“Once you get a feeling for handling nitroglycerine
fuses, you never lose it.”
I was in a cab, had told the driver to take me to the East Village, and as it did, the vision rose up before my eyes:
Tommy’s broken body, his ruined face. I’d carried him to the water’s edge, fucking tears coursing down my cheeks, muttering,
“I’m not going to weep.”
Weighed him with stones, their weight as heavy as the lash upon my heart. Then, barely able to hold him, laden with the rocks, I waded into the water. The current pulled at us and the cold, my body going numb. Got as far as chest level, then let him go, said,
“Join your sentinel, mi amigo.”
In Irish, there is a lament, torn from centuries of poverty, oppression, violence. It goes...
“Och ocon.”
Hard to render the exact meaning, but woe is me comes close. Or, fuck this.
We Irish have the lock on melancholy, never happier than when we’re sad, rising to our finest moments on prayers of lamentation. Our best music, best writing has at its core a profound sense of grief. We’ve never been short of reasons why and the rain doesn’t help.
Bronach.
I love that word, the sound of it, literally it’s sadness but a step beyond, the place where you are broken. I shook myself, had to move out of the shadows, rid myself of spectres. If Galway had been absolute sadness, then let New York be about survival. I rolled the window down, let the sound of the city drown out the Irish echoes.
The cabbie asked,
“What about them Cubs?”
Treating me like I’d know, I wasn’t going to blow it, said,
“Man, isn’t that something?”
He bought it, energised, continued:
“The goddamn play-offs, first time in eighty-seven years, what a blast.”
He went into a long rap about the history and I finally gathered they came out of Chicago, am I quick or what? Tommy those last days, said,
“Tell you what, Steve, when I tire of New York, I’m getting my ass up to the Windy City.”
I was surprised, Irish people, eager to escape the damp, don’t plan on moving from one city of harsh winter to one that’s even worse; I asked,
“Don’t you want sun, to never see rain again?”
With the drugs, booze, Stapleton, the impending robbery, we hadn’t been easy with each other. For that brief interlude, our friendship was restored and he was animated, said in a near perfect American tone,
“Chicago is the hog butcher, it’s the American city. New York is like Hong Kong, limey and chink but then really neither. What I’m going to do, bro—”
He hadn’t called me that in a long time, it gave me the most treacherous of feelings, it gave me hope, he continued:
“—is get us into a really good hotel in Lincoln Park. We don’t want to be downtown, fuck that, we’re not tourists, you ever read anything about the city?”
I hadn’t.
“I’ll take you on a tour of the real Chicago. Forget Michigan Avenue, the shops and shit, we’re going to party, I’ll buy you a beer in Algren’s Rainbow Club at Damen and Division, I’ll show you county jail...”
He paused, sparks in his eyes, seeing it, seeing us, free and coasting. The buddy system in extremis. More...
“We’ll smoke a joint by Chicago’s PD and yes, we cannot forget a cappuccino on Tiger Street, in memory of Sam Giacana and Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo. Then up to Grand Avenue for an Italian beef at Salerno’s so we can talk to the ghosts of the Spilottro brothers. Hey, jeez, if the Bulls are in town, we might catch a game, what do you say, Steve, sound like something you can get your head round?”
What it sounded was great, I could almost see it, too, asked,
“How the hell do you know so much about Chicago?”
And the momentum began to leak away, I could see the light slowly draining from his eyes, creeping back into darkness, he said,
“I’m just blowing smoke, probably be too cold for you.”
I wanted him back, full of vim and devilment, tried,
“No, Tommy, sounds great, we’ll do it.”
And then he turned his head, the distant drummer was near, looked right at me, said,
“Truth is, Steve, you’re not a Chicago kind of guy.”
That hurt, like, a lot, and I’m still not fully sure I understood the meaning of what he said. I do know it was a farewell and it shut me down, shut me out... och ocon. Times, I’d hear his voice, especially if he was on the Chicago rap.
Like this.
“We will destroy the Florida Marlins at Wrigley Field. They will die horribly and (worse), without honour although if any team needs to be smote “without honour” it is the New York Yankees. Plus, I hope New York beats Boston like they do every year — the Boston Red Sox cry and cry and always fuck up when they get the chance for the series. But the Cubs, man, they’ve gotta win.”
Jesus. Tommy, like so many other things got that hopelessly wrong, the Red Sox took the World Series.
The cabbie was calling me,
“Yo, buddy, time to wake up and smell the coffee.”
Yeah.
I paid him, laid the mandatory five on top. He said,
“Have a good one.”
There’s a music store in the East Village that specialises in vintage stuff; the last thing I wanted to do was listen to music but I figured, if I ordered Siobhan’s favourites, she’d be delighted when she got to Tucson and found them waiting. The guy behind the counter was friendly, opened,
“Irish, right?”
Lotta work to do on that accent.
I ordered Planxty, Rory Gallagher, Clannad, The Saw Doctors. The guy was nodding, liked the selection, and I asked,
“Can you ship them to Tucson?”
He was a New Yorker, he could ship them to China. I gave the address of the Lazy 8 in Tucson and his interest perked, he said,
“That’s like a dude ranch.”
I agreed and then he asked,
“You mind me asking? What’s with Tucson, what’s that about?”
I had to smile, Americans, right up front, they’ll ask you your business, and they know you, maybe, all of five minutes.
In Ireland, you know someone for years, and I mean years, and still, you’re hesitant to ask them the exact nature of their life. I said, only half kidding,
“Always wanted to be a cowboy.”
He took my credit card, did the deal, then, as I left he cautioned
“Watch for them sidewinders.”
The rest of the day, I walked the city. In my head was Aimee Mann, jeez, when had I listened to her? Where did she spring from, unless her songs of guilt were related to my shame, my agony at the callous betrayal of Siobhan.
She remains among the great underrated, the true unappreciated. As Tommy often said.
“Fuck, she rocks.”
Ain’t that the truth.
On pure impulse, I called Kaitlin, Siobhan had given me her number, said,
“If you get a chance, give her a call, see how she’s doing, she’d love to see you.”
Wasn’t so sure how smart it was, she was intuitive or maybe I was just guilty but would she spot I’d been, what’s the word, unfaithful? Women have this sense of betrayal, maybe because they’re so accustomed to it. Rang the number, her apartment number, and hoped I’d get the answering service, then my duty would be done and I’d say, what, sorry I missed you. Pity we couldn’t have got together, maybe when Siobhan arrives.
She answered her own self and was thrilled to hear me. Her day off, talk about poor timing. Arranged to meet her for lunch on Lexington in two hours, she ended with,