When one of the guys in the unit finally took the hurly from Stapleton’s bloody hands, the shaft had actually ruptured and grey matter clung to the end. They buried the kid in a shallow grave, Stapleton flung the stick in, too, muttered,
“May you roast in hell, you treacherous cunt.”
That’s who Stapleton was.
“It Ain’t Cool to Be Crazy About You”
Next day, I hailed a cab, went to Ground Zero. Nothing had prepared me, not the newspapers, the TV images, seeing the sheer emptiness devastated me. I tried to read the notices honouring the dead but had to turn away. The enormity of the loss was too much to grasp and I walked, as fast as I could.
I don’t know how long I strode but gradually my mind refocused and I saw Rosie O’Grady’s, went in, and the barman said,
“How are you doing, sir?”
Sir!
I said I was good and could I have a large Seagram’s, water back. He placed it before me and I took a hefty belt, waited for it to mellow me out.
It did.
Easing out a suppressed breath, I shook my head to clear the images. Tommy, going, the first time he saw the Towers,
“Fucking hell.”
Tommy wasn’t easily impressed, worked at taking everything as no big deal, kept the world low key. His home life had been chaotic and his anger he’d converted into feigned indifference. We’d grown up on the same street and been friends from the off, during my college years, I’d often tried to pair him with various women. He’d say sure and then behave so badly they never lasted. Over pints, late, after my final exams, he’d said,
“You know, Steve, I never had a good idea in my life.”
I was the worse for wear, that hour when maudlin is dangerously close, said,
“Hey buddy, you came to Dublin, how bad was that?”
Sometimes, the more he drank, the more sober he appeared, he thought about what I said, then,
“Naw, I’d no place to go, you’re the only direction I ever had.”
Like I said, maudlin.
I’d clapped his arm, tried the Irish solution, asked,
“You want some Jameson?”
Shook his head, then,
“I don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“Life.”
I laughed out loud, went,
“Shit, buddy, no one gets it, what do you think these pubs are for?”
He wasn’t buying, said,
“You do, Steve, you’re a player, always in control. And if you cut loose, I think it’s because you get bored, you like to shake it up but you only visit the edge, you don’t live there, and see...”
He took a deep breath, this was more analysis than Tommy ever did, then,
“See, after you do some mad bollix of a thing, you scuttle back to safety. You can do that, I know as I’ve seen you do it so often.”
His voice was loud, a hint of hysteria, it was late, way past closing time and we were part of that cherished tradition after hours. The barman gave us a look of warning, not because a raised voice bothered him but lest we draw the Guards. Tommy continued:
“What I want to know is, how do you do that shit?”
I leant over, advised,
“Keep it down, buddy.”
He sat back, a triumphant smile on his face, said,
“There you go, case proved.”
I don’t know what time we got out of there, I’d trotted a line of clichés, hackneyed phrases, and he’d stopped in the middle of Grafton Street, said,
“It’s okay, Steve, you can ease up, life’s a joke, just sometimes, I’m not in the mood for laughing.”
We never went as deep again. On some very basic level, I hadn’t reassured him, who could? That we might have connected on some instinctive stage hadn’t happened. Odd times, I’d try to get us back there, back to the raw emotion of being lost, but the book was closed. As if we’d taken a look at his very soul and found it bare. So he distanced it, made a decision to party on, even if he was an unwanted guest.
A few times, I caught an expression in his eyes, not lost but frustrated. He’d adopted the Irish version of fatalism — fecklessness. When you just don’t give a toss. We even had a prayer for it, albeit a Galway one, a softer sound than fuckit, we said... feckit.
Kept it almost light but the intention was clear. The hell with it all and let the devil take the consequences. On a toilet wall, I saw it expressed best: The lord gave me no class, let the devil give me style. After we returned from America, Tommy said,
“Biggest mistake we ever made.”
“What’s that, then?”
As if I didn’t know.
He sighed, raising his hands in mock defeat, said,
“Coming back.”
My mother was dying, I’d little choice. Had tried to persuade him to remain in America, to no avail.
I’d said,
“Soon as we get our shit together, we’re like outta here, deal?”
He looked me straight, said,
“I’m never going to get back.”
He was right.
My mother was an alcoholic. Ten years of age, I’d be knocking down the door of the local pub, an empty baby of Paddy Power in my hand. The publican, he’d open the door, sigh at the sight of me, we’d done this dance a lot, take the bottle, and go,
“On the slate, right?”
Meaning, no money.
My face, scarlet with shame, my stomach, sick with anxiety, I’d want to pee. Then, he’d return, hand over the bottle, full to the brim, and slam the door. There’d be other callers, all morning long, but none as early as me.
The slate was the salvation or damnation of our neighbourhood, depending on which side of the financial fence you fell. Another word for it was tick, an early form of credit card and just as mercenary. Fixed penalties to the grave and beyond; every so often, my father would drop into the pub, lay a wedge on the counter, and the publican took it without comment. Exact figures were never discussed, the only certainty was nobody gained from the deal, least not in any fashion that entailed dignity.
My father liked a pint, come Friday night, he’d go out, have three, play rings, come home. At a wedding, he might have a glass of Redbreast. It was said of my mother, she had “nerves.”
And she fucking needed them. Took all her ability to function and present some semblance of normality. Twice, she lost it, big-time and they carted her off to Ballinasloe, no rehab then.
Ward 8, the asylum snake pit. They tied you a chair and let the alcohol scream and pour from you. Used a hose to wash you down. I know about Ward 8, as my mother, half in the bag, gave me a full and horrific account. At school, I’d be taunted,
“Your oul wan’s in the madhouse... again.”
Tommy would launch himself on the accuser and I’d stand, frozen by the word “again.” Till Tommy incited me to use my fists, my legs, hit back.
The taunts stopped but the terror only receded, lying in wait to reappear.
My mother didn’t drink for the last two years of her life. Stayed sober with a grim determination and a near hysterical control, that’s where I learned that icy talent. No one knows where she got the pills, as visits to a doctor were rare and, worse, expensive. But she was an alcoholic, cunning was second nature. I was in New York, making serious money on the site, and she’d collected, amassed over fifty sleepers.
Didn’t kill her right off, she went into a semi-coma, took a week to die. What they call “a hard death.”
Her face a rictus of agony and her body motionless. I returned to witness most of this. If my father hadn’t been mounting a twenty-four-hour vigil, I’d have put a pillow on her face. He held her limp hand and said decades of the rosary, like that made a difference to either of them