“Wanna fag?”
Not a question you’d ask an American.
I’d been yet again, on,
Then off,
And yada yada.
But, what the hell. I said,
“Yeah.”
We didn’t go to the smokers’ shed-too much like a leper colony-but took it out on the street. He offered a pack of Major, the original ferocious-strength one. He produced a battered Zippo, clicked. One of my favorite sounds. Fired us up.
Jesus, that pure poison is pure heaven. The guy was in his early twenties, dressed in good top-of-the-range clothes. His face had that ravaged look of hellish teenage acne but he had good eyes, those gentle ones you see rare to rarest in either a child or a Labrador, a sort of beguiling innocence. He said,
“I was thinking of going to Australia.”
The sarcasm in me nearly said,
“Finish the fag first.”
But bit down, said,
“Lots of work there.”
We’d fallen instantly into the camaraderie of smokers. He said,
“My girl, you know, she’s a nurse, she doesn’t want to leave Galway.”
Jesus, why not, to live in the sun, where the buskers might play another tune?
I said,
“Tough choice.”
He drew deep on the filter, then,
“What’s tough is she’s reading Fifty Shades of Grey.”
Is there a sane reply?
Berryman in The Paris Review,
“. . The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point he’s in business.”
I’d finished my pint, forwent another or I’d be there until closing, and headed for Westbury’s office. Kept me waiting an hour, old Reader’s Digests on the table. I increased my word power by
Two.
Butyraceous: of the nature or consistency of butter.
Caesious: bluish or greenish gray.
Not sure how to drop those babes into conversation.
When I finally got to sit opposite Westbury, his fabulously expensive suit was the color of
Caesious?
And, certainly, fine food, lots of the best wine, had given his jowls a butyraceous sheen. He shuffled papers in that important fashion they teach at law school. He was peering over his pince-nez (made me feel warm and literary to say that instead of cheap glasses), his expression sour, as if I were something the cat not only sneaked in but then denied.
He said,
“You’ll find all is in order and, may I say, congrats on your little windfall.”
He passed me over some papers. I scanned them, then said,
“Holy fuck.”
It was a lot.
He asked,
“Might you be needing some expert advice on how to best manage those substantial assets?”
I laughed, let out,
“Like fuck.”
He said,
“One takes that as a no.”
32
I’m allergic to alcohol and narcotics. I break out in jail.
In my mind, it was Peter O’Toole as Lawrence of Arabia saying,
The trick is not minding that it hurts.
Didn’t work on thinking about Stewart.
A guy passed me wearing a T with the logo
. . Best boy band, One Erection.
I was meeting Ridge to have a drink to say a final good-bye to Stewart now that his estate was settled. We met in Feeney’s, at the top of Quay Street. It’s somehow hung on as a real pub, if not indeed ordinary because it didn’t serve chips.
Yet.
Fishing tackle was advertised in a front window alongside Middleton whiskey. A lone sentry sat at the end of the bar. If he remembered me, he’d didn’t let on. His flat cap was on the counter, lined up beside a dwindling pint. I offered,
“Another?”
Took my measure, then,
“Will I have to thank you?”
“Good heavens, no.”
He nodded.
No change there.
I sat near the back, a short and a tabloid before me. The sublime and the scurrilous. I was reading about the American election when Ridge appeared. Her face looked ravaged, like after a continuous jag of weeping. I didn’t ask, offered,
“Something to drink?”
Surprised me with,
“A hot toddy.”
As I moved to get it, she added,
“Make it a large.”
Indeed.
The barman didn’t ask if cloves were required or what whiskey. It was old Galway, so cloves and Jameson as sure as the swans were in the Claddagh basin. Smelled so good, I ordered one my own self. Brought them back and she wrapped her hands around the glass, hot as it was, like a forlorn rosary, said,
“Stewart left me a shit pile of money.”
“Me, too.”
She seemed surprised but not enough to compare figures. She took a gulp of the drink, swallowed, and shuddered as the whiskey hit. Her face turned a bright high-proof red, her eyes watered, and she was temporarily robbed of speech.
Why we drink the stuff.
Finally, she said,
“I’m giving the money away.”
Ah, for fooksake, Jesus. I waited a beat, asked,
“Why?”
Trying not to let bitterness leak over my tone. She seemed not to notice, said,
“My neighbor Kathleen used to go every evening for cat food, five o’clock.”
This abrupt turn in the conversation didn’t faze me. Put it down to the Jay. I said,
“Did she?”
Her glass was empty, and bearing in mind it was a double, I hesitated before offering another. She said,
“Kathleen didn’t have a cat.”
I had to roll with it, gave a brief smile as if it made some sense. She continued,
“She’d go to Dunne’s, buy half a bottle of vodka, and drink it on the way home.”
This insanity made a bizarre logic to me but, then, I’d been drinking in a lunatic fashion for so long that the only thing to surprise me would be social drinking.
. . The aim of life is self-development. To realize one’s nature perfectly.
Kelly felt she’d followed Oscar’s dictum pretty closely. Now, as she lay flat on the table, the guy leaned over her back, glanced at the portrait she’d provided, asked,
“Who is the dude? Is it, like, Rupert Everett?”
She laughed, as, indeed, the actor had played Oscar and quite convincingly. She said,
“Can you do it?”
He moved the needle back, said,
“Babe, you got the cash, I can put the Rolling Stones on there.”
As if.
The guy had offered, as he put it,
“A spliff or something, to, you know, ease the pain?”
For Oscar, pain was bliss and she wanted to feel him. The guy worked in silence, then asked,
“Mind if I take a cig break?”
She sat up, not covering her breasts but the guy didn’t stare, rolled a Taylor-made, lit up, sighed, said,
“That’s goanna cover your whole back, you know?”
She waited. The Stieg Larsson gig was due to come around.
Yup.
He said,
“Like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.”
So
She said,
“Who’d you prefer, Noomi Rapace or the Hollywood chick?”
Leaning on chick just to, you know, like fuck with him. He said,
“I don’t do flicks.”
Took her a moment to realize he meant movies, so she, said,
“Whatever.”
A guy came bursting in, big fellah in a biker jacket, red face, eyes popping, like meth jag or something, shouted,
“Who the fuck owns the grey BMW?”
She looked at him, said in a meek tone,
“That’d be me.”
He glared at her, snarled,
“Yah stupid cunt.”
For some time, she’d felt herself disintegrating, had read about the effect in countless books, but couldn’t believe it would take her.