Franklin B Goodman is looking for love. As soon as he walks through the door, he begins searching for it in the clientele. He sees a young couple, notices how they keep touching each other’s hands and raising knowing eyebrows. There is enough love there already. At the table next to them, an older pair contain their love in the quiet and dignified discussion of matters important only to them. Further along, a gaggle of four girls keeps breaking out in uproarious laughter. For them, love is in their indestructible friendship. And for a gang of five lads near the bar, football is the focus of their passion at the moment.
Love is everywhere, just the way Franklin B Goodman likes it.
But not quite everywhere. The anomaly is striking, as it always is. It jars his universe. It’s the single black cloud in an unbroken expanse of blue sky.
The man sits alone at the bar, cradling a pint of beer. His eyes are already heavy with alcohol. When he scratches his nose, the movement is slow and lacking certainty. He appears to be in his early thirties – at least ten years younger than Franklin. His grey suit is as sober as he is drunk. He looks at nothing except the patterns in the froth of his ale.
He’s the one, Franklin decides. There’s an aching there, a desperate sorrow. He needs help.
Franklin navigates to a spot just a couple of feet away from the man. Not so close as to provoke any discomfort but near enough to strike up a conversation. He signals the bartender and orders a pint of bitter. He doesn’t like beer, or any alcohol-based drinks for that matter, but it looks as though that’s what the loner has in front of him. Franklin is aware that people make instant judgements according to choice of tipple. If he ordered wine or a spirit, he would be instantly labelled as hailing from a different tribe. The pint will act as his membership card. He is even willing to discuss football or boxing, if that’s what it takes. He reads the sports pages for that reason alone.
‘Cheers,’ he says to the man, then takes a long draught of the amber fluid. The foul taste makes him want to regurgitate it immediately, but he puts on a show of smacking his lips in apparent satisfaction.
He points to a stool next to him. ‘Anyone sitting here?’ he asks. It’s a question that begs one of two responses: a straight one, or a sarcastic one such as ‘Yeah, the ghost of my mother-in-law.’ Either way, it will tell him a lot about the man’s attitude and how much work will be required here.
The man plays it down the line. ‘No. Go for it.’
Franklin hitches himself up onto the stool. The man pays him no attention. He just stares straight ahead, both hands encircling his glass protectively.
‘This is a nice place,’ Franklin says. ‘Good atmosphere.’ He raises his glass. ‘Not a bad pint, either.’
‘It’s all right,’ says the man.
He’s not making this easy, Franklin thinks. But then sometimes love requires a lot of effort. Love deserves that effort.
His bet is on a woman. Love comes in many forms: for a god, for riches, for fame, for power. But in this case, he would stake everything on it being a woman. Personally, he wouldn’t know what that feels like, but he can recognise the signs. He’s done the research.
‘Having a good night?’ he asks. Of course, he knows the answer is negative. The question is whether the man will admit as much.
‘I’ve had better.’
A crack. The first chink. Something that can be prised open.
‘Yeah? What happened? Your horse fall at the final fence?’
‘Something like that,’ the man says, sealing the fissure again.
‘I’m just escaping the missus,’ Franklin tells him. ‘She’s in a foul mood tonight.’
Which will have three effects. First, it will reassure the man that Franklin is as hetero as they come, and that this isn’t an attempt to chat him up. Second, it moves things onto the topic of female partners – a subject that this man is bursting to talk about, even though he hasn’t realised it yet. Third, it says, I know your pain, brother. I will get where you’re coming from. So, share.
‘What’d you do?’ the man slurs. ‘Forget her birthday?’
‘If only. I could understand something like that. I mean, that would definitely be a pretty unforgivable mistake. But no. You want to know what it was?’
‘What?’
‘The dishwasher. I forgot to switch on the dishwasher. A simple error, right? Anyone could do it. I mean, it’s not as if I forgot everything. I cleared the plates and rinsed them, I loaded them into the dishwasher, I put in the little tablet thing. I just forgot to set the program. That’s not the worst thing in the world, is it? Anyone could do that. But she didn’t see it that way. She wanted a particular cup – because any old cup wouldn’t do, would it, oh no – and it wasn’t clean, and she freaked out. Over a cup. A fucking cup!’
He lets his mock fury build until it shines so brightly it cannot fail to penetrate this drunkard’s thick fog. The expletive at the end almost chokes him – he detests swearing – but he has found it to be a price worth paying to gain acceptance in male company.
‘Jesus!’ says the man. ‘Women!’
‘Tell me about it. You know what I mean, don’t you? I mean, you’ve been there, right?’
‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been there. Don’t know any man who hasn’t been there.’
He clams up again. Raises his glass and takes a good long swallow. Franklin notices he’s wearing a ring on his wedding finger. It’s not the conventional gold band but a silver ring with a gemstone.
‘The thing is,’ Franklin says, ‘it gets worse over time. When we got married, we hardly ever argued. Now, though, I’d say we argue at least once a day. And almost always over trivial things. Today it was the dishwasher. Yesterday it was about whose turn it was to fill the car with petrol. And that’s another thing. I’m not allowed to forget stuff, but her own memory is conveniently flexible when it suits her. I fill the car up all the time. I mean, all the time. She, on the other hand, just happened to fill it last week. In her mind, that means it must be my turn again. Would you call that reasonable?’
The man shakes his head but stays silent.
‘Sometimes I think I should do a trade-in for a newer model.’
‘Your car?’ the man asks.
‘No. My wife. I wouldn’t, though. The weird thing is that, despite all the arguments, I’m still crazy about her. I’d never get rid of her. Well, not unless she cheated on me or something.’
Franklin notices how the man’s face instantly sours, and that his response is to take another massive swig of alcohol in an attempt to rearrange it again.
‘Don’t be so sure she wouldn’t,’ the man says.
Ah, thinks Franklin. We’ve found the nerve. We’ve drilled through the enamel and found that sensitive little nerve.
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, all innocent.
‘They cheat. Women. They’re no different from men in that regard.’
