A photographer came up and snapped a picture of the five of them. “If that makes the paper,” growled Pinto, looking into the camera but talking to O’Rourke, “you can kiss your campaign goodbye. Fuck, I’m going to have to explain to my parole officer why I’m consorting with fucking politicians!”
“It is sometimes better to know the judge,” said Hamill slyly, “than to know the law.”
“Now he tells me!” laughed Pinto.
The five men began to climb the stairs leading to the second floor dining room, where O’Rourke would announce his candidacy for Congress. The steep twenty-six steps demanded sobriety. At the top, out of breath, they were greeted by Larry Meagher, the proprietor. “If it isn’t the limousine liberal himself,” he said to O’Rourke.
O’Rourke knew he was just breaking his balls. “How’s my favorite right-wing nut? How ya feeling, Larry?”
“Lost another toe to diabetes,” he said, pointing a cane at his bandaged, tender feet. “I’m like an old leper with various digits falling off by the week. Otherwise, I’m fit.” Larry was old and tough. He did not complain. “You’re looking good, Tone. Sharp suit.”
“Thanks,” said O’Rourke, knowing Larry was about to hammer him.
“I always say,” said Meagher, “if you’re going to be im-PO-tent, you got to dress im-PO-tent!”
“Larry,” said O’Rourke, laughing, “do you know John Mellor, Neil Granger, Nick Pinto, and John Hamill?” Meagher nodded. “So, how’s the family?”
“Doin’ okay,” said Meagher. “I got six kids,” he said to O’Rourke’s group. “Two redheads, two towheads—and two shitheads!” Larry Meagher was a pistol—an old, rusted pistol, but he still had perfect aim. “I hear you’re the fags’ favorite candidate.”
“I hope to be,” said O’Rourke. “I can use their votes.”
“They’ve turned Horatio Street,” deadpanned Meagher, “into Fellatio Street.” Amid laughter, Larry shuffled away.
“He’s a piece of work,” said Pinto.
“Yeah,” said O’Rourke absently as he surveyed the scene, “going to be a good crowd.”
“Fuck all of ’em,” said Hamill with a Belfast wink, “except the six that will carry your coffin.” Wolfe Tone O’Rourke loved Johnny Hamill.
The Old Town was a real bar. Almost church-like with beautiful, high tin ceilings, tall, narrow booths like confessionals, lots of wood, marble, tiled floors, and stained glass windows. The urinals—not on the scale of the ones at McSorley’s Old Ale House, but pretty damn impressive—were almost four feet tall and were so comforting in their stolid, milky gleam that they made peeing an event. The original gas fixtures were still there, recalling the time when the bar had opened in 1892. On the wall were pictures of Teddy Roosevelt, photos of regulars like Liam Neeson, and book jackets belonging to Frank McCourt and Billy Collins. A political poster from the 1928 presidential race of Al Smith and his running mate, Joe T. Robinson, declared the candidates “Honest, Able, Fearless.” Nothing about being Catholic. Also on the wall were pictures of Larry’s uncle, William J. (Willie) Meagher of the “Regular Democratic Organization.” Although Larry now bent his elbow to the right, his blood was deep in Brooklyn Democratic politics. One headline from the Brooklyn Eagle about the avuncular Willie Meagher declared: “Spurned All Jobs!” “Just like Gerard!” Larry Meagher said, nodding at his son—the saloon dauphin—resplendent in his Hawaiian shirt, with hand to forehead, puzzling over the intricacies of the day’s menu, as though he were Einstein doodling with the theory of relativity.
O’Rourke knew how to throw a party. Especially if he wanted to attract the media, those poor put-upon souls of the fourth estate who received little respect and less money. Noon sharp. A buffet consisting of shrimp cocktail, slabs of prime rib, lobster tails. And most important, an open bar. In fact, on the invitation, OPEN BAR stood out in fiftytwo-point type. O’Rourke knew his announcement would be well attended.
“You guys get the envelope I left you?” he asked Amy Yax and Christine Reynolds, who were bartending and ministering to the culinary treats. He was talking about the gratuity he had left for them with Larry. Yax and Reynolds—they sounded like a slightly shady law firm—were favorites of O’Rourke. Yax had one of the most devilishly dirty laughs in the city, and shared O’Rourke’s political views; she was a dark-haired beauty who ran marathons and wrote wonderful short stories.
Reynolds was Yax’s complete opposite—the daughter of a cop, who studied law at Fordham, sweet and upright. O’Rourke had met Reynolds originally on one of his trips to Dublin. He had run into her at the Olivier St. John Gogarty saloon in Temple Bar, where she worked. She had a wonderful disposition and a marvelous sense of humor. One night at the Old Town, a young yuppie sat down next to her at the bar while she was waiting to order drinks. “You come here often?” asked Joe Smooth, shaping his mousse-soaked hair.
“Every night.”
“I’m a Sagittarius.”
“I’m a waitress,” she said without missing a beat.
She now studied law and ravenously read Dostoyevsky. O’Rourke had a sneaking suspicion that she was more interested in the punishment than in the crime.
Sam McGuire entered the room and immediately went up to O’Rourke and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I did good, right?” McGuire had been in charge of the invitations and making sure everyone in the media showed up.
“It’s a small room,” said O’Rourke.
“So?”
“It’s easy to fill a small room.” She looked hurt, and O’Rourke felt bad. “Sam, remember, I earned my bones working for Jerry Bruno. He never got out of high school, but he was fucking brilliant. Anyway, I was working for him in Oregon in 1968 on Bobby’s last campaign. Oregon was a mess, poorly organized. Bobby wasn’t popular out there because he was for gun control laws. He wasn’t drawing well and the press was on to it. POOR CROWDS GREET KENNEDY. Kennedy was going insane. So we’re having this big rally and Bobby says just three words to Bruno: ‘Don’t disappoint me.’ So—”
“Let me guess,” said Sam.
“Go ahead.”
“Bruno rented a small hall and people were hanging from the rafters.”
“Sam,” said O’Rourke, “I knew there was a reason to love you.” It was only the second time he had mentioned the most treacherous and dangerous word in the English language to McGuire. It was as if he was defying the ghosts of Rebekah and Grace. Sam glowed and O’Rourke felt embarrassed. “Well,” said O’Rourke, trying to cover up his feelings and move on, “the local big-shot Democrat supporting RFK gets up in front of this fire hazard crowd, points her finger right at Bruno, and says, ‘You can blame all this overcrowding on that man over there!’”
“What happened?”
“Bob Kennedy looked at Jerry Bruno and gave him the most dazzling thank-you smile you ever saw!”
“Let me guess,” said Sam. “Next day the papers said Kennedy spoke to an overflowing crowd.”
“You’re learning, Sam. You’re learning.”
McGuire looked O’Rourke squarely in the eye. “You bet I am.”
“Let’s make the announcement,” said O’Rourke and McGuire went to shoo the press away from the bar and the buffet table. O’Rourke, almost unconsciously, touched McGuire slightly on the buttock as she turned away. She turned and smiled and O’Rourke knew exactly how Bruno felt that day when Kennedy had smiled at him.
“I am here today,” began O’Rourke, “to announce my candidacy for the 7th Congressional District. I am running for this office for just two reasons: First, to bring this traditionally Democratic district back into the fold; and, secondly—and even more importantly—to tell some truths about the American political system and how it works. I will tell you what I believe to be the truth, whether you agree with me or not, whether it is politically correct or not, whether an election hinges on it or not. The floor is open to questions.”
“How do you stand on abortion?” was the first question.
&nb
sp; “I’m for it.”
“Even partial-birth abortions?”
“What is it,” said O’Rourke with a hard stare, “that you don’t understand about the three words ‘I’m for it?’”
“How about welfare reform?” yelled Wellington Mulvaney of the New York Post, his Australian accent conspicuous in the roomful of New Yorkers. Mulvaney hadn’t changed much over the years; he still wore those shiny Italian suits that went out of vogue in 1975. It was early in the day and Mulvaney was already on his fourth Bloody Mary. The years since Rupert Murdoch had brought Mulvaney in from Australia to type his column had not been kind to him. Like his ideas and prose, his body had taken on an embalmed look. As the years passed and his drinking increased, the average length of Mulvaney’s columns had shrunk to less than 250 words. It had gotten so bad that the Post had started printing his columns in 16-point type in order to fill out the page.
“I’m for a fair and just welfare system,” O’Rourke continued. “I have no respect for any politician who takes bribes from corporate scumbags—you can fill in the blanks here, Wellington—but wants to act tough with some poor black woman with three kids getting $320 a month from the city. I think that’s despicable.”
“I think what you’re saying is despicable,” returned Mulvaney.
“Wellington,” said O’Rourke dead-on, “this is my party. If you don’t like it, you can go downstairs and buy your own fucking drinks.”
“But why,” Mulvaney continued, “should the citizens of this fair city have to pay for welfare cheats?”
O’Rourke had had enough. He was getting that look in his eyes and McGuire was getting alarmed. Then Larry Meagher came to the rescue. Larry’s raspy voice interrupted the dead silence. “I would never trust an Irishman named Wellington,” was all he said. Soon there was laughter, followed by applause. Mulvaney blushed. O’Rourke had been saved by his favorite right-wing nut job, very late of the Brooklyn Regular Democratic Machine.
But Mulvaney wouldn’t give up. “The president says he never inhaled. How about you? Have you ever used drugs?”
“Yes, I have,” said O’Rourke as he prepared to hit the loaded question out of the ballpark. “I have not lived in a cocoon all my life. In fact, I’ve used drugs with many of the people in this very room. And,” O’Rourke added, “I hope you’ll ask Jackie Swift the very same question.” O’Rourke knew his people. There was no follow-up on the drug question. Mulvaney was done.
“Are you for school teachers being paid on merit?” another reporter asked.
“No,” said O’Rourke, “I’m for school teachers getting raises. But I am for politicians getting paid on merit. By that standard every single one of them would owe the treasury money.”
“Will you take campaign contributions?”
“I will only take bribes of twenty-five dollars or lower. And for that twenty-five dollars the contributor will get my everlasting gratitude and a ‘Tone for Congress’ T-shirt and ‘NO MORE BULLSHIT’ buttons.”
“How do you feel about NAFTA?”
“I’m against it,” said O’Rourke. “I’m against anything that takes American jobs out of the country. In my opinion, this is a conspiracy by the Clinton administration and corporate America to screw the American worker. Pretty soon they’ll want to pay Americans in pesos.” There was a slight buzz from the crowd.
“What do you think of Clinton?”
“I think he should get some backbone,” said O’Rourke. “He’s been a disaster for the Democratic Party. He’s lost the House to the Republicans. In fact, he acts like he’s afraid of the Republicans. He’s turning the Democratic Party into a bunch of spineless pussies. In fact, he’s the best fucking president the Republicans have ever had.” O’Rourke looked at McGuire and could see she was not enamored with his use of the word pussy, which had escaped his fast-moving lips.
“How about State Senator Thom Lamè?”
“What about Lame?” O’Rourke, still needling the councilman.
“The rumor,” said the reporter, “is that he’ll run in the primary, also.”
“That’s his right,” replied O’Rourke.
“What’s your stand on the death penalty?”
“I’m against it,” said O’Rourke.
“Why?”
“I’m sick and tired of politicians—most of them without morals themselves—seeking easy solutions to very difficult problems. It’s nothing but political grandstanding. Look at Texas. The governor down there—great Christian he is—brags about executing human beings.”
“But it’s the law in Texas.”
“I am not exactly awed by the law either,” said O’Rourke. “The law is made by men, some of whom are more corrupt than the people they proudly punish. After the basic laws—those against murder, robbery, rape, whatever—the laws every decent person can agree on, just what are the laws and who is writing them? Take bankruptcy. Who’s interested in bankruptcy laws? Banks and credit card companies. Certainly not the schmuck up to his neck in hock. And who’s writing those laws? Congressmen who take bribes—excuse me, I misspoke, I mean campaign contributions—from those same banks and credit card companies. Yet no one gets outraged over that. This government is bought and sold on a daily basis, and I want to change that.”
“How about the Liberal Party endorsement?”
“I won’t seek it or accept it.”
“Why?”
“Any party,” replied O’Rourke with vehemence, “that would endorse Rudy Giuliani over David Dinkins should be airbrushed out of New York City history. One of my objectives in my lifetime is to see the Liberal Party extinct. I know you’ve heard the refrain before, gentlemen, but one, it ain’t liberal, and two, it ain’t a party. It’s more of a dry cleaners, if you ask me.” Laughter went up from the crowd.
“Any other questions?” asked O’Rourke.
“I have one,” said Mulvaney, hoping for a comeback. “How do you feel about being denied Holy Communion because of your stand on abortion?”
O’Rourke did not mince his words. “Boots,” O’Rourke began, and Mulvaney winced at his hated nickname, “the Cardinal should be ashamed of himself, setting Catholic against Catholic. Requiring a litmus test for faith. In Jack Kennedy’s time it was Protestant bigots questioning his religion and his patriotism. Now, unfortunately, it’s the bigotry of my own Church. It’s no big deal for me personally,” added O’Rourke, “because I haven’t been in a church except for a marriage or a funeral in over thirty-five years.” He paused. “And may I add that I preferred the funerals, because at least I knew the suffering was over.” It got a big laugh and Sam McGuire wanted to kick O’Rourke in the shin. “One more thing on the Cardinal. I didn’t hear a word out of him on the death penalty. Apparently, it’s okay for Catholic politicians to be for the death penalty. If he wants to pontificate on theology, at least the Cardinal should be consistent.”
“And gentlemen,” added O’Rourke, “don’t forget to tip Amy and Christine—the booze and food were on me. Don’t be cheapskates.” Both Yax and Reynolds burst out in applause.
O’Rourke worked the crowd before ducking into a corner to do quick stand-ups for Channels 2, 4, 5, 7, 11, and New York One. When he was finished, Sam McGuire joined him. “You were great,” she said.
“I know,” said O’Rourke, tongue firmly in cheek.
“Except for that marriage crack. You’re such a fraud,” she said, laughing, and as she looked down at his pants, she saw a growing pyramid.
“No, I’m not,” said Wolfe Tone O’Rourke.
“You know you’re such a pussy,” said McGuire as she ran her tongue between her lips. They embraced, oblivious to everything and everyone around them.
19.
New York Post, April 20, 2000
THE CHUTZPAH CATHOLIC
By Wellington Mulvaney
Frankly, it was disgusting listening to Wolfe Tone O’Rourke announce that he was going to run for Congress yesterday at the Old Town Bar on East 18th Street.
>
The only word that comes to mind is “chutzpah.”
It’s amazing how this man, a man in favor of murdering fetuses, has the gall to defame His Eminence, Declan Cardinal Sweeney.
In front of the free-loading liberal press of this city he had the nerve to bash Cardinal Sweeney, who, as all true Americans know, is one of the great men of this nation.
When questioned by this reporter O’Rourke laughed off being denied Holy Communion because of his Godless beliefs. He made himself out as being some kind of latter-day John F. Kennedy, for defying the tenets of his faith. He even had the nerve to accuse the Cardinal and the Church of being bigoted.
I know it’s hard to believe, but he even came out against the death penalty. What right-thinking American is against the death penalty in this day and age?
I have just one question for Mr. Big Shot, Wolfe Tone O’Rourke: How do you sleep at night with the murder of fetuses on your alleged conscience?
20.
O’Rourke took the dusty statue in hand. Everything in his apartment was dusty. McGuire had begun to vacuum, scrub and dust. “The only thing dirtier than this apartment,” she had said, adjusting a bandanna on her head, “is your mind.”
“Quentin Crisp once said,” O’Rourke returned, “that after the first four inches of dust, it doesn’t matter.” McGuire looked at him with a fair measure of doubt.
O’Rourke began to examine the white statue of the Blessed Virgin, only it wasn’t white anymore. It was a weary gray. It had belonged to his grandmother, Rosanna Conway Kavanagh, and somehow it had survived her and made it all the way to New York. He didn’t know how, but it had. He thought his uncle, Dick Kavanagh, had somehow brought it with him when he emigrated to New York in the 1930s. Dick was O’Rourke’s favorite uncle. Thinking back, he was Jack Paar’s doppelganger. He lived in Queens and he was an elevator operator at the Manhattan Hotel on 45th Street and Eighth Avenue. (“It has its ups and downs,” he used to tell his young nephew—who finally got the joke.) Next to a civil service job, working at a big hotel was pretty good for a lower-middle class Irish-Catholic back in the 1950s and ’60s. Dick was married to his Auntie Rose, the first woman O’Rourke had ever seen with blue hair back in the ’50s. They had married in middle-age and O’Rourke’s father, always casting a cold eye on matters of the heart, had declared at their wedding: “As He made them, He matched them.”
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