The Arms, Unravelled

The Arms were named as such because no one had ever seen them without their arms intertwined around one another’s waists. This despite the 100 degree heat and the culture’s disdain for such public displays. Though this limb locked couple lived and worked in the foreign town, they were anything but acclimatised. Rather than eat at the local restaurants or even the requisite Irish pub, they shopped daily at the foreign goods market and cooked their 7 euro bags of pasta and tins of sauce in the company provided flat. In the evening as the sun set a bright pink behind the palms and the other ex-pats were well into their third big bottles of Leo, the Arms walked past, tennis racquets in their free hands, the woman’s coiffed bob bouncing up and down and the flesh beneath her tennis skirt jiggling ever so slightly. At the local country club, separated at last by a low sagging net, they grunted and cheered their way to victory, the loser giving the loudest cheers. As the couple returned, they purposefully ignored the shouts and queries from the ex-pats who had moved on to Samsung and Coke.

After the couple had left the range of the ex-pats’ blurred vision, they ceased to be a topic and discussion moved on to other such matters of importance such as Harleys and the woes of being a homeowner in a foreign country. Occasionally regret would seep into the flow of the conversation but would be banished by the simple act of ringing the bell for more ice and beer to be brought to the table.

One day the man walked to the table and without saying a word, sat down. The ex-pats’ conversation stopped suddenly as they all turned in unison to stare at him.

“How does one procure a libation around here?”

The men began shouting so loudly for Mai that she came running out, terrified that someone had finally had a heart attack.

“What’s wrong??”

“Bring this man a beer.”

“That all? You men crazy!”

The ex-pats watched as the man filled his glass and drank the contents in one gulp. The others, more quietly this time, signalled for a round to be brought.

“So, uh, where’s the missus?”

“You mean the captivating damsel with whom I occasionally walk?”

“Yeah.” Nods all around.

“Well, a quite amusing thing happened. Hysterical, actually. I came home early. Threw the old back out during last night’s match, you see. Thought I’d have a lie down and watch a bit of telly. After all, I’ve been working 50 hour work weeks in this shit box of a country for six straight months now. Figured I deserved a break.”

The men grunted their approval as glasses were refilled.

“So, I shuffled slowly up the stairs like an old man in a nursing home. Without the drool, of course. At the door, my door, mind you, I could hear moaning, like someone at death’s door. I thought ‘My God! Something’s happened to Elaine’. I was frantic, terrified to the core, Gentlemen! For no reason at all, I thought of our wedding day and how utterly perfect it’s all been up to this point. Ah, what a fickle cunt the old memory is, am I right?”

“Fuck yeah.” More nods, grunts, and refills. Someone lit a cigarette.

“I fumbled with the lock like a drunken idiot for what seemed like ages and finally opened the door. And then. Ah, that sweet, sweet ass as the Americans would say.”

The man paused and poured beer slowly and deliberately, smiling as the level rose in the glass. He pointed at one of the boxes of cigarettes and silently asked permission with raised eyebrows. After coughing and sputtering a few moments, he sat back in his chair, folded one leg over the other and continued.

“The first thing I saw was my wife’s derriere, as milky white as the day she was born, or so I imagine. My first thought was, ‘how the hell did they get on that glass table without breaking it?’ Quite impressive, it was. And behind my wife’s behind was a young lad, couldn’t be more than 20 pounding away at her as if his very life depended on it. So utterly immersed were they in their recreation that they didn’t even hear me. Imagine!”

“Holy shit, Comrade. That’s some fucked up mess. Local?”

“Quite.”

“You need something more than this elephant piss. Mai! Get my bottle from the back. And the glasses. Five!”

The men exchanged glances, trying not to appear too gleeful that they were going to get some actual whisky tonight.

They sat in silence for a moment, savouring the slow and gentle heat from the Laphroaig, relishing in its smoky earthiness.

“Jesus. How long you two been married?”

“Eleven years next month. Eleven!! Oh the irony of it, really. Did you know that the anniversary gift for your eleventh year of wedded bliss is steel? Steel! Last year, the big 1-0, was diamonds, so Princess was given lovely rocks for her lovely lobes. Any of you lot married?”

The man with the bottle nodded and gestured towards Mai who sat watching soap operas inside the shop. “Five years with this one. Too many years with the one back home.”

The other men shook their heads and one spoke up, “No way. Never. No woman is going to take my freedom and half my wages.”

“What woman would have ya?” The men continued in the vein of insulting one another’s skills with the opposite sex until Mick, eager to get back to the story and hoping for more drama, and therefore another drop of whisky, said, “What did you do?”

“Do?”

“Yeah, when you caught your lady getting shagged in the kitchen. What did you do?”

“What any man would do. I beat them both to bloody pulps. And the best part. Ah, you’ll love this. With a 15 kilo dumbbell. Made of steel. Happy anniversary, Darling!”