The inevitable violence came later that morning when, after what I thought was a thorough lesson in how to ride and maintain her, I was allowed to take Suzi out on my own.
Derry watched over me as I kick-started her. Derry told me again how to operate the gears. Derry told me, 'Go. Go. Go.'
And I gunned her and then she was mine. And I was hers. And we were sheer acceleration round the circuit. First second third fourth. Brake. Fourth third second. Power on. Yeehaw!
And then I hit some mud in the corner of the field next to the manse.
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Derry hadn't told me about mud and how to handle the slipperiness so I spun out, at thirty-something m.p.h., without a helmet.
I was lucky though. I got away with a few bruises and a long gash across the inside of my left calf.
Derry wasn't watching - he'd actually gone back into the house - so I had to limp Suzi back to the garage myself. I think I walked because I didn't have the confidence to ride her but it could have been that I thought she must be injured, I mean broken.
Suzi was broken, but not beyond repair as it turned out. My leg too wasn't broken, and we got that fixed a lot faster than the scrambler. I did however make the most of the injury when Mom Horrowitz returned from shopping, as is written in the boy genetic code of behaviour.
Derry was not best pleased at my efforts either to ride or to be mollycoddled. He must have figured I was usurping his place in the household because he didn't speak to me for the rest of that day, preferring the company of the broken Suzi.
Mom Horrowitz told me to put my leg up so I watched movies until evening-time. One after the other. See, the Horrowitz-z-zs had cable. You could have all the movies you wanted. Non-stop movies. I love movies.
As if that wasn't enough movies, Derry had his favourite Sci-Fi movie on video. Cronenberg's Scanners. You know - the one where that guy's head explodes. Derry always said that bit was totally cool.
Phil phoned me later on that night. He was staying with Kuntz-z-zs in Waukesha, a neighbouring suburb of New Berlin. He wasn't sounding too happy. He couldn't say
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why. He just wanted to come over. 'Helmut is dying to meet you,' Phil said sarcastically.
'And you've got to meet Derry,' I said sarcastically.
'You mean Londonderry,' Phil said.
'I wish I did!'
Me and Phil had a good laugh at that.
When we stopped he said, 'Maybe we could all go to a drive-in or something?'
'I've watched three movies today already,' I told him. 'And you have to be able to drive to drive into a drive-in.'
Phil laughed. He could always laugh at himself. That's such a rare quality.
'Alright we'll decide when we get there,' he told me.
Mom Kuntz (would you take this as your married name if you were a woman?) drove them over at about half seven.
Out in the sweltering twilight Derry met Phil. I met Helmut. We all shook hands, even though my first impression of Helmut was that he was a fatuous specky dickhead, and Phil didn't take a fancy to Derry's non-Blarney-charms.
'Where'd you get the name Derry then?' Phil asked. 'Do you have Irish in you?'
'No,' Derry said. 'I'm ail-American.'
'With a name like Horrowitz?' Phil said back.
'Yeah!'
I chipped in. 'No seriously, where did you get the name Derry?'
Derry shrugged. 'My Mom loves Ireland for some reason?'
Loves Ireland - now that was an instant conversation stopper for us Prods. And just as well. See Mom Kuntz was anxious to be getting along - so we had to get into the station-wagon and decide what we were going to do
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quickly. It was Derry who had a better idea than a movie. 'Let's go down to Bluebelles.' Helmut said, 'Yeah.'
Phil asked, 'We're going to a flowershop?' 'Get real,' said Derry. 'It's this ice-cream parlour. All the kids go.'
'Including Projectees.'' I said. Helmut said, 'Yeah.'
I just stared at him, hackles a-rising. Helmut was definitely the end-product of duh, years of dorks-kinder inbreeding. He spoke in this maddening monosyllabic, monotone. What made it worse was that he hardly moved his mouth to make these uh-duh sounds. Helmut could never be remotely cool, even with a year's one-on-one lessons from the Fonz. I later learned he didn't even like Rock, let alone Heavy Metal. He was into Whitney Houston and Duran Duran. Jesus. And poor Phil had to live with him for a month. And we had to hang together. People would think he was our mate for fuck's sake!
But, his Mom was our lift so we couldn't ditch him -at least until we got to this Bluebelles place - and not even then as it happened.
I stupidly imagined Bluebelles would look something like Arnold's out of Happy Days. Needless to say, when Mom Kuntz dropped us off in the lot, it didn't. It was this really tacky looking joint with blue and green neon signs and this big fake chocolate-fudge-nut-flake-syrup cone sticking out of its roof.
Their ice cream was good though. And pretty cheap too. I mention the price only because a Hot Fudge Sundae was the first thing I bought with them dollars my Da bunged my Ma. It isn't anything to do with the Scots-Irish blood in me, OK?
'Better eat this fast,' said Derry, 'storm's coming in.'
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But what the hell, we stood outside, licking and posing with our cones in what must have been 80 per cent humidity.
We looked about us. Other people were doing the same and feeling good about it.
There was nobody there we knew.
No Teresa to impress.
No Big Michael to make us feel small.
And mercifully, no Peter and Seamus.
But, wouldn't you know it, I was thinking my happy thoughts too soon - up pulled this pink Cadillac Coup de Ville and who should get out of my dream-car but Seamus, Peter, and their American Fenian other halves. Bastards!
Seamus was staying with this ratty-looking nervous type, Merrick Stulz, whose big brother owned the Caddy. And Peter was staying with this small, hard-bitten wee fucker called Joe Shanahan.
They all shouted some abuse about fudge-punchers over but I didn't even acknowledge them.
Derry took it thick though. 'Who're they?' he demanded.
I wouldn't tell him. I was too angry. So Phil simply said, 'People you don't want to know.'
'They're Catholics right?' said Derry. 'You guys don't like Catholics.'
'Taigs is the right word,' I said, impressed he knew even that much about Ulster.
'You want to fight them?' said Derry. His eyes lit up green. He was incredibly up for it all right.
In my mind's eye the Fonz and the Godfather joined us at Bluebelles to eat a dish best served cold: ice cream.
'Not tonight - I'm chilling,' I replied. 'But I'll take a rain check.'
'OK,' Derry said, the wild Hulk-light going out of his
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eyes. He was David Banner again, only he'd still got all his clothes on, unlike the Doctor who for some non-reason was always left in that same pair of ripped jeans.
That happy day ended when it was young - like most nights in America. The days are too humid see, so that gives rise to these big thunderstorms at night.
It started to chuck down rain on us about a minute after I said the word rain check. We got into Bluebelles sharpish and Helmut phoned home for a ride.
I thought about my rain check as we looked out into the storm, waiting. I glared over at Seamus who was able to make a dash for the Caddy. He gave me the bird.
'He's never going to apologise, is he?' I muttered.
Phil just shook his head.
But Derry said, 'Nobody apologises for anything unless they're made to.'
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8
Concerted Efforts
The Project let me settle in one more Family Day and then, on the Fourth of July, they took all us Projectees away for a two-day intensive concert rehearsal session at a residential resort.
I have to say the Family Days early on w
ere kind of stupid in practice. You have to do stuff together to get to know Americans, either the stuff they're doing or like, joint stuff, because they're always doing stuff. That's all they know how to do. So, I hadn't really got to know the Horrowitz-z-zs at all. I must have clocked up a few hours inequality time with Mom Horrowitz, but the Rev was elusive. His congregations kept him well busy doing stuff. Tiara was always out with her girlfriends doing stuff. And Derry, well we did do some stuff together but he was sealed tight as a Lambeg Drum.
At the residential resort we were formally introduced to the Head Counsellor of the US Project, one Stacey-May Roller. She was big and fat and always laughing and as black as coal. I liked her the moment we met - even though she was an authority figure and you could never say nah to her. I just tried to think of her as some local journalist by day and a lousy gospel singer on Sundays and a housebody at night because being such a lard-arse she couldn't have dated much.
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The reason why I'm rattling on about Stacey-May so much is she was in charge of the concert we were to throw for the Americans the following evening. She had this idea wedged in her head that it could be vaudeville gig, or a she put it to us, 'A class variety act.'
I told her one-to-one right at the start of rehearsals, 'This is going to be a dead loss.'
She told me, 'Don't give me that pessimism, boy.'
'It's realism,' I said. 'Honestly. I've seen this motley crew at work back home.'
'What's real is people want a show tomorrow night and they're gonna get one. Now, Problem Child, how're you gonna help me?'
Stacey-May made me her Stage Manager, even though I was a Brit and it was the American Day of Independence. There was nothing I could do. I'd more or less asked for it. Me and my big mouth. I'd forgotten that the same rules applied here on vacation as in school or the UFF. Never draw attention to yourself. Never volunteer or put yourself in the position to be volunteered. I had been noticed. I had to pay the price even if it meant more embarrassment - which as it happens, it didn't.
Phil thought it was very funny that while they just arsed about all day I had to run around like a headless chicken getting the order of the Ulster and American acts right, the acts timed right, and keep ushering them on and off the stage.
'Hanging around doing nothing - that's the real chore,' Derry said to me sarcastically.
What those two eejits didn't figure was that with the responsibility of leadership comes the privilege of power. I had the opportunity to talk to everybody, get to know the who's who of the American Projectees and win back some respect. I also got to break the ice with Teresa who
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seemed pleased that I'd made some kind of effort to talk.
'I wouldn't have thought all this was your style, Wil?' said Teresa.
'Stacey-May says he's a man of hidden talents,' said the American girl next to her.
'Have you met my host, Kelly Sticklegruber?' said Teresa.
'Nah,' I said.
'I'm the hostess with the mostess,' said Kelly. And boy was she right. She was a big girl with tits on her like a dead heat in a Zepellin race (one of my Da's ol' jokes). And I remember she had this tremendously womanly pear-shaped arse. I think I was so taken with it because it was the shape of a middle-aged woman's, a mother's if you like, but it had the rounded firmness of a virgin teenager. Yeah, Kelly's arse was one of my first sexual paradoxes. It was attractive and yet thoroughly repulsive at the same time . . .
Girls' bodies, see. They were just so, I mean, I hadn't got used to seeing them as well, different. Back home it wasn't the same. You knew the girl from primary school. You'd called her names for years. Kidded her. Chased and nipped and tickled her. Whatever. But with girls like Teresa or Kelly or any new girl it was hard to know what to do and where to look and when to say the right sort of thing, if you could even think of the right sort of thing.
I must have done the right sort of thing because Kelly came off with, 'We're thinking about having a midnight feast and you're now invited.'
'Ta very much Kelly,' I said.
'Thank Teresa,' Kelly told me and winked.
I saw Teresa blush as Kelly pulled her away.
The other thing the Stage Manager job got me was a chance to have a crack at Peter and Seamus.
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Phil gave me the idea to win Round Three. Firstly he said, I should get Stacey-May to put a comedy sketch together, you know, a basic two-man joke skit. So I did. And she liked the idea.
'Know anybody who could do it?' she asked.
'Well, there's a few jokers in this pack,' I said, following Phil's advice.
'Uh-huh—'
'Peter Byrne and Seamus Finnegan are full of funnies but they're a tad shy.'
That was all it took. Stacey-May got them to volunteer like she did to me. They were to script a comedy routine and get it ready by the next morning no excuses.
The rest of that day just dragged by. I had to get the Sergeant Bilko routine slotted in behind the Irish Dancing and the awful trumpet-player and the Gone with the Wind skit, but it wasn't happening. Thankfully, at about three in the afternoon the counsellors broke up the rehearsals and started up the team games outside.
I saw the whole set-up was to get you interacting with the enemy, showing you that they weren't that different, that you couldn't keep holding your age-old prejudices against them. The likes of Counsellor Ciaran couldn't fool me but I played along, at least for most of the day anyway. The other thing that didn't fool me either was why the Americans had taken us away to the residential resort on this day of all days. They didn't want us to see their nationalism-gone-rampant-jingoism, their military triumphalism, their victory parades - just in case we saw in them the reflection of our own.
Night fell and with it the sky - or so it sounded, what with another big thunderstorm. It totally washed out our
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chances of seeing any of the Fourth of July fireworks, not that we would have been encouraged to anyway.
Come ten, the storm had rumbled itself out and, after a late meal, we were all told by Stacey-May, 'It's going to be a long day tomorrow so get some sleep you guys.'
The counsellors then herded us like longhorn cattle into this big sports hall, where earlier we'd had to lay out our sleeping bags and stuff.
The good thing was that like cattle you could sleep-over with whoever you liked. There was no separation of the boys and the girls just a stern warning not to get into the sleeping bags of members of the opposite sex.
The bad thing was that for a moment I thought that drover Stacey-May was going to bring her sleeping bag and bivouac over beside me, but thankfully that didn't happen.
Me, Phil, Derry and Helmut formed our own little camp not far from where Teresa and Kelly and Sorcha and some other girls were tittering and giggling. Gradually the noise died down and the counsellors were lulled into sleep.
At midnight we joined the girl's whisper-party. We brought along some candy. I gave Teresa this Hershey Bar I'd bought earlier when me and Phil and Derry snuck away to a 7-11 across the street.
'Thanks, Wil,' she said and pecked me on the cheek. Yeah, she kissed me and it felt good.
Whatever else happened that night happened in a sort of fuzz. See, I didn't get much sleep and my memory goes when I don't get enough sleep. I can tell you for sure I didn't get into Teresa's sleeping bag and she didn't dare go to sleep on me again.
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9
Tit for tat
That following morning, listening to the snores of others, thinking about Teresa's kiss nearly drove me mad, but not quite. See, my own misplaced sense of loyalty became a UFF Court Martial, posing questions like - Was there such a thing as a good Taig? If I lost my hate for Taigs could I still be a good Prod? If I wasn't a good Prod then who would I be? Would my schoolmates still like me if I was seen to be different? Would my family? Would the Hit Squad? Could I go home if I had betrayed them? Was I a traitor?
Getting up and get
ting on with the malarkey of the day, doing stuff like an American, was the only way to put these questions to the back of my mind.
It was inevitable that over breakfast Phil and Derry would rib me mercilessly about the kiss. They hadn't had one, and fellas can get competitive about stuff like that.
'Are you going to see her?' asked Phil.
Now Derry wasn't to know the word 'see' in the Ulster vernacular means 'go out with', or 'date', but he wasn't going to be left out of the cheap shots. 'Are you going to pork her more like?'
I refused to comment on porking, preferring to munch my Kellogg's Cornflakes and fantasise about Teresa lying tits-out-for-the-lads naked on the hood of a pink cadillac,
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beckoning to me, hand outstretched so I could see her gleaming Phi Alpha Beta whatever-they-call-them ring. I can even remember thinking - and this is scary - perhaps one Porky's sister would be enough?
Later on that afternoon, when the rehearsals were more or less sorted, I started to get paranoid again. The ol' doubts came back. If I lost my hate for Taigs who would I be? You could say, and my lawyer did at the trial, that's why I did what I did to Peter and Seamus. You see tit-for-tat is all the rage in Ulster. It happens most every day. An eye is taken for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a kneecap for a kneecap, a life for a life. It is like some twisted form of dialogue between the two feuding halves of some split-up medieval family. The violence of our love for each other will not let us separate, will not let us divorce and move away to begin again. After all who would we be without each other? No ones.
And so, the need for revenge was strong within me. I needed to feel an identity. I needed to serve up some major ice cream.
Peter and Seamus had hammered together this dreadful, awful routine that was all about how St Paddy chased the snakes out of Ireland. It was so cheesy the Americans would probably have called it neat, or cute, or something else inane. The problem with the pair of them was for the love of God they couldn't remember their lines. That's where I came in. As the Stage Manager I was in charge of the prompting pit and all the cue cards. You can imagine it, can't you? I know I did, about a hundred times before I actually, on the big night, in the middle of their skit, got their cards mixed up. It was a dishonest mistake, but to Stacey-May and the Projectees and the audience of
Simon Kerr Page 4