I’d no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
He laughed, said,
“I’m at the Sahara, for the poker.”
I nodded as if this made sense. The hostess came by, saw the mess of little bottles, asked,
“Party time, guys?”
Bob asked,
“Got any pretzels, nuts?”
She gave a winning smile, said,
“We’ll be serving dinner soon but I’ll see what we’ve got.”
She looked at me and I went,
“No nuts.”
Came off as,
“Numb nuts.”
Sent Bob into the giggles. He said in that way Americans have,
“I like you, buddy.”
It’s so forthright. So almost innocent.
I come from a completely different race. We’d near die before we’d say such a thing. Tommy was my best friend, we’d be through hell and high water, spent an inordinate amount of time together and the closest we’d ever come to such a statement was,
“Ah, you’re not the worst.”
And even that is couched in throwaway style, lest it sound too intimate, too invasive. The neighbourhood I grew up in, sure, you’d have friends, people you loved, that you’d trust absolutely but never and I truly mean never would you demonstrate your feeling in a public fashion.
You ever tried to hug someone there, you’d lose your arm from the elbow. You asked someone,
“How are you?”
It was more likely to mean,
“How are you fixed?”
Meaning do you have money and more importantly, are you willing to give me some?
Ask any Irish woman about her man, about the sweet talk he’d produce, and you’ll hear,
“Oh yes, he told me I wasn’t the worst.”
My parents, I loved them, no question, I never once told them so, as my mother lay dying, fighting for breath, my declaration of love consisted of,
“Can I get you anything?”
I am aware of what a tragedy that is.
So when we came up close and personal with Americans, we were more than a little astounded at their candour.
Tommy, hidden and furtive all his life, both from necessity and nurture, never got a handle on this aspect of America. When we’d worked on the site, we had an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Flat out, we both loved the area. The apartment was nothing to write home about, two small rooms you could barely swing a cat in.
First night there, we did what you do, if you’re Irish, you go the neighbourhood bar. Get orientated. As it goes, we got talking to a guy who worked on the trains. Two beers in, he says,
“I love you guys.”
And goes to get us a brew.
Tommy watches him and turns to me, asks,
“What’s fucking wrong with him?”
Me, the sophisticated college boy tried,
“He’s just been friendly.”
Tommy shook his head, said,
“Oh, he’s gay.”
I kept my voice low, said,
“No, it’s the way they are, they’re just ...”
I had to search for a word to capture the essence, attempted,
“Up front.”
He actually mouthed the word, let it dance about his mouth, he looked like it didn’t fit and he nodded, went,
“So back to my original point, there’s something wrong with him.”
I told the sad truth, said,
“No, there’s something wrong with us.”
Sitting on the plane, looking at Bill, his earnest face and the total sincerity with which he’d said he liked me, I felt such a pang of sorrow. And that’s the curse of our race, we sure as hell feel the stuff, we just can’t express it. Probably why we have so much music.
Bill asked if I’d been to Vegas before and I said no. He assured me I’d have me an experience. The next twenty minutes, we did as they term it, shoot the shit. He told me of other visits to Vegas and various larger-than-life characters he’d met, explained,
“The reason they talk about Vegas rules, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, is not so much discretion as who the hell would believe it?”
I would remember those words and wish I’d paid more attention.
Bill had a wonderful laugh, one of those up from the stomach, the whole system involved, his eyes near distorted from merriment.
I have never laughed like that in my whole life, not even when drink was involved. I did the best I could to join Bill in his hilarity but, as always, I was holding on, that ice control watching every single word. Could almost hear my mother as she’d said and often,
“Stephen, he lives one step away from the rest of us.”
Forced myself to relinquish a little of that steel, even told Bill a story about some high jinks in New York. A complete fabrication but to let him see I could be a fun guy.
He bought it.
You were observing us, you’d have seen couple of guys, letting their hair down, getting in party mode.
Just two guys hitting Vegas, having a high old time. Not twenty-four hours gone, I’d left a man gut shot, leaking blood on a hard floor. Made the big mistake of dozing off.
You wake with a headache and a hard-on. One as painful as the second is useless. We were touching down and the pilot was welcoming us to the Strip, adding,
“Be lucky.”
Yeah.
After we disembarked, Bob shook my hand, said,
“Look me up, the Sahara is at the bottom of the Strip, near the Hilton.”
I agreed I might and he waddled towards a slot machine, feeding coins into it. I went to collect my bag, noticed the number of men wearing cowboy hats. Tommy would have loved it. There was an air of festivity, adrenaline, and despite my throbbing head, I felt the buzz.
The only piece of Tommy, materially, I possessed was his poems, maybe twenty in all, written in Gothic script in a small leather-bound journal. He said,
“Bruce Chatwin kept his writing in one of those.”
The story was Chatwin had them handcrafted in Paris, a story more appealing than truthful. Tommy had handed me the volume on a lads’ night out, Siobhan was out on that new ritual, hen night. Translated as “women on the piss.”
We were in O’Connor’s in Salthill, where you get serious music at a serious juncture in the evening. That holy moment betwixt all out inebriation and simply feeling mighty. The band lit the bodhrans, fiddles, then spoons tapping out from the edge of the stage. They were local, fronted by a feisty girl singer who belted out the songs like she was raging, spitting iron. No older than twenty but a voice more ancient than Billie Holiday. I knew her, and off stage, she was shy, quiet, unremarkable, but hit that stage and she was Rilke’s panther, something primeval unleashed. She was doing Neil Young’s “Powderfinger,” via The Cowboy Junkies. Tommy reached in his duffel coat, produced the book, said,
“Some stuff I wrote.”
Was astounded, went,
I didn’t know you wrote.”
He was staring at the girl, tears in his eyes, for Neil Young, his writing, my comment, shit, could have been the smoke. The no-smoking edict wasn’t due for another while. He said,
“Man, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
True enough.
I finished my Jameson, tasted good, tasted like... another? I asked,
“Poems?”
He shrugged.
“Poems manqué. I call them tones, lets me off the poetry rap.”
Throw a stone in Ireland, you hit a poet, rarely a decent one. No wonder Tommy wanted out from that category. I went to open the book and he shouted,
“Jesus, not now, what’s the matter with you?”
Good question.
Not one I’ve ever been able to answer.
In Vegas I opened the book, read the first title: