“I love your accent.”
The booze said,
“I love you.”
I’d forgotten my resolve to work on my accent, had forgotten a whole heap of things, call Siobhan, the moment of shooting Juan, bedding Sherry, but no, not Tommy, his spirit was in every drink, every glass raised, I could see his smile.
1:30, I met her at the Venetian. She’d changed into a tight black top, faded jeans, Reeboks. Looked like gorgeous. We had a meal, as if we were in Italy, the whole of that country reproduced in the Venetian, even gondolas on a canal, I’m praying we didn’t go on one. What I most recall is she was from Dayton, Ohio, and she liked to gamble, well, she was with me, perhaps the biggest gamble. I was having the time of my life and in some casino, asked,
“Want to get married?”
Next thing, we’re in a limo, going for a licence, down the bad side of town. Gangbangers on the pavement, giving the dead eye. I was drunk enough to seem sober, you don’t get a licence if you display evidnce of intoxication.
Next day, we’re at the Little White Chapel and Elvis is marrying us. He looked more like George Bush but at least had the moves.
I woke up the next morning, hangover kicked in.
Mercilessly.
I looked round at an opulent room, clothes scattered everywhere, champagne bottles lined up along the wall.
Empty.
I crawled out of bed, got a peek at the hotel stationery... Excalibur... serious bucks. Heard a groan, saw I hadn’t been alone in the bed. My finger itched and I saw a gold band. Stared back at the bed.
My wife.
A song uncoiling in my head, like a snake of dementia. “Methamphetamine Blues,” by Mark Lanegan Band, gritty and noir.
Later, in Tucson, when so much blood had flowed, at reception in the Lazy 8, I’d be given a package. Opened it to find a CD by Patty Griffin and a note saying
Because
I
Loved
You
Donna
Yeah.
Noir that.
That afternoon, in Tucson I’d a few Sam Adams, no vodka, not no more, I waited till I’d sank the third beer, played Patty Griffin.
Fuck.
Killer.
A track, highlit in gold, went to that first, the beers riding point, I could take it; almost, titled, “Nobody’s Cryin’.” A line there, about when you wake in the morning, may the voice of anxiety become the voice of angels... fast-forwarded to a Bruce song, “Stolen Car,” figured that was safe.
Figured wrong.
Opening line... we got married and drifted apart. Ripped off the headphones, got out of there. In the motel corridor, I realised I was carrying the CD, let it drop to the floor, the carpet ensured it didn’t make as much as a murmur.
But Vegas, staring at Donna, her asleep, I near shouted,
“The fuck I’ve done?”
Stumbled through the day, Donna all lit up, and come evening, safe-ish side of some margaritas, I said,
“I want a divorce.”
Her face crumbling, I launched into a drunken rap about what a class act she was, great lady but she didn’t need to be hitched to a ne’er-do-well, I actually used that term, a measure of my panic.
As I fumbled on, tripping over the clichés, spilling mediocrity upon garbage, she toyed with the shiny new band on her wedding finger, interrupted me with,
“You told me about Tucson, about some dude ranch with the name... Lazy 8?”
I held my breath, Jesus, did I mention Siobhan, she said,
“I want to go to Ireland.”
“What?”
Her ring was off now, sitting in the middle of the table, like recrimination with a dull sheen; she added,
“You can have the divorce but I want a trip to Ireland.”
My face betrayed me as she said,
“On my own, I guess.”
Took two days and a shitpile of cash to get the marriage... gone. A lawyer, smooth talker, offered my drinking problem as grounds. I was continually half in the bag, so it wasn’t difficult to pass. The deal done, Donna and I were standing outside the Bellagio, my eye further down the Strip, past the store that sold Western gear to a sign flicking Liquor. I handed her a fat envelope, said,
“You’ll love Ireland.”
She stared at me, then reached out her hand, I flinched, anticipating a slap. No, she touched my face with her fingers, said,
“I’d have been real good to you.”
I had no answer. She turned, walked towards the Riviera, I waited a few rapid beats of my heart, then headed for the off-licence. A priest or chaplain was standing in the midday heat, had a box, asking for donations for the homeless, I dropped my wedding ring in there.
Another week to pull out of the spiral, lie in bed for two days, puking, sweating, hallucinating, swallowing aspirin. The room was like a slaughterhouse. Fourth day, I sipped a Bud Light which is as hellish as it gets, and began the crawl back. My psyche had taken a ferocious beating and I tried to get some food in. Rationed a six of the Light over some more confused days till, finally, food was staying put and the snakes were hissing less in my head. Got out on the Strip, legs shaky and into the shopping mall, to Macy’s, bought a mess of new gear but couldn’t buy off the recent past.
By the Friday, my hands had stopped shaking and I could almost function, I attempted an accounting of my financial situation. Had blown a blitzkrieg in my credit. I dreaded to think what Siobhan would make of it, kept postponing the call, knew she’d hear the actual tremor in my voice.
No more gambling or vodka. I went to the movies, saw the wondrous Lost in Translation, walked the Strip a thousand times, get my energy back.
Restore, restore, restore.
The commando exercises I’d learned in the army were notable for their gruelling, harsh requirements, went at those like a demon. The sheer punishment helped the guilt, not a whole lot but when you’re hurting physically, the mental stuff moves back a notch. By Tuesday, I was able to relish a shower.
An afternoon, walking the Strip, getting my wind back, the heat was beating down, felt it was a good way to sweat out them toxins, and man, did I have a whole truck of those babies.
I decided on a pit stop at the Mirage, keeping my eyes averted from the simulated volcano, I’d had all the explosions I could handle.
Watched the craps table for a bit, they say it’s the glamour point of the gaming floor, but then, they say all kinds of shit in Vegas. There seemed to be lot of hollering and shouting, I headed for the bar, asked for a large Coke, laced with ice. A guy on the stool next to me, extended his hand, said,
“Reed, from out of Long Island.”
Looked like a hardass, trucker’s hands but had a warmth. I shook and he said,
“What about the Sox?”
He laughed at my blank look, went,
“You’re Irish, huh?”
He told me the Boston Red Sox, back in 1920, had sold the legendary Babe Ruth, the bambino.
Prior to that, the Sox had won five World Series. After the Babe left, they won no more for the rest of the century. He waited for my response, I said,
“Bummer.”
I was afraid to ask if we were talking about baseball, I was Irish but did I want to appear totally pig ignorant?
No.
He sighed, continued, the team always lost in game seven. Now he was talking my language, superstition, omens, jinx, curse, we wrote the book on that gig. He took a deep breath, said,
“Then the mothers, they stage the greatest comeback in history by beating the Yankees and taking the title.”
A silence followed and finally I said,
“Nice one, eh.”
He was disgusted, near spat,