"+0" by Neil Clark
You’ve gone solo to another wedding.
It’s the section of the day straight after the service, before everyone goes and sits for the speeches and the food. Everyone stands around waiting and drinking sparkling wine and talking. Waiting. Talking. Waiting. Talking and waiting. Everyone, waiting and talking, talking and waiting in couples and in pairs. Everyone, in pairs and couples, talking. Except you. You’re alone. Waiting. Drinking.
You’re standing. You’re hovering. You’re taking anxious sips. You’re floating between groups of two and groups of four and six. Wherever you float, wherever you hover, you’re turning even numbers odd.
1 + 0 = You
You’ve done the right thing. You’ve gone and you’ve locked yourself in a toilet cubicle.
You’re locked in the toilet cubicle. You’re quaffing complimentary champagne, flute number five, waiting for it to morph you into some sort of social butterfly or some shit.
You’ve already used the toilet and flushed the toilet, but you flush the toilet again. The sympathetic groan of the cistern masks the breathing exercises you’re now doing - the ones you were taught to do when things get a bit much at work - by the occupational health therapist who later went off for six months with a nervous breakdown.
The cistern’s final hisses fade to silence. You flush again. It’s the fourth time you’ve flushed. You contemplate your options. The chatter out there sounded as loud as ever. The talking and the waiting shows no sign of letting up.
You see two ways out.
The cubicle door is Option 1. Back out there to more of people talking while you stand and you hover and you wait and you scramble that gentle equilibrium of even numbers.
Option 2? An escape. Down the toilet, Renton from Trainspotting style. Through the sewage pipes, finale of The Shawshank Redemption style. You picture it - elation, as you stare back at the venue, now a distance away. You’re covered in shit, but you’re out. You’re alone, but no longer odd.
Did you know that the average person spends six months of their life waiting for a red light to turn green?
The above has nothing to do with anything. I just told you it to pass a speck of time, maybe calm you down a bit.
Hi.
I am your +0 for the rest of the day. I am your future self, from just far enough ahead to tell you this: after two more flushes and a few more deep breaths, right down through your belly, it will be time for you to take Option 1.
That’s a nice suit you’re wearing. You look far too amazing to get it covered in shit. Plus, you’re not that skinny.
I’m here to tell you you’ll go out there and, maybe something to do with all those empty champagne flutes you’ve left around the edges of the room, you’ll butt into the first even numbered group you see and… it’ll be…
fine.
They’ll be glad to have you butt in. Their conversation was drying up before you came. Nobody really likes the talking and waiting bit.
You’ll get chatting to a nice lady. She’ll be the auntie of the best man who feels like she is, by extension, the auntie of the groom and now therefore, by extension, the auntie of the bride. Something like that. She’ll be a town planning consultant. She’ll tell you a very interesting fact about how long people wait at traffic lights in a lifetime, then she’ll tell you it’s actually made up and probably not true, because how could anyone actually know that?
Then the waiting will be over. For the speeches and the food, you’ll be sat next to another odd number. You’ll ask him where he’s been hiding this whole time. He’ll tell you he’d found a cloak room. He’ll tell you he’d spent at least an hour there, burying his face in people’s jackets to smother the sound of his screams of anguish and existential dread. You’ll tell him you wish you’d thought of that. You’ll tell him you’d spent that whole time looking for a rock hammer.
“To maim all the other guests?” he’ll say.
“Something like that,” you’ll say.
Then you’ll agree, the best way forward is to keep drinking.
You’ll drink.
You’ll dance. With him. With town planner auntie. And the groom’s granny. And the bride’s uncle Jimmy. And everyone else. You’ll belt out the wedding band’s versions of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ and ‘Wonderwall’ and you’ll invade the stage and encourage everyone else to do the same and even though nobody will, it won’t matter, because…
It’ll be fine in the end. You’ll be sad when it’s over.
Anyway.
I’m exhausted now. All that dancing. All that singing. The bruises from the stage dive. I’m going to bed.
I just thought I’d drop in on you before I call a taxi, because I’ve been where you are now. It was brutal. Really tough. Could have done with somebody like me there in my ear.
So there it is. Have another flush or two. Finish that champagne. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Get yourself out there. Act amazed when you get told that fake fact about traffic lights and waiting. Dance. Sing. Invade.
And in a few hours, don’t forget to check back in on the you of the past.
Neil Clark is a writer from Edinburgh, Scotland. His debut collection of cosmic short fiction - TIME. WOW. - is out in October 2020 on Back Patio Press. He has also published other stories widely online. Visit neilclarkwrites.wordpress.com for a full list of publications, or catch him on Twitter @NeilRClark.
