I was in the snug in Mulligans, few punters around.
A guy comes in, orders a drink, American accent but off, as if he’d learned it, says to Jeff, “Gordon’s on the rocks, splash of tonic.”
Then: “Bud back.”
Jeff gives him a look and the guy offers a hearty chuckle, explains, “I mean, as well as, guess you folk say… with it… or in addition to?” Was he going to give the whole nine?
He got the drinks, walked over, sat at my table, asked, “How you doing?”
Like every night in the city, some asshole does the same Joey Tribiani tired rap. I didn’t answer. Instead, I peeled a piece of skin on my thumb. He said, “You don’t wanna inflame that, buddy.”
Wanna?
So I asked, “You a doctor?”
He was delighted, countered, feigning surprise, “You’re Irish?” Not believing it, like I’m black, so come on. I nod and he takes a hefty slug of the gin, grimaces, then: “How’d that happen?”
I still don’t know why but I told him the truth. Usually, who gives a fuck?
Sean Connery said, tell them the truth, then it’s their problem. My mother was from Ballymun, yeah, Ireland’s most notorious housing estate. Fuck, there’s a cliché: She’d a one night stand with a sailor.
How feckin sad is that?
And not a white guy.
He asked, “So, was it, like… tough, am…?”
I let that hover, let him taste it, then did the Irish gig, a question with a question. “Being black, or being fatherless?”
He went, “Uh huh.”
Noncommital or what?
I said, “Dublin wasn’t a city, it was still a town, and a small one, till the tiger roared.”
He interrupted: “You’re talking the Celtic Tiger, am I right?”
I nodded, continued, “So I was fourteen before I knew I was black, different.”
He didn’t believe it, asked, “But the kids at school, they had to be on your ass. I mean, gimme a break, buddy.”
His glass was empty. I said, “They were on my ass because I was shit at hurling.”
He stared at his glass, like… where’s that go? Echoed, “Hurling, that’s the national game, yeah?”
I said, “Cross between hockey and murder.”
He stood, asked, “Get you a refill there?”
I decided to fuck with him a little, he said, “Large Jameson, Guinness back.”
The boilermaker threw him, but he rallied, said, “Me too.”
Got those squared away, raised the amber, clinked my glass, and you guessed it, said, “Here’s looking at you, pal.”
Fuck on a bike.
The other side of the whiskey, I climbed down a notch, eased, but not totally.
He was assessing me, covertly, then: “Got some pecs on you there, fella. Hitting the gym, huh?”
He was right. Punishing program, keep the snakes from spitting, the ones in my head, the shrink had said. “You take your meds, the snakes won’t go away-we’re scientists, not shamans- but they will be quieter.”
Shrink humor?
I quit the meds. Sure, they hushed the reptiles, but as barter, took my edge. I’d done some steroids, got those abs swollen, but fuck, it’s true, they cut your dick in half. And a black guy with shrinkage?… Depths of absurdity.
I was supping the Guinness, few better blends than the slow wash over Jameson. I said, “Yeah, I work out.”
He produced a soft pack of Camels, gold Zippo, then frowned, asked, “You guys got the no-smoking bug?… It’s illegal in here?” Like he didn’t know already. Then reached out his hand, said, “I’m Bowman, Charlie, my buddies call me Bow.”
I’m thinking, Call you arsehole.
And he waits till I extend my hand, the two fingers visibly crushed. He clocks them, I say, “Phil.”
He shakes my hand, careful of the ruined fingers, goes for levity, asks, “Phil, that it, no surname? C’mon buddy, we’re like bonding, am I right? How can I put it, Phil me in?” He laughed, expecting me to join.
I didn’t.
I said, “For Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy. You heard Lynott speak, his Dublin accent was near incomprehensible, but when he sang, pure rock. Geldof said Phil was the total rock star, went to bed in the leather trousers.”
Bow’s mouth was turned down. He said, “My taste runs more to Van Morrison.”
Figured.
He spotted the book on the seat beside me, Bukowski, asked, “That’s yours, you’re into… Buk?”
Buk?
Fucksakes.
My mother, broke, impoverished, sullen, ill, had instilled: “Never, and I mean never, let them know how smart you are.”
Took me a long time to assimilate that, too long. The days after her funeral, I’d a few quid from the horses, got a mason to carve:
I
DIDN’T
LET
THEM
KNOW
Like that.
The mason, puzzled, asked, “The hell does that mean?” I gave him the ice eyes, he muttered, “Jeez, what’s wrong with Rest in peace?” I said, “That’s what it means, just another form.” He scratched his arse, said, “Means shite, you ask me.” He said this after I paid him.
So I threw a glance at the Bukowki. Denied him, going, “Not mine. I need books with, like, pictures.”
Bow and I began to meet, few times a week, no biggie, but it grew. Me, careful to play the dumbass, let him cream on his superiority. He paid the freight, I could mostly listen.
A month in, he asked, “You hurting there, Phil?”
I was mid-swallow, my second pint. I stopped, put the glass down, asked, “What?”
His eyes were granite, said, “Bit short on the readies… Hey, I’m not bitching.”
… (Oh yeah?)
“But there’s no free lunch. You familiar with that turn of phrase, black guy? When we freed your asses, we figured you might be self-sufficient. Maybe spring for the odd drink?”
I was thinking of how my mother would love this prick. He tapped his empty glass twice, then, “You’re good company, Phil, not the brightest tool in the box. This ride’s, like, coming to a halt.”
I was trying to rein it in, not let the snakes push the glass into his supercilious mouth, especially when he added: “You getting this? Earth to Leroy, like… hello?”
I was massaging my ruined fingers, remembering… One of the first jobs I did, driver for a post office stunt. I was younger, and dare I say… greener?
The outfit were northeners, had lost their driver at the last minute. How I got drafted.
They came out of the post office in Malahide, more a suburb of Dublin now, guns above their heads, screaming like banshees, piled into the back. The motor stalled. Only two minutes, but it was a long 120 seconds. By the Grand Canal, the effluent from the Liffey smelling to high heaven. Changing cars, they held me down, crushed my fingers, using the butt of a shotgun, the Belfast guy going, “Two minutes you lost, two fingers you blow.”
I stared at Bow, asked, “You have something in mind?”
The Zippo was flat on the table, I could see a logo: Focus.
He indicated it, said, “That’s the key. I’m thinking you could do with a wedge, a healthy slab of tax-free euros.”
Jeez, he was some pain in the arse, but I stayed… focused? … below radar, asked, “Who doesn’t?”
Looked like he might applaud, then, “I’m taking a shot here, but I’m figuring you know zilch about art.”
I stayed in role, asked, “Art who?”
Didn’t like it, I noticed. When he was bothered as he was now, the accent dipped. I smiled, thinking, Not so focused now, and certainly not American.