“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”
Across the square, we saw a bunch of winos emerge from the toilets. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy.
“My young friend... my people await me... perchance we’ll talk again.”
“I’d like that.”
Not wild enthusiasm, but a certain tone of approval.
“I bid you adieu, and if I am to pray again I will mention your mater in the wilderness of Louth.”
The next time I saw Padraig, he was close to Louth himself.
I got to The Weir at eight. Marisa was waiting. She was clad in skin-close denim jeans, a heavy grey sweat shirt, and a maroon leather coat. Just right for the drug crowd who infested this pub at weekends. The serious drinkers retreated to the pubs below the Square. She looked delighted... to see me?
“How are you, Dillon?”
Energetic joy always throws me.
“I’m doing okay. What will you drink?”
“A snowball.”... in hell?
The Weir management knew their weekend trade. The barman had an earring and the attitude to match. Fixing his sneer, he fixed his attention to a point beyond my shoulder.
“Pint of Guinness, a Jameson, and... am... a snowball...”
“With a cherry?”
I was caught. I ran the range of immediate trade-offs. No. Too easy. At the same time, I reckoned I better get the ground rules down. He’d spew all over submissiveness.
“Yeah... but not in the Guinness.”
He got it. Raised his eyes to mine. For a second, I felt I was my father’s son. He got the drinks.
Marisa gave me a devastating smile. Was she smoking the weed?
“I missed you...”
“What! Was I late?”
“No... no. I mean yesterday and, yes, today, too.”
She was definitely on something. Who talks like that.
“Julie is going to join us and one of her suitors.” Was I now talking like her.
“Oh marvelous. She’s your friend... isn’t she?”
I downed a quart of Guinness. Sour. Bolt it in place with a wallop of Jameson. Better. I hoped Julie would arrive... soon. Marisa did whatever it is you do with snowballs. The best you can, I guess. Julie arrived, looking wonderful. She had a knee-length denim skirt... Aran sweater and a sailors reefer jacket. The jacket had the soft worn appearance that money can sometimes buy. Her boots would have cost my week’s salary... with overtime. A tall blond-haired guy held her hand. The type whom Woody Allen says “takes handsome lessons.” Good teeth, good build, good clothes. Good grief!
We did the introductions. Julie’s friend was Robbie. I got a round of drinks. Vodka for Julie and vodka for Robbie. Indeed a twosome. More stout and whiskey and a snowball for Marisa. There wasn’t any way that repetition made that drink more accessible. The earring took the cherry as given a slight suggestion that hash now appeared. Julie did that scene sometimes. I liked my drug wet and in a glass. Preferably in a lotta glasses. But... there it is. The three were brisk in conversation. “These are double vodkas,” yelled Robbie.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” He toasted Julie.
Now, what could I do. I got deep buried in my own drink. When in perplexity, run like hell. Spare me the Bogart drivel.
“Have you known Dillon long?” Julie asked.
“M... m... h...” from Marisa.
The aim of conspiracy she launched blended with the hash. I offered the cigarettes. As I expected — Robbie didn’t. I waited for the inevitable and it came.
“Don’t you know how dangerous smoking is?”
“I have a feeling you might be about to tell me.”
He looked to Julie. She said
“Do you work, Maura.”
“It’s Marisa... actually, I’m hoping to be a teacher.”
“Of what?”
“What... oh I see, well I was thinking of Montessori.”
“Why?”
“Am... I want to do something fulfilling.”
“Ah... the ‘Total Woman.’”
Marisa to here had drank viciously from the snowball. T’would take something more lethal than that to stop Julie.
“The Total Woman... I have a copy. I haven’t actually read it. Is it absorbing?”
“I dunno, I haven’t read it.”
Julie produced the black book and a wad of notes. Irish style, it was an indeterminate wad of bruised notes. All denominations. I saw a hint of drachmae in there. She pushed a flutter at Robbie.
“Get the drinks in... keep the vodkas doubled... Dillon will have the same and another yellow thing for Maire... yeah?”
“Oh yes please... and... am... it’s M-A-R-I-S-A.”
The black book was Julie’s catch all philosophy. She’d had it for years and wrote in whatever grabbed her. Kazantzaki featured heavily, Cavafy usually took pride of place. I had once offered some Emily Dickinson and she’d withered me. If I wanted to talk American women poets, she’d said, go find Anne Sexton. I was working on it. It could have been worse. I’d nearly offered Sylvia Plath... phew-oh.
Robbie arrived back — beaming.
“Ted works here,” he said.
Not receiving the ecstacy this warranted, he continued.
“Ted Joyce, he’s working part-time here... we were at college together.”
The Earring. It figured. The lash rose in me... did they take perhaps cordon bleu together. Julie shot me a look. I passed. Pity.
“What do you do, Robbie?” asked Marisa.
“I’m an articled clerk... at Boyd’s.”
Ol’ Ted took English Lit. Took it where, I wondered. A long standing insult down our street was “You dirty article.” I didn’t need to look at Julie. I passed here again. Julie found the quote.
“Listen to this, Marcy.”
Marisa was snowballing and missed the chance to give her name again. Julie read:
“High up in the mountains of Crete, it sometimes happens a milk-sop is born into a family of ogres. The father is at a loss. How can this... this jelly-fish be his son? He gathers the family. ’This son is a disgrace. What can we do with him? He can’t be a fighter, shepherd or a thief, he’s a disgrace.”
Julie took a hefty belt of vodka. If not exactly enthralled, we certainly looked attentive. Julie concluded:
“He’s a disgrace. Let’s make him a teacher.”
Robbie spoke first. “That reminds me of a joke... there was...”
“For chrissake,” said Julie.
He shut up. Marisa went to the ladies. The Earring gave Robbie a shout. Julie snapt the book shut. I asked, “So Julie, how do you like Marisa.”
I got the Emily D. look. “She says ‘actually’ a lot... I can see you’re taken with Robbie too—”
“Well Julie, I’ve been thinking of getting an earring... actually...”
“Do... and I’ll help you put it thru your nose.”
Truce... of sorts.
“In fact, Dillon, I have something of interest for you... Listen... listen to this... are you ready?”
“What’s ready, I’m interested — okay... is it something about Greek security guards?”
Julie gave the bleak smile.
“The dead have their own sad grammar
— he was
— he said
— he did...
Poor young man, thinned to a single tense...”
I had some whiskey, ah that sucker was sliding down slow and ferocious. I gave what she said some consideration. Why not, I thought. I was near through with my time of Julie affirmations.
“Well, I think people are stupid by a tense alright. But it’s not the past. Most people I know are crucified by the future... how the hell they’re gonna get by. How to pay for things. Most funerals these days, I hear less and less of grief and more of the expense of dying... a costly business.”