“Oh, my God.”
She sat up alarmed,
“You don’t like it?”
It was Just Another Town by Johnny Duhan. I said,
“I love it, but it opens a box of memories I don’t know am I able for.”
Back in ’82, I was still in uniform, dating a girl from Boher-more. Man, I played that album to death. A track, “Shot Down”, was the very breath I inhaled. The girl would say,
“Are we having a Johnny Duhan day?”
Were we ever? And more than any decent person could bear. Over the dark years, I’d keep pace with each Johnny album. As his songs deepened, I spiralled ever down. Before the girl dumped me, she said,
“Don’t get me wrong, Jack, I like sad songs, but you…you need them.”
I knew she was right. There has never been an occasion when, if I encountered a brass band, I didn’t want to weep. Freud that. Later, when the CD was playing – I mean later, as in weeks on – and Sweeper was in the kitchen and “Just Another Town” was playing, he said,
“That’s the first time I ever heard my upbringing in a song.”
I gave him the thing, what else could I do? In the terrible months of soul darkness when these events had concluded, I went and rebought the whole Duhan catalogue. Only Emmylou Harris reaches me thus.
Back to the moment with Laura, I shook my head as if that would erase the memories, said to her,
“You couldn’t have got me anything better.”
“I was going to buy Elvis. Do you like him?”
“Hon, I judge people on whether they like him or not.”
She gave the most radiant smile. Times are now, I wish I’d never experienced her happiness. The pit opens and I rush headlong. She said,
“I wrote you a poem.”
I didn’t know how to respond, went for,
“You write?”
Trying to keep the astonishment from my voice. Shaking her head, she said,
“Oh, God, no; just this one.”
She reached over to her bag, took out a pink sheet of paper, handed it over solemnly. I opened it with a stone heart, mantra-ing,
“No, this will not touch me in any way.”
Read:
The love that hurts.
By
Laura Nealon, Galway, Ireland.
That first piece had me full fucked and I still had the poem looming. Focused.
My love I have lost
The love from the west
I long for the night
The night that will come
Upon my pillow I will lie
My love beside
I long to touch
The love to watch
At your side
I love to breathe
I love to kill
By my love’s side
I wish to lie.
I don’t know much, but I knew I was going to need strong drink soon and a whole shipful. I said,
“It’s terrific.”
“I won’t write any more, it was just to…”
“Thanks a lot.”
After a while, she asked,
“Was your wife very smart?”
“She left me, how smart can you get?”
She let that dance, said,
“Cathy said she went to college.”
Cathy had a big mouth. I said,
“Yes.”
“To do what?”
Jeez, on top of the poem, I was perilously close to bluntness, said,
“A doctorate in metaphysics.”
She bit her lower lip, said,
“I don’t know what that means.”
I relented, said,
“Hon, the places I’ve been, the places I’m likely to be, it wouldn’t buy you a dry spit.”
She mulled that over, then,
“I’m not sure what that means either, but it makes me feel better.”
Sleep was creeping up on me. I said,
“Get some rest, hon.”
“OK, but in my job I make tons of money. I’ll give you some.”
Jesus!
She was gone early next morning. I had what they call an emotional hangover. Would settle for the booze variety any day. Leastways, you knew how to deal with it. An envelope had been pushed through the door. Opened it cautiously: a wedge, whole stack of large denomination. A note:
You’ll be short, don’t be.
Sweeper.
His handwriting was superb. Almost as if he’d used a quill; shit, maybe he had.
One of the first lessons you learn as a guard is hard men. They don’t teach this in the manual. You learn it on the streets. Every town has its quota. They are hard in the true sense. Ruthless, unyielding, merciless. Unlike the pub version, they don’t advertise their mettle. There’s no need. It’s in the eyes. The ones I’d encountered all shared one trait: a granite fairness. Never mind that it was their take on it, they stuck by it. Bill Cassell. Isn’t that a hell of a name? Nobody, and I emphasise nobody, ever cracked wise about the dictionary. He was a hybrid, a Galway mother and a father from hell. Bill had a fearsome reputation. The guards kept their distance. I’d gone to school with him. For years, he’d taken numerous beatings till he grew, and then he dished them out. Every teacher who’d ever thrashed him got a reprisal. Later, rather than sooner. He was a man of infinite patience.
There’s a pub on the docks called Sweeney’s, small, dark and dangerous. A chance dropper-in gets carried out. Tourists do not find it. I planned on a visit. Went to Dunnes and splashed out. Big time. I’d shopped in charity outlets for so long, I was truly appalled at real prices. But said fuckit; I had a stash. Shot through the shop like a mini Haughey. Balls, attitude and dubious taste. Four sweatshirts, three jeans, permacrease chinos, sneakers, white Ts, sports jacket. The assistant asked,
“Have you got a club card?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“I’m supposed to ask.”
I had no idea why I was giving her grief. You work for Dunnes, you have shovelfuls already. I handed over a small ransom, read her name tag, said,
“You’re doing a great job, Fiona.”
“How would you know?”
“Touché. You’ll go far.”
Brought the stuff home. Considered: for a villain meet, did you dress up…or down? Compromised. New navy sweatshirt, faded jeans and a fucked leather. Now if that wasn’t a mixed message, then my time in the guards was truly wasted. Transferred the Down’s syndrome pin to the leather. I looked like that wanker who advertises insurance for the over fifties. Had a quick listen to Johhny Duhan and I was set. Walking down Shop Street. I saw my mother looking in Taffes’ window. There was nothing in it, not a single item. I kept walking. At Griffin ’s bakery, I met the bookie I had once fleeced. The aroma of fresh bread was like hope. I said,
“How’s it going?”
He indicated his bread, said,
“I got my grinder.”
“That’ll do it.”
“You won’t be calling any time soon?”
“I hadn’t planned to.”
“Good news at last.”
A refugee asked me for my jacket. I said,
“It’s got sentimental value.”
“I don’t care, give it to me.”
Jesus.
The docks are full changed. When I was a child, it was a magical if forbidding zone. Equal part danger and temptation. Dockers were men of true stature. You might fuck with all types but never them. I was lucky to have met the very best of them. Luxury apartments, new hotels, language schools and leisure craft had overtaken the area. It might have been progress, but it was not an improvement. An oasis of old Galway was Sweeney’s. I think developers were too intimidated to approach the owners. I pushed open the door, inhaled the mix of fish and nicotine. Conversation died till they got a fix on me. Then, an audible sigh of ease and talk resumed. Bill had a table near the bar. He was alone.