The Wristband

By Dan Vevers

“That’s a perfect mix,” I called over to Phil, who looked up from the sound-desk at the end of the Church sanctuary. “Just leave it like that. Thanks a lot.”

Phil nodded, and I moved up to the microphone, guitar in hand, with the rest of the band – a pianist, a drummer and a bass-player – standing behind me, poised to play. With four snaps, the drums counted in, and the song commenced.

It went well. The steady beat, flavoured by the odd fill, was iced by the clean, synchronised bass line, while my guitar chords blended richly with the piano, accompanying its delicious melodic line. Not only that but the song itself was uplifting, with a sing-along crescendo chorus, and a verse that complimented the chorus rather than being some bland part in between. My soul sighed, content, no longer hungry. A song of such quality and depth was food for the soul, and through this microphone I could express and echo the very essence of myself. I wanted to laugh out loud, or to sing as loud as God could make me, and colours changed in my eyes; they brightened.

We finished the piece with a grinning flourish, and I said: “Well, that one sounds OK.” The rest of the band laughed, because we all knew it sounded better than that.

Our pianist shuffled some papers. “I think the service will go just fine come Sunday.”

It was every once in a while that the Youth Fellowship, a youth group in our Church, of which all of us present were members, were given a slot to carry out the evening service. We, the Youth band, were to be leading the worship, and after tonight, the most successful out of a string of very successful rehearsals, we were rather confident.

The bass-player looked at her watch.

“That’s pretty much half-eight now,” she said, almost regretfully.

We all nodded and began to pack up our gear, also returning all the cables, microphones, and collapsible music stands to the storage cupboard.

I took my wad of sheet music from my stand, already stacked in order, and filed them away in the folder I had brought in my bag. Then, as I folded up my stand, I saw that the pianist was having trouble folding hers.

I sighed jokingly and moved over to help her.

Eventually, with our instruments packed and on our backs, obviously excluding piano and drums, we flicked the lights in the Sanctuary off and left it, locking the door behind us.

We were in the Church’s reception; I admired its pleasantness, all soft crèmes, oranges, light hazy greens, the large room lit with gentle yellow lights. Everything, the colours, the lights, the warmth, seemed to fit some unknown criteria in me. We walked the small, softly carpeted set of stairs down from the Sanctuary to the ground floor of the reception, and made our way to the Church’s front door. Following the same easy procedure, flicking the lights off and locking the front door behind us, we left the Church building, going out into the dusky evening. It was mild, a warm, slight, breathy breeze on the air. The expansive sky was sumptuous, like some exquisite dessert, fading red fused with darkening blue. All of us exchanged a curious, benign, inexplicable smile, as if by God’s grace we were all feeling the same thing at once. What I felt was blessed, and no longer hungry.

I saw my mum’s car waiting nearby, and said goodbye to my friends before going in. We drove home.

It came to pass that since my departure from the house earlier in the evening to go to rehearsal, my father had come over to the house. He was still in his suit, a sign that he had come straight from work in Edinburgh to come and see us, which was a happy thought. My father was all man, tall, a good-natured but occasionally hard face, and calculating brown eyes. Those eyes I had never seen cry at all, not even during the tearful family discussion a few years back where mum and dad had announced they were to split. He was the only one who didn’t. He was all man, and a brilliant man in my eyes. He was not always there, but there when it really mattered. He was not always happy, but he always tried to be encouraging. I loved him.

My dad and I sat at the dining table; I was eating my late dinner, while the rest of the family had already eaten. Suddenly, his eyes caught my wrist. He pointed to my wristband. It was blue, but in white it had the picture of a little outline of a fish, and a bit further on around the band, the initials W.W.J.D.?

“What’s that?” he inquired.

“It represents my faith,” I replied.

He looked at me, brown eyes drilling; it was the look I feared, the one that was unreadable. He could privately be mocking me in his own mind, or he could be feeling shame at my beliefs, beliefs he did not possess.

“And what do those initials stand for?” he asked again, his eyes glancing back over the band.

I really hesitated this time. I felt proud that I’d had the courage to mention my faith in the first place, but I was thoroughly frightened that if I told him the answer he would finally laugh right in my face. But the resolve in my soul hardened, and almost seemed to blossom so that it consumed all my inhibitions. It was right to be honest.

“It stands for What Would Jesus Do,” I declared.

And his eyes were back on me, and this time there was something behind those striking browns, a sort of desperation to understand. My mother had once told me he was terrified to the bone of death. It was almost as though he was pushing himself to suddenly believe me, but I knew it would be no use. Yet, I thought, if I have merely planted some vague concept of faith and desire to have it that wasn’t present before, I will have done God proud.

As I expected, a moment later, Dad had shrugged, and pushed out his bottom lip in a gesture of mild indifference. “Fair enough…”

Later, I had finished my dinner and washed the dishes (“But that’s your brother’s job on the rota today,” my mum had said. “He can have the day off,” I’d replied with a smile. She had told me he probably wouldn’t even notice, but I said that didn’t matter). The night was peaceful. The television hummed and chattered prettily, music streamed from a door of another room ajar, and the family continually conversed, but all this mixed to form a kind of quiet tranquillity. No sound could irritate or distract me from this feeling of peace. If anything, the comforting, routine sounds of my home heightened the calm, rising and rising but simultaneously diminishing. By the time it was all over, the only sound left to my ears was the quiet voice of the thoughts inside my head.

Then I went through to my warm bedroom, undressed, and slid into bed. I turned off the light. It returned to me that I had not packed my bag for the morning, or completed a History essay with a deadline for that next day. Still, I concluded that tonight, I was content in my soul. Such routine things, I thought, minor problems of tomorrow like essays and unpacked bags, were part of a physical life separate to the happiness of my inner being.

And I’d suddenly remembered with a thrill that tomorrow night, the new episode of my favourite TV show, Spooks, was on. I smiled.

Next morning, I found myself hunting feverishly in my brothers’ drawers for a pair of socks. I was horrified to find that the only couple of socks left that would fit me were odd, one red and one purple. Not only were these two colours an appalling mismatch, but they would have to accompany black school trousers a little short at the ankles. I groaned with distaste. I showered in a rush, I breakfasted in a rush, I packed my bag in a rush, and ultimately, I arrived at school late.

I hurried from my mum’s car into the school building, holding my bag up over my head against the grey wind and drenching rain. This was Scotland, I thought.

I barged into History, the rest of the glass seated and with their equipment out. I sat down and threw my History stuff from my bag onto my desk. The girl next to me glanced at me, annoyed at my bustling, a full pencil case and a neat folder in front of her.

“Essays then, please,” the teacher said to the class. Immediately, the girl next to me shot her hand in the air, three sheets of an essay held in her hand, which the teacher took from her with a positive smile.

“And yours?” she asked sweetly to me, but with a taint of lemon bitterness, as if she already knew, which she probably did.

“It’s on my desk at home, I was in a rush this morning,” I lied, my voice sounding fatigued, which I hoped would work to my advantage.

“First thing tomorrow,” the teacher replied, not a trace of sympathy in her voice.

Following that ordeal, I retreated to the common room, slumping myself in a grubby white armchair.

About half way through my free period, my friend Matt came in.

“Hey,” he said, taking a seat opposite me.

“Hey,” I replied. “How’re you?”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, fine,” he said. “Just wondering, did you bring that CD today?”

It was months ago that I had borrowed the CD from Matt, and if my recollections served me correctly, this was the thirteenth day running he had asked me for it back and not received it.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Sorry, I keep forgetting. Tomorrow, I swear this time.”

Matt said nothing, but for a second his face seemed to grey, suddenly hard and coarse.

“No you won’t,” he suddenly blurted, his voice shaking a little with anger. “Cal told me you snapped it. He saw it at yours this week-end.”

I winced. Christ, this was awkward. Of course, Matt was absolutely right, but I had meant to furtively buy a new copy of the CD and pass it onto Matt as his own.

“It was an accident,” I tried to explain, but Matt was sore.

“Piss off,” he said, and he left the common room.

I felt a major twinge of annoyance. That had been really unnecessary of Matt, I thought angrily. Well, at least Spooks was on tonight. That would lift this bad day.

Not long later, the bell for break rang, and I was reminded that I was meant to be on duty preserving order in the canteen queues. Another bloody sixth year duty. I made my reluctant way down to the canteen.

In the white and grey, bare-walled canteen, I stood watching the younger pupils marching dully forward, step-by-step in the queue, I saw a small blond-haired boy blatantly skip several places in the queue. As several skipped pupils protested in my direction, I made my way over.

“Come on,” I said to the blond boy in a bored voice. “Come on, back of the queue, I saw you skip.”

The boy whined and bickered with me; I felt like hitting the irritating little sod.

“Hey, I know you,” he suddenly exclaimed, in a clear attempt to change the subject. “You play in a Christian band!”

Several students around the boy snickered at this. Buoyed by this, the blond boy went on:

“So do you, like, go to Church every Sunday?” he asked incredulously.

I hesitated for a moment. Did honesty serve any real purpose here?

“Hardly,” I scoffed. “I only go when my mum’s in a mood with me.” This earned a general laugh. “Right,” I said to the boy. “Come on, back of the queue.”

Muttering, the troublesome boy stomped to the back.

It was lunchtime, and I had just endured two more completely flavourless, under-nourishing and unproductive classes. I sat down in the common room again and swung my bag off my back. Books, folders, dictionaries, a pencil case, a lunch box and a bottle of water suddenly spilt from my bag onto the floor. My zip had broken – again! The bottle of water opened as it hit the ground and flooded water all over my shoe.

“For God’s sake!” I growled.

I put my stuff back into my bag, fixed up the zip as best I could, and tried to dry my shoe. Then I got my lunch and hungrily started to eat, but by the time I was finished, I barely felt like I’d consumed a thing. Well, at least the new Spooks episode was on that night. I couldn’t wait.

A bunch of boys were chattering. A loud, scrawny boy barked some cocky laugh at a joke he had just told, while the other guys chorused with him. I listened.

“So wait, wait,” the scrawny boy said, clearly recounting some humorous story. “You’re going to blow yourself up in religious protest? Well, if you like…”

The guys surrounding him chortled again. “Religion,” the boy went on in a well-practised tone of cynicism. “Cause of all wars.” He looked over at me and pointed. “Let’s ask him, he’s a bible boy. It’s just a question, mate, but do you like War?”

I just ignored them, as they hooted on, like bloody monkeys.

“Hey, hey!” the scrawny said again, addressing me. “Jesus man, where’s your wristband today?”

I smiled condescendingly at him. But then I checked my wrist, and it suddenly occurred to me that he was right. Where the hell was my wristband? I always wore it, I loved it, I only ever took it off to go in the shower…

Ah. The shower. Rushed. I realised that I’d left the wristband in the bathroom. It hadn’t been on my wrist all day. Streams of thoughts began pouring into my mind, wild suggestions about why today had been such a bad day and why I’d set such a good example of how to be a bad Christian. I suddenly realised and knew it all. I needed the wristband … it did not just represent my faith, it was necessary to sustain my faith! Without it, I was a bad Christian! With it, a good Christian! It was my link to God and Christ-likeness! It was a personality split, and whichever of the two personalities I took on depended on if that band was on my wrist or not! It all made perfect sense, I thought wildly. Perfect sense!

I rushed out of the common room, out of the school altogether. I hurried to the pay phone, fired in a couple of coins, and called my mother at work.

“Mum!” I said down the phone. I knew I sounded frenzied. “Mum, can you take a lunch break and give me a lift home, I just need to pick something up!”

“What?” the voice on the receiver asked.

I hesitated once more. “My wristband,” I said at last.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m really busy, you can get your wristband when you get home.”

The phone cut out – my credit had run its course. I returned to school, dejected, feeling condemned to an afternoon as a bad Christian. I looked at my bare wrist. I was so hungry. But at least Spooks was on tonight. That would cheer me up.

Homework done tonight, I moved in front of the television. Spooks! I salivated over the prospect – last week’s episode had ended on a real cliff-hanger. I had been waiting for this all week, never mind all day. My brother suddenly walked in.

“Is it all right if I change the channel?” he asked.

“What?” I cried, in true dismay.

“It’s just that there’s a documentary on TV tonight that will be really good for my Geography project…”

“Now Tom,” said my mum, addressing my brother. “That’s not fair. Your brother’s been waiting for this all week.” Tom nodded his head and made to shut the lounge door. I hesitated. My comfort or his? W.W.J.D.?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I suddenly said to Tom, and I smiled at him. “Watch your show, I don’t mind, I’m sure there will be repeats!”

I got up and gave my brother Tom my chair.

The fact that my entire week had been building up to this night was unimportant, trivial. If I could somehow help my brother, then that was ten times more satisfying for all concerned. It was right to be kind, right to be helpful, right to be honest, right to be organised, right to be proud of one’s faith. Until this moment, I had been neither of these things all day. I had been a bad Christian, and I had thought I’d known why.

But then, surprise, and an epiphany. I looked at my wrist – no wristband! Now, I felt a fool for my thoughts that lunchtime, the wildness with which I had had come to my senseless conclusion and phoned my busy mother. The wristband? The wristband was just a wristband. Sure, it represented my faith, but it was just a band of blue cotton with a design and a set of initials on it. It had never determined which side of my personality I would spend my day on. Good Christian and bad Christian were one and the same: me. The wristband did not matter. All that mattered was the choices I’d made that day to make it such a disappointment. A workman never blames his tools. The wristband was a symbol, not a catalyst. My faith was in my soul, not my wrist.

What cheered me most now was not the thought that there would probably be repeats of Spooks, not that I had just shown my brother kindness, not even that I had committed a selfless, good deed without the wristband on. What cheered me most was that I was no longer hungry inside. Last night in bed, I had been mistaken. A feeling of peace in one’s physical life irrevocably led to peace in one’s soul. They were not separate. They were the same. They were me.