Settled my head on the pillow and tried not to think about my mother.
Focused on my new plan. Once it had been a flat near Hyde Park. That had gone down the toilet. Nelson Algren had long been one of my favourite writers. At the end of his life, after poverty, literary neglect, heartache, he finally settled in Sag Harbor. An old whaling town, he could get around on his bicycle, and New York was just a train ride away. The house he finally rented appealed greatly to me. Near the ocean, it was $375 a month. It had a small backyard, a fireplace and room to display all the items he’d kept in storage for years. E.L. Doctorow lived nearby, Betty Friedan across the street, Kurt Vonnegut in the next town.
I had a yearly diary on my bookcase. Used it to keep a vague track of money and phone numbers. The rest of the pages were blank. I got a black felt pen, wrote:
“SAG HARBOR OR BUST.”
Mad as the dream was, it made me feel good, as if I had a future.
The Sacred Heart calendar said:
“Be humble before the Lord.”
I didn’t know much about humility but I was well versed in humiliation.
I figured I’d buy a present for Ridge’s birthday. What do you buy for a gay ban garda who dislikes you with intensity?
Barbed wire?
There’s a corner shop close to the hotel. Despite its proximity, I’d avoided it for years. In my days as a guard, I’d had to caution the owner for overcharging. He hadn’t responded well. He said,
“You pup, I gave your oul wan tick when she hadn’t a pot to piss in.”
Like that.
I fully expected he was still running the shop, but his carbon copy, the son, was behind the counter. I think we’d gone to school together. I said,
“Seamus.”
He held up his hand to silence me. A gesture I’m not wild about. A news item that a young man had been found crucified in Belfast. He’d been so badly beaten that his own father didn’t recognise him. Seamus reached over, turned the radio off, said,
“Jack Taylor, we don’t usually get your business.”
Already the bitter word. I wanted to say,
“What a surprise and you reeking in charisma.”
Went with,
“How’s your dad?”
“Dead, thanks.”
Before I could rise to this reply, a non-national entered and Seamus was instantly on alert. As if a button had been pressed, his eyes narrowed and he snapped,
“Help you?”
The man was intimidated; he recognised the tone. Keeping his eyes down, he said,
“Some sugar, please?”
“Bottom shelf, next to the tea and coffee.”
Seamus never took his eyes off him. When the man came with the sugar, Seamus barked the price. I don’t know the cost of things, unless it’s drink, which always costs more than I can ever afford and not just financially. But even I knew this was through the roof. I was going to ask,
“What? The Budget came early?”
I doubt he’d have heard me, so intent was he on the man. After he’d gone, Seamus said,
“Bloody thieves.”
“You know him?”
“No, never saw him before.”
“Then how…?”
He glared at me, venom jumping in his eyes, said,
“They’re all thieves and liars, and God knows what diseases they bring in.”
I was too stunned to reply. His eyes cleared and he switched to friendly mode, asked,
“So, what can I do you for, Jack?”
I bought a box of Black Magic and a birthday card. He told me a joke that involved a priest and Irish stew. Thank God, I have no recollection of it. It was lewd and certainly not funny; he enjoyed it immensely. I do remember him calling as I left,
“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”
“We are the graceless and dumbfounded, insane with our own insatiable desire for another time and place.”
David Means, Assorted Fire Events
The rain came hammering down. One of those showers that seems personal, as if it really wants to drench you.
It did.
I remember what Billy Connolly said, that there isn’t bad weather, only wrong clothes. Give him six months in Galway, see what he’d say then. I got on the bus and barely found a seat, it was so crowded. Sat by a window and tried to figure what was different. Irish. Everybody was speaking it. I heard a flurry of,
“An bhfuil tú go maith?”
“Cén chaoi bhfuil tú?”
“Tá an aimsir go dona.”
My favourite was from a young man who answered one of the above with,
“Tá scéilín agam.”
He’d a story to tell. The translation doesn’t do justice to the emphasis he laid on “scéilín.” Combining intrigue, pleasure, excitement and the low cunning of renown. I’d like to have heard that story. Just before the bus moved off, a young girl, late teens, rushed on board wearing a sky blue windbreaker. Looked round at the full bus, asked me,
“Is that seat, like, taken?”
American.
I smiled, said,
“Work away.”
She sat, went,
“I love the way you guys talk.”
As the bus pulled off, from old habit, I blessed myself and she was thrilled, said,
“Gee, that is, like, so cute.”
I didn’t have a reply to this. She continued to stare at me. I noticed a ring in her left eyebrow and a stud beneath her lower lip. That shit has got to hurt.
To break the stare, I asked,
“Are you on holidays?”
“That’s like vacation, right? Yeah, you could say that, but it’s, like, a drag, you hear what I’m saying?”
“Why?”
She rolled her eyes and I sensed it was her party piece, something she did a lot. She answered,
“My dad, he’s like this old guy, fifty-two, and he wants me to learn about my roots. Like, hello?”
I like Americans, their vitality amazes me, and the fresh energy they carry, it’s downright mysterious. Me, I was born tired. I decided to make the effort, asked,
“Your father’s people are from Connemara?”
“Yeah, right, like he doesn’t mention it a zillion times. So, I’m staying with his sister and she’s so, like…anxious. Like, worries all the time. She needs, like, you know, to chill.”
It wasn’t the easiest thing to follow her speech; if she said “like” one more time, I’d scream. I asked,
“What does she worry about?”
“Like stuff, you know?”
That was all the insight she had. We were coming into Salthill and I wanted to watch the bay. Lest she mar the pleasure of it, I asked,
“How do you fill your time?”
“Fill?”
“What do you do all day?”
“Oh, I got you. Mostly I hang…like, around the mall, watch the guys.”
Mall!
I was still keeping one eye on the bay, waves crashing in over the rocks, went,
“You enjoy that?”
“It sucks.”
I spotted the hotel and moved to signal the driver. The girl asked,
“What’s the deal with the stick?”
“I hurt my knee.”
“Bummer.”
I wasn’t heartbroken to be leaving her but tried,
“Take care.”
“Yeah. Like, whatever.”
When I got off the bus, the wind nearly blew me over. The girl was staring out the window, so I gave what I thought was a friendly wave. She gave me the finger.
The Connemara Coast Hotel looks like a motel, long and sleek and strung out along the very edge of the land. I got inside and felt grateful for the warmth. Located the lounge, and there were Ridge and Margaret. I approached and said,
“Happy birthday.”
Ridge grimaced, said to Margaret,
“This is him.”
Not the most effusive welcome. Margaret put out her hand, said,