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In a darkened room stands a tall and lanky man with a shock of red hair atop his head and a faraway look in his eyes. It could be the common sadness, or perhaps anger; no one can really tell, not even the bartender who’s served him so many glasses of Macallan on the rocks that she’s beginning to think of him as her personal benefactor. She doesn’t even have to pretend to flirt with him. Sometimes he warns off the occasional eager young man, drawn to his mysterious allure shrouded in tight black jeans, with a scowl and a very impressive hiss. Mostly he keeps to himself, except when he sings.
The singing is fine, for this is a karaoke bar, where some people come to just inject a little merriment into their lives; while others pour their souls out into a microphone to a room full of drunks. The lanky one is, if anything, in the second group, and he has quite the repertoire. One night it’s 'Heroes' by Bowie; on another night (one which he'd probably be embarrassed to remember), it was 'Take Me to Church' by Hozier; and on multiple recent occasions, he's done a vaguely frightening performance of St. Vincent's 'Broken Man'. Some nights he just comes to stand in the corner, leaning against the ledge on the wall so his hands are well-positioned for wiping away any moisture around the eyes that, if neglected, would intrude upon the integrity of his aloof veneer.
He’s decided that tonight is a night for belting. Not many people can do justice to the Velvet Underground’s ‘Oh! Sweet Nuthin’!’, and he’s not one of them.
The lyrics and timing are flawless and he’s not even looking at the screen — he clearly knows this song well — but he’s screaming more than singing. The five? six? nine? Macallans he’s already had surely aren’t helping.
Say a word for Pearly May
She can't tell the night from the day
They threw her out in the street
But just like a cat, she landed on her feet
And say a word for Joana Love
She ain't got nothing at all
'Cause everyday she falls in love
And every night she falls
And when she does, she s—
And then he just stops, mid-lyric, and his jaw hangs open. The music keeps playing, the lyrics keep running across the screen, and the lanky one is silent. Some of the crowd make inebrious attempts at continuing for him, as if he were suddenly suffering a bout of stage fright and just needs some moral support to make it through the song.
The bartender tries to track his gaze as the music plays on without amplified vocal accompaniment. He’s looking towards the door. The only new person standing there is a man, soft and light, probably around the lanky one’s age, in some sort of Victorian gentleman cosplay. Do they know each other? Is the lanky one actually a cosplay hobbyist as well? No, that can’t be it. She laughs at the thought of him wiggling his reedy frame into a pair of flat front wool trousers and an elegant paisley waistcoat. If the soft one was a little more steampunk, less Sir SoandSo, she could see it. Two alternative sorts with a slightly different approach to being alternative. But there wasn’t a whiff of edginess to this one. He’s all prim, proper, controlled.
Then the lanky one scrambles off the stage, nearly tripping over his own long legs, dashes to the door and places a firm grip on the soft one’s shoulder to pull him into ‘his’ corner of the bar.
“What. Are you. DOING here?!” growls the lanky one. His expression is no longer its regular inscrutable. It is furious.
“Hello, Crowley, nice to see you as well,” the soft one deadpans. Sarcasm, well I’ll be! The bartender thinks that she really should be more open-minded after all she’s seen in this profession. And his name is Crowley! Why had I never even asked?!
“I just thought I’d come into this establishment and perhaps, hm, have myself a sing-along. Do you believe you’re the only one in Soho who fancies music accompanied by drink?”
“Why are you even here? In Soho?! Aren’t you supposed to be in—” the lanky one leans in closer to the soft one, and the bartender can’t hear what he says next.
“I’m on leave,” the soft one replies simply, arms crossed over his chest, and she can tell he won’t be engaging with any more of the lanky one’s impassioned inquiries. Without another word, he approaches the bar confidently and requests a song slip. He looks her right in the eye as he does, and it’s a little unnerving. Normally when someone does this they’re about to hit on her, but she is very sure she’s not his type, and this makes him even stranger to her. She hands him the slip and he quickly writes his choice onto it, then passes it back.
“I’m sorry sir, we don’t have this one in our catalog,” she says, pushing it back towards the soft one. The title has been penned in elegant script on the little piece of paper, and she observes that this whole Victorian gentleman getup must be more like a lifestyle. A realization dawns on her. This has got to be a sex thing, between the soft one and the lanky one! Now this, she can see. She already would have bet her life on the lanky one being a kinkster. She feels she has a much better handle on the situation unfolding in her bar right now, and calm washes over her.
“Who is the artist? Perhaps we have another option by them in our catalog, if that would do…”
“Oh, my dear, there is no particular artist. You see, this song is one you’ll often hear sung along the streets, at the market, or by labourers in the field, favoured by the common people of Cornwall, at least, well, it was last I spent time there in…”
The lanky one darts to the bar with a frantic energy she has never observed in him before. “What are you playing at, Aziraphale?” he exclaims as he reaches to grab the slip sitting on the bar, but the soft one is quicker, and crumples it into his fist.
The soft one puts a palm up to the lanky one in a command of silence. Surprisingly, the lanky one complies, and watches as the soft one waves his free hand in front of the bartender. “Now, surely you have this song in your catalog. It’s a very popular little tune from Cornwall,” he states assuredly. The bartender realizes she misspoke a moment ago. They do, in fact, have this song in their catalog. How silly of her. She shakes her head as if to refresh her brain, reload the page.
“Right then. You’ll be up after this song,” the bartender says, nodding towards the middle-aged man howling along to Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’, a classic she has the fortune of hearing at least three times, five if she’s particularly blessed, every night.
Soon the song begins to play, sweet and simple, plucked out on strings… not a guitar… a…a lute? It’s really no wonder she’s never heard this one before.
My sweetheart, come along!
Don’t you hear the fond song,
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?
Don’t you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below?
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.
He has a pleasant voice, strong and clear, obviously well-trained and practiced. He is making very intense eye contact with the lanky one. This guy and his eye contact! The bartender glances over to the lanky one, who has returned to his corner, trying his best to look disaffected as he buries most of his face in his hands.
Pray let me alone,
I have hands of my own;
Along with you I will not go,
To her surprise, the bartender sees that the soft one is losing his composure. Tears are welling in his eyes.
To hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
For I am afraid
To walk in the shade,
To walk in those valleys below,
To walk in those valleys below.
Oh my god — it dawns on the bartender — it’s not a sex thing! Or at least, not just a sex thing. These two are in love!
Pray sit yourself down
With me on the ground,
On this bank where sweet primroses grow;
You shall hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below;
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below,
Nor yet in those valleys below.
The lanky one has visibly lost it at this point. He’s crying, big heaving sobs that he’s trying but failing to suppress. His hands are slapping at his face, desperately struggling to wipe off the wetness coming free and fast from his eyes.
This couple agreed;
They were married with speed,
And soon to the church they did go.
She was no more afraid
For to walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below:
Nor to hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sung in those valleys below,
As she sung in those valleys below.
The soft one has somehow managed to keep it together just enough to finish his song. His cheeks are moist, his baby blues are swimming. He gently places the mic down on the edge of the bar then makes his way over to the lanky one coiled in on himself in his corner. His body language relaxes almost imperceptibly as the soft one approaches.
“Crowley,” he says, hands grasping the lanky one’s biceps with resolve, “you know where to find me.” The soft one forces a half-smile, and receives a faint nod in response.
Then the soft one walks out, and the temperature of the room seems to drop by several degrees just as soon as the door shuts behind him.
After a moment spent staring off into the distance, the lanky one comes over with his credit card and closes out his tab, not sparing a single word.
The bartender isn’t sure she’ll ever see him again.