Joe's Wedding. Gareth O'Callaghan
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then, since it’s my bench I don’t mind sharing with you.”
CHAPTER THREE
The old man sat down beside Joe and extended his hand. “My name is Marty. Pleased to meet you …”
Joe half-looked sideways. The old man’s face was full of deep lines. It was well-tanned and healthy looking. He looked tired but relaxed. “Joe’s the name.” He wasn’t going to shake hands with the beggar who’d been up to his elbows in every bin in wherever he was. “Now will you do me a favour and push off? I’m trying to sort out a little problem here.”
“Well, Joe, I always say to people, a problem halved is a problem shared. Maybe I can help you work it out. I can give you a few minutes.”
Joe looked at Marty. “Get lost, will you!” he shouted.
Marty bowed his head slightly. “There’s no need to be so badtempered, young fella. It’s been a long time since anybody spoke to old Marty like that. Is something bothering you?”
“Yes. I’m supposed to be getting married today.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you. You must be over the moon with excitement. Mind you, you sound like someone who’s going to a funeral, not a wedding.” Marty made himself comfortable. “I remember when I got married.” He rubbed his chin and fixed his hat on his head. “It was the happiest day of my life, quite some time ago I have to admit. My God, when I think back, she looked beautiful, did my Cathy. What time is the wedding?” Marty asked.
“Three. But I don’t think I’m going to make it. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
“Why not, Joe?”
Joe slapped his knees and kicked the seat. “Slight problem. I’m meant to be getting married in Dublin.”
“Dublin! And what are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story. Do you mind me asking you where exactly we are?”
Marty was amused by Joe’s question. “Holyhead. You’re in north Wales, lad! You’re overlooking the Irish Sea, Joe. Isn’t it gorgeous?” Marty admired the view. “One of the most beautiful mornings we’ve had all year. We don’t usually get this sort of fine weather in November. I guess God was in one of his better moods when he woke up this morning. It’s been raining non-stop for the past two weeks here. You’d have caught your death lying there if it had been last night.” Marty smiled. “Anyway, how come you’re here in Holyhead on the morning of your wedding?”
“A few of my friends decided to play a cruel joke on me when I was drunk last night. They got me into a taxi and drove me down to the car ferry and put me on it.”
Marty looked confused. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing, I guess. Probably just trying to get me back for all the cruel jokes I played on them down through the years.”
“Have you called home?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Well, are you going to go back on the boat?”
“I don’t have a ticket.”
“Sounds pretty nasty, Joe. You’re kind of stuck in limbo. Not looking too good for your wedding.”
Joe sighed. “Guess so.”
“How come you’re dressed up as Superman?” Marty asked.
Joe looked down at the clobber. “I haven’t a clue. Look, what do you want anyway? You’re making my headache worse with your stupid questions. I don’t have any money, OK? I’d give you some if I had it. So why don’t you just piss off and let me work this out.”
Marty stared at Joe before turning and gazing at the sea. “You don’t really mean that, do you, Joe? I reckon if I stood up now and walked away you’d be off that bench like a scared cat running after me.”
“Please … just go away. Do your begging somewhere else. I’m not interested.”
“What did you just say there, Joe … begging? Do you really think I’m a beggar? I’m not a beggar. And if I wanted your money I’d have robbed you blind hours ago while you were in a drunken coma on this bench. Just because I dress like this doesn’t mean I’m poor. Nor does it mean I’m weak. I was a champion boxer in my day. I’ve got medals and trophies to prove it.” Marty clenched his fist. “You see that?” He held it under Joe’s chin. “That could take your head clean off with one hard left-hook.”
“Yeah, right,” Joe mocked. “You’ve been drinking too much cheap wine, old man.”
“No. I don’t drink, Joe. I like to keep a clear head. I never know who I’m going to meet. My clothes might look a bit odd. But that’s all. You can’t judge someone’s heart by the clothes they wear, or the face they have. It’s just like you. You’re dressed up as Superman, the action hero – every kid’s favourite. But there’s nothing super about you, Joe. You’re just a rude, arrogant kid.”
“I’m not a kid! And I’m not rude and arrogant.”
“Really? I’d hate to see you on a bad day,” Marty said quickly. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Well, start behaving like a twenty-five-year-old instead of some jumped-up little kid who’s just turned thirteen. What do you work at?”
“I sell cars.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sell many cars?”
Joe thought for a moment. “Enough to get me by.”
“How many decent cars do you sell, Joe?”
“All the cars I sell are decent.”
“How many lies does it take to sell one of your cars?”
“I’m not a liar.”
“You’re not talking to a customer now, Joe. I’m not standing on your forecourt putting all my trust in what you’re telling me, and handing over all the hard-earned cash it’s taken me years to make. Have you ever sold a dodgy car, Joe?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Marty laughed heartily. “Of course you do, Joe. Picture this: you’re trying to flog a five-year-old car that’s got a suspect history. You bought it from a scrap dealer who bought it from a guy who’d crashed it badly. Now you know I know nothing about cars. I trust your every word beyond a shadow of a doubt. If I was to ask you has this car been involved in a crash, would you tell me the truth?”
Joe roared laughing. “Of course not! What do you take me for … a complete fool? If I tell you that car had been wrapped around a lamppost, would you buy it?”
“Of course not. But I’d be surprised that you were trying to sell it to me in the first place. I’d warn everyone not to go near you.”
“That’s why I wouldn’t tell you in the first place. Looks are deceiving, Marty. The same goes for cars also.”
Marty smiled. “I guessed you’d say that. Now picture this: if Liz, your wife, fell in love with that same car in your showroom and told you she had to have it, would you let her drive it?”
“Of course not!” Joe said instantly.
“Well, what’s the difference?” Marty asked.
Joe mulled over his question. “What do you mean, what’s the difference? The difference is that a customer who walks in off the street is a stranger who I’ll probably never see again, so I don’t have to worry that I sold