I was whacked, so I took a hefty whack of the Paddy.
Mistake! It let her commit the dreaded one.
“Did you ever hear of the Dylan Thomas poem on the death of his father?”
“No.” Very quiet I said that.
“Oh... well it goes, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’”
“I see.” My heart was pounding.
“I must get you a copy,” she ended.
Worse and worse. Visions of her reading this to me over open caskets began to shape. I stood up.
“All the best now... goodbye.” And I fled.
A measure of my terror was the glass of whiskey I left behind. Did you ever? I knew I’d dream of her mouthing “Rage rage against the dying of the light...” No amount of whiskey would remove that taste. I did what I could. I crawled into the nearest card shop and, sure enough, a flurry of Desideratas were scattered expensively. It’s my heritage to try to erase nausea with saccharin. The platitudes induced the inertia... not the ideal solution, but I couldn’t crawl into a bottle if I was to work later. My mother left one legacy. A leather-bound copy of Thomas Moore’s “Irish Melodies.” The dialogue between living and dead is captured in “O, Ye Dead”... which lines I memorized:
“It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
and the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;...
That ere, condemn’d we go
To freeze ’mid Hecla’s snow.
We would taste it awhile and think we live once more!..”
I spoke to a fellah who frequented the early morning houses by the docks. He had no doubts about resurrection. According to him, the dead lined up each morning. No conversation. Absolute quiet. An hour after opening, the “curses” took effect and the “dead” indeed came back to alcoholic life.
All through Joyce is the theme of the dead returning. In Ulysses, Stephen sees corpses rising from their graves like vampires... to deprive the living of the joy. Like the Inland Revenue. “The Dead” begins with a party and ends with a corpse. Like Finnegan’s Wake, you get the blend of “funferal” and “funeral.” America sags under the weight of Joycean study. My own favourite piece of Joycean lore was uttered by his daughter Lucia. Hearing of her father’s death she said... in disbelief:
“What is he doing under the ground, that idiot. When will
he decide to come out? He’s watching us all the time.”
Who’s to say.
I work as a security guard. It’s not in preparation for better things. I have no aspirations to act or better myself. The shift system is ideal for my funeral timetable. When I told my father, he laughed.
“It takes you all your time to mind your own business.”
Neither of us noted the significance of his next remark.
“Anyway, it’s your funeral.”
The Weir and Marisa were now indistinguishable. Over the bar, I knew I had to change my behaviour. For the moment I settled for changing my drink.
“A Jameson please?”
A fellah was nodding into his pint. He looked up.
“Did you ever see God?” he asked.
“I’d say you saw him recently,” said the barman.
“Fruggit,” he said.
A new obscenity or more of the same, but slurred... perhaps.
I’d just ordered the coffee. She arrived.
“I got you that,” I said.
“Thanks.” Whoops, the ice dripped from the gratitude. Murder with manners.
“Will you sit for a minute?” I asked.
“Okay,”... I had to ignore the tone of sulk. I’d go for broke. I began.
“I like you a lot, but I’m woeful in the beginning. If you could suspend the surface stuff. Bear with me for awhile till you see if mebbe we have something going here. Could you ignore the outside while, as Donne wrote, ‘our souls are in negotiation.’”
She smiled. Donne is an unfailing hook. I waited. Fiddled with the nigh on empty glasses. I was on the verge of laying out the gist of Lowry’s Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid. That nervous I couldn’t throw the ole “don’t care switch.” She spoke. Phew-oh.
“I dunno what to make of you. The most I see of you is your back... rushing away. You have me mystified. I’d like to take the chance. I read that funeral thing you gave me so I’m going to ask you the same. Then I’ll leave and I’ll meet you here on Saturday night. Is that okay?”
I nodded. She gave me a sheet of paper, smiled awkwardly, and left. I read:
“And Dark Rain”
Out of the rain
a suitcase full of show
contains
a sandwich turned
to staler expectations... eating
slow
un-relished most
is eaten sat
at but another departure
have put in motion
hurt... I feel intense
these hours — lull
of cheered conversation
buzzin’ clear, breathin’ agonised
“the rain itself was dark”
if you I might part ways
have freed from this
I’d travel... whoa
that twice it back again
if you’d be un-affected
stand!
to grant me un-afraid
the moment
in our loss.
And what was I to make of that. “Fruggit,” I said and got me another one of them Jameson. Marissa and I would be okay, I reckoned. As long as she kept out of the funerals, we’d have a shot at it.
Family!
“Will you come to the house?” she asked.
We were sitting on the Square. Side-steppin’ the winos, we’d wrestled a bench from a stray tourist.
“No,” I said and said nothing else. Long pause. The winos had put the make on the tourist.
“Is that it... blunt and no explanations?” she fumed.
I considered carefully.
“Right.”
“Just come once... and I’ll never ask you again.” It was now a point of principle. I had to make a stand. All sorts of un-spoken freedom rested on my not submitting. True to my heritage... I said, “Okay.”
“What... janey mack... will I ever understand you... cripes, thanks. Call tonight so... am... at eight.”
Dazed... she left. The head wino bowed graciously as she passed. Preoccupied, she neglected to give him anything. Her turn towards the town was orchestrated with a hail of abuse. The type that begins, “I know your ould wan,” and trails off in spittle and, “God blast all belong to you...”
Few have the hallmark in abuse like the Irish. The Americans have an elaborate style which prefaces their obscenities with mother... This may be a by-product of a matriarchal society. The essence of their swearing further involves the addition of an initial to various deities as in Jesus H. Christ.
Growing up, two names held complete power. You knew you were in deep stew when an adult described you as a “pup.” And the ultimate trouble... was when teeth-grit they whispered, “You young pup”... you could prepare your will on that. Second only to this was a “blackguard” used to describe low-life of every type.
A wino sat beside me.
“How-yah,” he croaked.
“Fair to middlin,’” I replied.
I knew he wouldn’t ask for money as his greeting hadn’t included, “Sur.”
“We’ll hardly get a summer now,” he said.
“Right enough,” I said.
The fact that it was November was neither here nor there. Neither of us remarked on it. He produced the Cyrus and gave it a fierce wallop. It took him places as he twitched and jerked to silent melodies.
“Ar... gh... ah... orh... whee.”
I took this to be appreciation of the desired effect. I took my leave and left him to his visions.