December 12: the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
The Health Department, in one week, finally admitted liability in three separate cases of babies being neglected by the very medics charged with their care. All three of the little mites, as a result, had:
Massive brain damage,
Cerebral palsy,
Total paralysis.
And a very basic lack of oxygen for a few vital moments had occurred. The HSE took twelve years to admit liability in Case 1, and seven and five years in the other two cases.
The families were utterly exhausted and destroyed but they fought all those years for the most basic human right.
An apology.
The minister for health, fat-jowled and combative, muttered platitudes like,
Regret
and
Investigation.
Dare one curse-
Don’t hold your breath.
All the major charities were exposed as paying their top executives “top-ups” in the hundreds of thousands and they even sneered,
“If you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.”
And still they ran long, harrowing advertisements of dying black children with Eva Cassidy singing in the background. Shaming, bullying, and cajoling a bankrupt people into donating what few euros they retained. If the people hated any song, they now hated “Fields of Gold.”
Em had agreed to actually tell me who/what she was, if
I got wasted with her.
Her words.
Meaning, go on the piss. Twist my arm.
She insisted we go to the G Hotel. Already noted for its theme rooms, as in: you wanted peace, you opted for the purple room. Em said,
“Guy in the bar there shakes one mean, multifucking cocktail.”
I said,
“I don’t do fancy.”
She got the look, she asked,
“You want the gen on me or not?”
“Guess I could go for a frozen margarita.”
She laughed, said,
“Dress to impress, slick.”
Been a time since I hit the charity shops. With the recession, the new scandal about top executives of the leading charities on massive salaries, the people on the ground, the actual working staff, were bearing the brunt at the Vincent de Paul shop. Rita greeted me,
“Jack, we thought you’d brought your business to T.J. Maxx.”
And swear to God, she gave that Galway hug:
Real,
Warm,
Felt.
And fitted me out with a dark suit that hung a little loose but I can do loose. A Van Heusen shirt and brand new Dr. Martens. The cost-
fifteen euros.
I kid you fucking not.
Heading for the G in my splendor, I shucked into my Garda all-weather coat and was, if not hot to trot, at least ready to limp with attitude.
We were sitting, not close but not distant. From left field she just launched.
“My old man sends me hefty checks for the guilt.”
Uh-oh.
“What guilt?”
“For diddling me in every orifice until I was sixteen.”
Then she swiveled in her seat, exclaimed,
“Over there, I saw Iain Glen. Be still my heart. He’s got that intense brooding gig going.”
Then switched again, said,
“Think of me as a cocktail. You take,
Carol O’Connell’s Mallory
A note of Sara Gran’s Claire DeWitt
A sprinkle of angel dust
Shake that mojo
And
Out
Pops
Me fein (me!).”
Before I could comment she added,
“You only need to know I’m less Sylvia Plath and more Anne Sexton.”
I said,
“Or you could just be full of shite.”
We were on our second margaritas and those suckers were sliding down bad and easy. Em took out an e-cig, the green light glowing against the tequila sheen in her eyes. She said,
“I descended into a complete full madness and if you can know and accept that, you can function on a whole other level.”
I watched her exhale the nicotine-based water vapor and felt a powerful urge to smoke. A kick-in-the-gut, honest-to-God, unfiltered Lucky Strike. Em continued,
“Some people, before bed, they lay out the next day’s clothes. Me, I lay out a slew of personalities, then, come morning I wake, pop an upper, chase it with a double espresso, and see who I’m going to be that day.”
I asked,
“Isn’t that tiresome?”
Now, she was coming to it, asked,
“Jack. .”
Pause.
“Don’t you ever want to be somebody else, even for a little while?”
“I’d settle for being somewhere else, even for a little while.”
I could feel the tequila, settling then whispering, so I let it talk, said,
“Truth is, I only ever wish to be a fictional character.”
She was delighted, asked,
“Oh, do tell, and please. . sweet Jesus, don’t be predictable and do a James Bond shite song. . let it be colorful!”
I said,
“Raylan Givens, as written by Elmore Leonard. Gets to wear a cool hat and not look like an eejit, has a side that is pure mellow. He’s a U.S. marshal.”
She was disappointed or maybe the booze was on its rota of up/down swings, she said,
“You like him because of the hat?”
“No, because he legally shoots people.”
I didn’t come to. . wake would be too mild a word, to find myself naked in bed. The events of the night went blank after I’d sat on the sofa with Em.
I staggered out of bed, expecting the thundering hangover tequila guarantees, but no. . and I certainly shouldn’t have slept as soundly as I did. The norm would be the porcelain prayer, i.e., early in the morning (very early) puking my guts over the toilet bowl, on my knees, sweating like be-Jaysus. But no.
Apart from light-headedness, not unpleasant, I appeared to be fine. Fuck, even wanted coffee and a smoke. Pulling on a Galway United long sweatshirt, I went to the front room. A neatly wrapped package on the table with a note.
Lover,
I slipped you a Mickey Finn lest you attempted
to slip me some Irish. I was up early, fucked with
you a little (kidding), went out and brought you
a present. . for the Raylan in all of us.
Catch you nine sharp tomorrow. We’re heading
for Portlaoise to visit your young felon. Dress for
jail!
Meantime, I brewed fresh coffee so there should
still be some kick in it. . like your old self really.
Tootle-Pip,
The
Emerald
I poured the coffee, still hot and indeed with a punch and then opened the package.
A perfect cowboy hat, with the snap brim.
You had to love her!
Next morning, I was outside the apartment, no idea what to expect. A yellow VW Beetle pulled up. A very beat-up one. The window rolled down, Em, behind the wheel, said,
“Pickup for a Mr. Taylor?”
She wasn’t wearing a chauffeur’s hat but her voice had the vibe. She was dressed in lawyer mode again. This time a prim white suit, blue-striped and expensive, hair tied back, sensible shoes.
I got in and she eased into traffic, hit the stereo, and music surrounded us.
I asked,
“A yellow bug. . really?”
She was trying to identify the song, said,
“I know this? Why? Arcade fire?”
I asked,
“Ever hear of Ted Bundy?”
As we reached the outskirts of the city she reached down, then handed me an iPad.
“Some light reading for the trip.”
She said,
“Taylor-
Made.
“It’s Boru’s first draft of his book on you.”
“Jesus, how’d you get that?”
She was turning at the traffic circle, said,