“Buying the farm” was a euphenism for death that Dade liked, had used it his own self, going, dude bought the farm. The Farm in Angola would rid him of that. When he was sentenced there, the guys in the holding pen with him, said,
“You’re dead, motherfucker.”
The stories of rape, brutality, murder, were legion and that was just from the Guards. The inmates were the meanest collection of dangerous men ever assembled in one place. Dade’s lawyer, one of the free legal aid brigade, suggested to Dade the night before he made the trip,
“Try and get hold of a rope, or some sheets.”
Dade, confused, asked,
“You think I can escape?”
The lawyer, young but already with eyes of glass, said,
“No, I’m saying you should take the easy way out.”
Over the years on The Farm, there were a lot of times that Dade regretted not taking the advice.
He went in there with a very dangerous past, a liking for violence of the extreme variety. When he finally got released, that was still in place but the difference was, it was honed, focused, and oh, so very lethal.
LAND OF THE FREE,
HOME OF THE BRAVE
E.B.White wrote of New York:
“No one should come to live in New York unless he is willing to be lucky.”
Man, I was willing and I was certainly dressed for it. Wearing a lightweight navy suit — cost an arm and a leg but guaranteed not to crease. I wanted to hit American Immigration like a citizen. Post 9/11, checks were going to be intense. Got the flight from Galway to Dublin first, packed with French shooters. Yes, armed French folk: They’ve been coming for years, weapons to the teeth and systematically decimating our wildlife. Another year, there wouldn’t be a bird left in the countryside.
I was glad to lose them at Dublin and headed for duty free, bought a bottle of Bush, then filled out the forms for Immigration. Into the bar for a final pint of Guinness, the barman was a pro, let it sit for a good five minutes before he creamed it off. I’d just taken a sip when the announcement
“U.S. Immigration is now open.”
The old saying, If you leave anything behind, make sure it’s dark. I felt a wave of apprehension, if they turned me down, I was in deep shit. But it went like a breeze, the officer asked,
“Business or vacation?
I said vacation and got the 90 day visa with,
“You have a real good trip.”
I had two Vicodin, the bottle of Bush, a shitpile of cash, how could I not? I said,
“Thanks very much.”
I’d been tempted to go first class but had to keep a low profile, so economy it was. The seats were narrow, your knees jammed against the one ahead. If they let it tilt after takeoff, I’d be sandwiched. A nun took the seat beside me, a large silver cross dangling on her front. I never know how to address them, “Sister” sounds like Boyz in the Hood, keep it neutral, went,
“Good afternoon.”
Got a brief smile. Suited me, I didn’t want chat. The stewardess gave us the safety drill and seemed very angry in her delivery, probably as we weren’t listening. Then we were airborne and I looked out the window, wondering if I’d ever return, decided to try my new accent, said,
“Gee, Ireland is so green.”
She was surprised, asked,
“You’re American?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I didn’t know if a nun was a good omen or not. If we crashed, at least I was next to a silver crucifix. The drinks cart came. It was no longer free, you had to pay and through the nose. The nun was looking longingly at the display but the tariff had caused her to demur. I used the moment to dry swallow a vike, asked,
“Ma’am, I’d be honored to treat you.”
Her face lit up but still,
“Oh, I don’t know.”
I went for the sucker punch, said,
“I sure as shooting hate to drink alone.”
A line the French might appreciate.
Cringed a bit, I was too eager, overdoing the accent and worse, my Irish was leaking all over the intonation, needed work. If she’d picked up, she didn’t comment, said,
“Well, I will so, may I have a red wine?”
Ordered that and a large Jameson, water back. Passed over a twenty euro note and got Dixie in change. See how I’ve meshed those Americanisms in there. Now if I could only just goddam “walk the walk.” I touched my glass to hers, said,
“Slainte.”
Mangled it as best I could and got a radiant smile, all lightness. She said,
“Lovely pronunciation.”
Signed, sealed and near delivered. I knocked back the whiskey, said,
“If I’m asleep when they serve dinner, don’t wake me.”
She took a sip of the wine, said,
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I closed my eyes, was gone, it seemed but a moment. Put it down to the Vicodin but I had a dream of such reality, it was like truth. More like a total recollection. The night I met Siobhan, I’d been on a real downer. Tommy was acting the bollocks as usual, drinking his face off, making a nuisance of himself, and generally getting on my nerves. I’d been feeling sorry for myself, the constant Galway rain was showing no sign of letup, we’d had two weeks of incessant downpour. The adjective “teeming” was designed for our climate. It lashed down, relentless, soaking you through, why we drank so much whiskey, and because we liked the stuff. My life seemed to have hit a cul-de-sac and no signpost on the horizon. Tommy had said,
“Let’s go to a dance.”
Yeah, right.
Just what I needed, a frigging ballroom. Surly Irish men herded one side, glaring at the women as if they hated them. To hear the women tell it, they did. It was a throwback to the old days, when our parents had no other diversion but the one Saturday night outing. We were spoilt for choice, the new Ireland of clubs, money, endless credit. The showbands had been the staple of the sixties, six to eight guys, blazers, white pants, bad hairpieces and worse music, usually covers of Elvis, Buddy Holly, and the Beach Boys. My father had explained,
“We danced our way through poverty.”
It was meant to be a form of irony that there’d been a revival. The showbands were enjoying a renaissance, and Ecstasy had sure given us a thirst of dancing and late night revels. Young people wore suits and the women, what my mother used to call frocks. Fifties hairdoes that seemed to match the frocks and the guys, with the dark suits and gel in the hair. The only thing that didn’t change was the bands, younger maybe and atrocious. Part of the irony. Who was the joke on when you pay to hear bad music?
Music is the passion of my life. Tom Waits, Johnny Cash, Tom Russell, Gretchen Peters, to name but the first line of my favourites. And at a reach, the Beach Boys. Our parents had snuck flasks of Jameson into the ballrooms. Our generation, cool and poised, because of the E, had a ferocious demand for bottled water. Tommy being the exception, he had a flask, not because of tradition but out of need. The band, all in their twenties, was murdering “Tell Laura I Love Her.” I was hating every moment when Tommy sidled up to me, offered the flask, asked,
“Wanna hit?”
The lead vocalist had announced,
“Ladies’ choice.”
I knew from my father that this was the Irish male’s nightmare. This was when you were glad you’d fortified the flask with double measures.
Tommy slunk off to score some dope — not a woman, the weed. I was looking at my watch, as if I had a pressing engagement. You’re in a dance hall and you have a pressing appointment?
Who was I kidding?
The alternative was to watch the women give you that ice-cool appraisal and find you wanting. I was regretting not taking a shot of the Jameson, a big shot when I heard,