I respond to the idiotic claims that homosexuality causes floods the only way I know how - in the form of a story.
~
“A
church wedding would have been nicer,” he overhears a second cousin saying at
the reception. Callum suspects this distant relative would also have preferred there
be a bride, as opposed to the two young men in suits who made their vows this
afternoon. He makes a mental note to strike the cousin’s name from his
Christmas card list.
He
didn’t even want extended family at the wedding; it was Mitchell who insisted
they have everyone there. His new husband (Husband! He can’t get his head around
the word) has a much more genial and forgiving nature. In fact, the only flaw
of his that Callum is still working on correcting is his tendency to drop
grammatical clangers from time to time.
“Shame
about the weather,” somebody closer to the top table remarks – Callum thinks it
might be Mitchell’s auntie. In this instance he is inclined to agree.
Torrential rains have turned the hotel grounds into a swamp, making any outdoor
photos completely out of the question.
A
nasty little thought squirms to life in the back of his mind. Something
ridiculous and half-forgotten. A story from the paper a few days before the
wedding. A politician with views that skew towards the radical claimed that the
government’s decision to allow same-sex couples to marry was the cause of the
recent extreme weather conditions ravaging the country. Mitchell dismissed the
councillor as “Old Testa-mental”, and used the article later that day to line
the cat’s litter tray. And Callum didn’t give it another thought. Until now.
“Don’t
be stupid,” he mutters to himself, pouring himself and his new hubby (ugh, no, ‘hubby’
is too saccharine, he decides) another generous glass of champagne. He is
rescued from his own dark thoughts by the sound of a spoon tinkling against a
glass.
“Good
evening, everyone!” Bellows his best woman, Ros. Oh, lord. He’d forgotten about
this part. It has kept him awake every night this week. He’s never been any
good at it, no matter how encouraging or patient Mitchell is as a teacher.
“What
are we calling you guys now – Mitchum? Callell?” Ros shrugs. “Anyway, ladies
and gentlemen, please be as upstanding, as our newlyweds take their first
dance.”
Callum
lets Mitchell lead him by the hand onto the dance floor, and the song they took
weeks to agree on begins to play; ‘You’re
My Best Friend’. Because, as Mitchell said at the time, their wedding just
wasn’t gay enough.
As
it turns out, dancing in front of everybody he knows isn’t that bad. He steps
on Mitchell’s feet a couple of times, but for the most part his awkward
shuffling is met with dewy eyes and heartfelt smiles. The song is almost over
when he hears the maniacal laughter. He spies the culprit at the back of the
room; a guest he doesn’t recognise in a bright blue suit and derby hat. He is throwing
back his head and laughing, clapping his hands, and hopping from foot to foot
like an excited child.
“Bet
you wish we’d stuck to close friends only,” Callum whispers in Mitchell’s ear,
nodding towards the dancing madman, who is attracting the attention of the
other guests.
Mitchell
frowns.
“I
have no idea who that is,” he replies. “I thought it was one of your old uni
mates?”
Callum
shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Well
let’s ask,” Mitchell says. “Looks like he’s coming over.”
And
so he is – the curious blue-suited gentleman is now at the edge of the dance floor,
observing the newlyweds and chuckling away. Once he notices that they have
stopped dancing and are, in fact, staring at him in utter bemusement, he steps
forward.
“Mind
if I cut in?” He asks Mitchell, not even waiting for a response before grabbing
Callum by the hand and spinning him around.
“Who
the hell are you?” Callum asks, trying his best to be angry but finding that
all he feels is relief – his feet finally seem to know what they’re doing, and
he is matching this lunatic step for step in what can only be described as an
epileptic jive. The music is louder than before, faster, and the other guests
are soon sweeping onto the dance floor to join the revelry.
Thunder
can be heard over the music, as it rolls across the sky outside.
“I’m
Ba’al,” says the intruder. The apostrophe rings in Callum’s ears. “But you can
call me Bill.”
“Ba’al,”
Callum echoes. “What kind of name is that?”
“A
very old one,” Bill replies, clicking his fingers in time with the beat. “It
means all sorts – thunder, rain, lord of the heavens. Take your pick.”
“You’re
insane,” Callum says, twisting his hips. Bill just laughs.
Mitchell
reappears, refreshed champagne flutes in each hand. “Everything alright here?”
“Fine,”
Callum answers, taking one of the glasses. “I’m just dancing with God.”
“A
god,” Bill corrects, snatching Mitchell’s champagne and knocking it back. “We’re
like the public sector. There’s loads of us.”
“Well
you weren’t invited,” Mitchell says, “but you’re more than welcome to stay and
enjoy the disco.”
“I
might just do that!” Bill squeezes Mitchell’s cheeks as if he were a
particularly cute toddler. “And is there a spread?” Mitchell nods, unflappable
as always. Callum is less inclined to accept this ludicrous turn of events.
“That
crazy bible-thumper was telling the truth about us, wasn't he.”
“It’s
true,” Bill says, smile faltering, standing still for a moment. “Your union has
made the gods weep.” Callum’s heart begins to sink. “But,” Bill continues, “these
are tears of joy falling from the sky. Mankind is finally making the progress we
have long known you capable of.”
“Huh,”
Mitchell murmurs. “Even gods end sentences on prepositions. How about that.”
The
rain god hoots with laughter once again, before moseying off through the
ecstatic throng in the direction of the buffet.
~
