The new year brought the death of Lemmy and then David Bowie. Could there be a worse way to begin the wretched year?
I had been to the doctor and got told,
“You are somewhat of a miracle!”
The fuck is that?
I asked,
“Meaning?”
The doctor did that peering at me over the rim of his glasses, the look that sees nothing, absolutely nothing worth saving. He said,
“Last year, you seemed...”
He searched for a term that didn’t include litigation.
Got,
“You seemed very weak.”
Then he peered some more at a chart, probably his golf scores, and said that jingle they live by,
“We would like to do some further tests.”
’Course they would with an MRI kicking off at a thousand euros a pop. I said,
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He gasped,
“I beg your pardon?”
In that prissy tone that warrants a serious puck in the mouth. Outside, I deep breathed and looked at my hand, shaking like the last gasp of a wino.
A distinguished-looking guy in a dressing gown was looking lost and trailing an IV. Hard to look impressive in that gear but he managed. He asked,
“Is there an area for smoking?”
Not anymore.
I said,
“Not anymore.”
He said,
“Life is full of irony. I had not smoked for years then, with this health scare, I started again and now there is nowhere you can actually practice the foul deed.”
I said,
“Go ahead, I’ll deal with the fallout.”
He looked at me anew, said,
“That is awfully generous of you. This world needs more of your thinking.”
I seriously doubted that.
He lit up, dragged deep like only a former smoker can, guilt and relief dancing that waltz of addiction. He gasped,
“My word, that is good.”
Then reveled in the hit, said,
“Inherent vice.”
Quick as a first-year lit wanker, I said,
“Thomas Pynchon.”
He was impressed, said,
“Erudite too.”
I gave an enigmatic smile as if I knew what that even meant. Then a shout and a galloping security guard appeared, all puff and indignation, shouted,
“Hoi, smoking is forbidden.”
He looked at me. I said,
“Verboten.”
He went,
“What?”
“German,”
I said.
He looked at the smoker, snarled.
“I don’t give a toss where you’re from but no smoking here.”
I got right in his face, hissed,
“I know you and wonder does your employer know you used to have a thing for wee kiddies?”
He stepped back, said,
“That was never proven.”
I smiled.
He weighed his options, then,
“I’ll let it slide this time but don’t let me catch you here again.”
I had full respect for the man who continued to smoke, watching the exchange with almost disinterest. I said to the security guy,
“Run along now. Must be a car or two needs clamping.”
He sized me up, said,
“I’ll remember you.”
And slunk off.
The man dropped his cig, said,
“You have a way with you.”
I held out my hand, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
He shook it warmly, said,
“Jeremy Cooper.”
The Late Sixties in every sense of the word seemed to be dying.
Glenn Frey (67)
Lemmy (70)
David Bowie (69)
Alan Rickman (69)
It was either a very dangerous age or
Extremely fortunate to have reached that decade.
Trump was leading the polls in the U.S. and it seemed as if he were giving vent to all the voiceless and then he got the endorsement of Sarah Palin.
Phew.
To see them embrace in Iowa was to see ignorance and prejudice entwined. Their smiles of glee sent a shiver along every line of reason you ever had. The water cooler moment in Ireland was the screening of the documentary series Making a Murderer.
With
The Jinx.
Podcast of Serial.
The public was transfixed with true crime. Then, to add ridicule to disbelief, Sean Penn literally led the authorities to capture Chappie.
He wrote an article in Rolling Stoma that was a crash course in a little knowledge being so dangerous.
No wonder I drank.
Ghost No. 1, Jeremy Cooper, was back from his unexpected trip to the hospital. He had been stunned when the doctors told him his prognosis was bad, well... dire.
People react to such news in so many different ways.
Anger
Disbelief
Fear
All of the above.
Cooper wanted a cigarette.
His whole dream of ruling the city with his army of ghosts was just smoke in the Galway wind. Woody, his second in command, could see something was seriously wrong. His boss, his messiah, was weakened and, Christ, he looked sick. Cooper said,
“Our grand schemes are fucked.”
Obscenities from the master!
Cooper sighed, then,
“Get me a cigarette.”
That in itself was the sign of how things were. Previously, cigarettes were part of the list Cooper had banned. Not that Woody had stopped smoking; he’d stopped only in front of the boss. So he had to make a show of going to fetch some. He asked his own self,
“Fuck, now what?”
The ghosts were going to be famous and powerful and...
He tore open a pack of cigarettes, lit one, fumed in every sense.
He had managed to recruit ten followers, and what would he tell them now?
“Sorry guys, Armageddon is deferred.”
Traipsed back to Cooper, depression laying heavy on his mind. Cooper took a cig, fired up, then,
“Change of plan, if we’re going out, let us go out in style.”
Woody had no idea what this meant so said nothing. Cooper chucked the cig, said,
“Something major, have them gasp and exclaim, There be ghosts.”
Then Copper paused, thought. Said,
“At the hospital, I met a man who might be suitable for our plans. His name is Jack Taylor and, if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say you would find him in a pub.”
Woody felt a tinge of resentment, as if he was being considered less vital. Cooper caught the
Sense, soothed,
“I am blessed with you my man.”
Neither of them felt it carried much conviction.
Woody was in a quandary. He had so fervently believed the ghosts were the answer to everything but now Cooper was sounding very much like a guy who was quitting. Rage was simmering in every pore. He needed some fix to put him back on some meaningful track.
Confession.
His mother had gone faithfully every Saturday to be absolved for her sins. It didn’t seem to make her life a whole lot better but for a brief time she would be light and even singing. Fuck, he thought, a brief respite would be just fine.
Rang around the churches to see what times confessions were being held. Riled to find a tone of suspicion not to mention downright hostility from most of the churches. First lesson, it was no longer called confession but, get this,
“The sacrament of reconciliation.”
“But,”
He pleaded,
“Is it the same gig?”
Meaning,
“Will I be forgiven?”