' taken from you? Hm? How do you fix bein' raped and caring for some child you were forced to have? You can't. Your life ain't ever gonna be the same."
"But it's all temporary," said Patrick.
"That don't mean it don't matter."
"That isn't what I'm saying. Hear this. If there is a Heaven, and we do live forever, in a better world, then this isn't our life. That is. And there is no ruining that."
"Then what's this?" Brian swept his hands around in big flapping arches.
"I don't know."
"Hm?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's our death." Patrick's green eyes lively looked round the room.
"See now, Patrick, have you ever heard the saying, 'Don't outsmart your common sense?' 'Cause that's what you just did."
"I don't know. How's an Irishman - even worse, an Irish-American - going to tell you the mysteries of the Universe?"
"That's what I'm saying. You can't know."
Patrick swatted Brian's words away with his hand and took a swig from a bottle of whiskey on the floor beside the bed. "What do you think, Jack?" he asked. "You're the one who started this whole mess to begin with."
"You're a liar, Patrick," said Brian.
"Shh!" Patrick said. Then both of them and the three girls looked at me.
I sighed, and looked at my own glass of whiskey in my palm. "I don't know, I don't know," I said. "In the few years that I've lived, I've seen enough things to certainly believe that there is... something out there."
"What things have you seen?" Patrick asked.
I avoided his eyes. "Death. Things. Just things... And what I've seen," I said, "ultimately makes me think that it's better to believe in a God, whether or not He exists. That, you're right, Brian. The evils here are so... murderous and disparaging. I think that that's why it is actually better to believe in God, even if He is a lie, than to continue to believe in the things that go on here. But... but that doesn't mean that I always do believe in Him."
"Why?" said Brian.
"Certain things hold me back."
"What?" asked Patrick.
I tapped my finger against my glass and bit my lip. I did not want to answer, but I knew there was no keeping silent through this one.
"Because then I don't get to do what I want to do."
Brian nodded and smiled brilliantly. "So, it's your get-out-of-jail free card," he said.
I shrugged, and Brian rolled his eyes.
"Well, you have to choose eventually," said Patrick.
"I know," I said. "But I feel I've got time."
"You know what that tells me?"
"What?"
"That there is something you're holding out for. Something that you have planned."
"Oh, really?" I asked and smiled. I downed the whiskey.
"I know you."
"Yeah?"
"Aye."
"But," I said and stopped. After a few moments, I could feel both of them teetering on edge in waiting for me to speak. "It's pointless," I finally finished. "It's pointless to talk about God."
"How is this pointless?" asked Patrick. The blonde was now running fingers through his hair. He grabbed her arm and put her hand back down on the bed. She sighed and rolled her eyes at him in irritation.
"Whatever God is out there," I said matter-of-factly, "words aren't going to get to Him. They'll circle Him. They'll circle like a planet caught in orbit, but they'll never reach Him."
"What do you mean?"
I looked at Patrick and the girls. "You're not going to fuck with words. You're not going to fly with words. You're not going to save a drowning child with words. You're not going to get to God with words. Nobody will. There's no point in talking about Him."
"Ah," Patrick said, "I see. I see. But here, my friend," and he slapped the bed, "here is where the miracle of whiskey and heroin and cocaine and sex comes in. You drink enough whiskey, and you'll get there. You do enough heroin, and you'll touch the face of God."
"Oh Lord. Patrick's answer is to binge. I should have seen that coming," Brian said.
"Moderation is a fatal thing," replied Patrick. Then, he looked at me as though his gaze was the only thing keeping the world together. "If you want to get to God," he said, "truly, you fuck, and you drink, and you load your body up with so much bliss it can't say no." The girls on the bed laughed. He looked at them, smiled, and then his smile faded. He peered back at me.
"I can't do what you do," I said.
"Have you ever done what I do?" he asked.
Brian shook his head back and forth. "What the fuck are you asking?" Brian said.
"Jack?" Patrick asked, ignoring Brian's question.
"No," I replied. Brian did not understand. The girls did not understand. But we understood, Patrick and I, what he was asking.