I got a call from Marion.
It did not begin well. She started,
“What were you thinking?”
Now when Jay Leno asked that of Hugh Grant after the Los Angeles hooker scandal, his tone was friendly, perplexed, as in
“Hey buddy, we get it, kind of.”
Marion’s tone was
Ice
To
Coldest
Felt.
She did not get it.
I tried for bumbling but lovable rogue, said,
“I thought the kid might be thirsty.”
She echoed,
“The kid.”
“Sorry, Joff.”
Fucked up again as she ice corrected,
“Joffrey.”
Phew.
Then,
“You think a pub...”
Let the word hover like a goddamn virus until,
“Is suitable for my child?”
I wanted to say,
“Actually, the docks would be the best place for the brat.”
But for once in my fucked-up life I went with caution, tried,
“I’ll do better next time.”
Silence.
Then,
“There won’t be a next time. He said you tried to get him to smoke.”
“What?”
I could actually sense the sheer rage coming over the phone. She said,
“Joffrey said that you said every boy needs to break loose.”
I was nearly speechless.
Nearly.
Said,
“He is a liar.”
Phew-oh.
She let the loaded word swim a bit, then,
“You are calling my son, my son, a liar?”
“I am.”
She hung up.
Save for the wee touch of trouble at the end, I think it went fairly okay otherwise.
Silence encourages the tormentor,
never the tormented.
13
I was in the pub, the guy beside me saying,
“Listen to this.”
I said,
“Sure.”
Block out the click of Marion hanging up. The guy said,
“The White House has fallen into the hands of a bully, a boor, and a braggart, a demagogue who taunts his neighbors and revels in his own ignorance.”
He looked at me, checking I was paying attention. I made a vague sound of assent.
He continued.
“To his supporters he is a hero who speaks for the white working class against the sneering East Coast elite.”
He drained his glass, making a small burping sound, then called for a refill, got it, and asked me,
“You’re thinking Trump, right?”
Nope.
I was thinking,
“Shut the fuck up.”
He pounced.
“That was Andrew Jackson in, get this, 1829.”
Okay, I was a little interested, said,
“Wow.”
He wasn’t quite done with the quiz aspect, asked,
“You ever see a snap of the man?”
Andrew Jackson?
I said,
“Not so I recall.”
He was delighted, said,
“You’ve seen a twenty-dollar bill?”
“Well, yeah, probably.”
“Then you’ve seen Jackson.”
He looked ’round as if the whole pub might have been mesmerized.
They weren’t.
But he wasn’t about to give it up, pulled a page of a newspaper from his jacket, shoved it in my face, asked,
“What do you see?”
For a brief moment, I could see this lonely bastard in his lonely room, scouring the papers for articles that might make him appear interesting. That deeply saddened me so I looked at the cutting, saw a guy in what seemed to be very dirty stained jeans. I said,
“He’s got soiled jeans.”
He was near frothing now, said,
“Guess what he paid for them?”
I gave one last try, said,
“Don’t know.”
With glee, he said,
“Four hundred fifty quid. It’s the new fashion.”
I asked the obvious,
“Why?”
The drink turned on him, turned him mean as a snake. He snarled,
“Why? What the fuck do you mean why? It shows the world has gone apeshit.”
I asked with exaggerated patience,
“You’re only realizing that now?”
He took a step back, the brawler preparing to launch, mouthed,
“You think you’re better than me?”
I asked,
“The old Irish green pound note, who was on it?”
It confused him, he spluttered,
“What?”
“Yeah, the green note, back when the country was still Irish.”
He was showing tiny bits of foam on his mouth, spat,
“Who the fuck knows that?”
I said in a very patient, almost Dr. Phil tone,
“That’s the trouble with this country. We know who is on the dollar bill but not our own history.”
He tried to weigh the weight of the insult, decided to go with,
“Hey, I’m an Irishman.”
I shook my head, said,
“What you are is a buffoon.”
Now he began his swing but his hand was grabbed from behind, moved up fast behind his back. A familiar voice said,
“Now you don’t want to be a nuisance.”
Tevis.
Who then bum-marched the guy outside, all in the space of a few seconds.
Came back in, said,
“He decided to call it a day.”
I was impressed, said,
“Fancy footwork.”
He signaled to the bar guy for a round, said,
“Ballroom dancing, always a help.”
I asked,
“Are you following me?”
His pint was in his hand and he held up the glass to the light. The Guinness appeared to shine, if such a thing were possible. I had found that many things were possible with drink, if only briefly. He said,
“Such dark beauty.”
He drained half in an impressive gulp, said,
“But nothing lasts and, yes, I was indeed following you.”
“Why?”
He motioned to a table and we moved there. He settled himself, then,
“The man they call Silence goes by the name of Allen. He asked me to tell you he is about to do you a major favor.”
I was in no mood for mind-fucking, leaned close, snarled,
“I don’t want any fucking favors.”
He made a gesture of resignation by holding up both palms, said,
“Slow down, my friend. Don’t bite the messenger.”
I stood up, said,
“I’m not your friend and don’t let me see you on my case again.”
He laughed, said,
“The Greek gift.”
I asked,
“What?”
“It refers to a chess sacrifice that is frequently deadly, i.e., the Wooden Horse at Troy. What they thought was a gift was a fatal attack.”
I shook my head, said,
“Nobody talks sense anymore.”
I moved to the door, fed up with them all. The bar guy called,
“Hey, Jack, who is on the green pound note?”
To appreciate silence
you kind of
Need
First
to shut the fuck up.
14
I went to see the nun, Sister Maeve. It was she who introduced me to Marion and set me on the course of what seemed to be happiness.
The road to hell is paved with well-intentioned nuns.