by Ken Bruen
I’d said,
“Soon as we get our shit together, we’re like outta here, deal?”
He looked me straight, said,
“I’m never going to get back.”
He was right.
My mother was an alcoholic. Ten years of age, I’d be knocking down the door of the local pub, an empty baby of Paddy Power in my hand. The publican, he’d open the door, sigh at the sight of me, we’d done this dance a lot, take the bottle, and go,
“On the slate, right?”
Meaning, no money.
My face, scarlet with shame, my stomach, sick with anxiety, I’d want to pee. Then, he’d return, hand over the bottle, full to the brim, and slam the door. There’d be other callers, all morning long, but none as early as me.
The slate was the salvation or damnation of our neighbourhood, depending on which side of the financial fence you fell. Another word for it was tick, an early form of credit card and just as mercenary. Fixed penalties to the grave and beyond; every so often, my father would drop into the pub, lay a wedge on the counter, and the publican took it without comment. Exact figures were never discussed, the only certainty was nobody gained from the deal, least not in any fashion that entailed dignity.
My father liked a pint, come Friday night, he’d go out, have three, play rings, come home. At a wedding, he might have a glass of Redbreast. It was said of my mother, she had “nerves.”
And she fucking needed them. Took all her ability to function and present some semblance of normality. Twice, she lost it, big-time and they carted her off to Ballinasloe, no rehab then.
Ward 8, the asylum snake pit. They tied you a chair and let the alcohol scream and pour from you. Used a hose to wash you down. I know about Ward 8, as my mother, half in the bag, gave me a full and horrific account. At school, I’d be taunted,
“Your oul wan’s in the madhouse . . . again.”
Tommy would launch himself on the accuser and I’d stand, frozen by the word “again.” Till Tommy incited me to use my fists, my legs, hit back.
The taunts stopped but the terror only receded, lying in wait to reappear.
My mother didn’t drink for the last two years of her life. Stayed sober with a grim determination and a near hysterical control, that’s where I learned that icy talent. No one knows where she got the pills, as visits to a doctor were rare and, worse, expensive. But she was an alcoholic, cunning was second nature. I was in New York, making serious money on the site, and she’d collected, amassed over fifty sleepers.
Didn’t kill her right off, she went into a semi-coma, took a week to die. What they call “a hard death.”
Her face a rictus of agony and her body motionless. I returned to witness most of this. If my father hadn’t been mounting a twenty-four-hour vigil, I’d have put a pillow on her face. He held her limp hand and said decades of the rosary, like that made a difference to either of them
She gave a tiny whisper of breath on a Thursday morning and gave it up. I often hear that slight breath, like a sigh. I didn’t cry and I’m not crying now.
I’m glad she’s dead.
Sitting now in a New York bar, a large drink in my hand, I remembered how often she’d implored me,
“Promise me you won’t drink, Stephen.”
Yeah, right.
There’s a line in The Colossus Of New York: A City in 13 Parts, by Colson Whitehead, “Maybe we become New Yorkers the day we realize that New York will go on without us.” I asked myself . . . if maybe Tommy is finally buried the day I realize life goes on without him? As they’d say back home, perish the thought.
The barman asked,
“Hit you again?”
And I nodded. Memory has a hold like that on you, you better have hold of something equally lethal, a gun or a bottle. The barman gave me a friendly smile, asked,
“On vacation?”
“No.”
Shut him down. I wanted a new friend, I wasn’t going to get one in a bar. I was running a tab and he looked like he wanted to say something but turned, went off to do bar stuff.
The evening Tommy said,
“I’m going to be gone for a bit.”
I made light of it, tried,
“Bro, you’ve been gone for years.”
Didn’t fly.
And he didn’t smile. We were in a new apartment I’d rented, along by the canal. On the top floor, you looked out, you could see the ducks. He said,
“I’m serious.”
Like a horse’s ass, I wouldn’t go with, persisted,
“Tommy, serious isn’t what you do, that’s my gig, remember?”
I was beginning to irritate him and myself, so added,
“You mean it?”
“Yeah, I’m in a bit of bother, it’s best if I go out of town, let the heat ebb.”
Ebb.
I wanted to say I’d go with him, but I’d just met Siobhan, my father was alone and hurting and . . . and . . . I didn’t want to go, said,
“Is it money, what?”
He waved his hand, dismissive, went,
“It’s shit is what it is, I need to be on my own, see how I do.”
He’d do terrible; even with me riding shotgun, he didn’t do so well. Veered from flush to broke and all stops in between. His drug intake was upped alarmingly, from Valium (daily basis) through speed to evenings on coke. It showed. His face was gaunt, he’d lost a ton of weight, and his nerves, his nerves were fucked.
I’d seen him low many times, it was what Tommy did, not so much hit bottom as bounce off it, then somehow gouge back to a level of . . . if not normality, then maintenance. But now, his whole spirit seemed crushed, I had to jack up his tyres, tried the old bullshit, near sang,
“Hey, bro, we’re buddies right? . . . semper fi and all that marine gung ho. We’re the O.K. Corral, backs against the fence, still firing.”
He shook his head, asked,
“You remember a song, old song . . . had a line . . . getting mighty tired of southern comfort . . .?”
Took me a moment, well longer, then, I finished the line:
“Go north.”
He smiled sadly, then,
“You always know, don’t you Steve, always?”
The penny dropped, he was going over the border. For our generation, like the ones who went before, going north meant only one thing.
Deep shit.
“Waiting for the Light to Turn Green.”
— GRETCHEN PETERS
TOMMY WAS GONE for nine months. I got intermittent calls that told me little, save he was wired, I asked if I could come see him but no way. Whenever I tried to probe, he’d cut the connection. A guy I knew had set up a music shop, a small operation but he needed assistance. I wasn’t doing a whole lot, so said I’d help out. Began with two days a week then got interested and ended up doing six, getting a real buzz. I was seeing Siobhan regularly and we were comfortable, easy round each other. My life settled into a routine that was the signal for me to glance towards the abyss.
Tommy returned, bringing if not hell with him, then certainly its embodiment.
Stapleton.
I was at home, seven in the evening, watching The Simpsons, Siobhan asked,
“Why do guys love Homer?”
You need to ask?
The phone went, I picked up, heard,
“I’m back.”
“Tommy! That’s great, come round, we’ll—”
“I’m not alone.”
I immediately jumped to a conclusion, the wrong one, went,
“Great, bring her round.”
A pause, and I had to go,
“Tommy, you still there?”
“It’s not a woman, it’s a . . . a guy, a fellah I’ve been working with.”
His tone was flat and I knew there was something amiss, said,
“Well, okay, we can do men, Siobhan and I will come meet you guys, where you at?”
“Garavan’s.”
One of the great old unchanged pubs.<
br />
“Right, say half an hour.”
“Steve . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Come alone.”
Click.
I relayed the conversation to Siobhan and she said,
“That’s odd.”
Which turned out to be some understatement. I put on a leather jacket I’d bought in New York, in the East Village. It looked beat up, shit it was beat up, leather fraying on the collar. Seemed appropriate. I kissed Siobhan, like I meant it, said,
“I won’t be late.”
She fixed the collar, licked her hand, patted down my hair, said,
“I’ve a bad feeling about this.”
“It’ll be fine.”
I was wrong.
They were in the snug. Garavan’s is one of the very few establishments that hasn’t moved on, time has stood still, thank Christ. Among its many blessings no muzak is one of the top. Tommy looked shagged, he’d grown his hair, it looked lank and, yeah, dirty. His weight had gone way down and his cheekbones bulged against the skin. He was wearing a combat jacket, the pockets overflowing. Pints of Guinness, shorts, lined the table. You’d have thought party save for the atmosphere. Heavy and lethal.
The man beside Tommy was also in a combat jacket. Older, in his fifties, with a shaved head. The light bounced off it, sending dark illumination. Sallow skin with deep ridges down his cheeks. Lots of lines round the eyes but you’d never call them laughter lines. A nose that’d been broken more than once, and oddly, a full sensual mouth. A livid scar across his forehead.
He had brown eyes with the oddest aspect, as if he were sleepy, one beat from closing down. They carried no message at all and that was worrying. Tommy said,
“Steve.”
I waited, expecting him to stand, get a hug. Wasn’t happening. He added without looking at him,
“This is Stapleton.”
I put out my hand and it hung there, no one rushed to hold it, I let it fall to my side, Tommy said,
“We got you a pint.”
Then the worst, he giggled. Not a suppressed laughter or god forbid, even what writers call a chuckle, no, a fucking giggle. Like some ten-year-old schoolgirl and said,
“Fuck, we got you lots of pints.”
I said,
“Hey, maybe the timing’s off, I’ll hook up with you tomorrow.”
Stapleton said,
“Don’t be a bollocks, sit down.”
An order.
I looked at him, he seemed to be enjoying a private joke, so I asked,
“Was I talking to you?”
Tommy let out a deep breath, went,
“Whoops, it’s not going well.”
Stapleton stared at me, no discernible change in his eyes, said,
“You’re the guy took the king’s shilling.”
There it was.
Hundreds of years of history in one line. The insult used to describe a turncoat, an Irishman who enlisted in the British army. All the very worst of our past was contained there, informers, traitors, betrayal.
The usual translation . . . scum of the earth. I looked at Tommy, asking
“You told him that?”
And what else? Tommy lowered his eyes, grabbed a short, knocked it back. I turned back to Stapleton, said,
“And that’s your concern, how?”
He laughed, shoved a stool with his boot, said,
“Lighten up, partner, just be grateful we’re not in Belfast.”
Then he supped noisily at his pint, looked up, asked,
“Blake, didn’t those turncoats pretend to be Protestant to save their property?”
The Catholic gentry had converted to the Protestant faith in an effort to retain their lands. It was widely believed that they continued to practice as Catholics.
The most famous story involved Sir Thomas Blake. On his deathbed, he asked for a Catholic priest and his Protestant relatives refused. When the funeral reached the graveyard, the Catholic tenants barred the Protestants from entry. Widespread violence was the inevitable result.
I was reared Catholic but of course, lurking in my history was the Blake inheritance. Going to Trinity, joining the British army seemed to prove the old adage what’s bred in the blood, breaks out in the bone.
I had no reply to that, leastways none that came without violence, so I said to Tommy,
“You ever sober up, give me a call.”
And walked out.
Could hear Stapleton’s derisory laughter behind.
I had no idea what to do about Tommy; I laid it out for Siobhan and she said,
“Do nothing.”
That’s what I did. The music shop was staring to develop. We’d brisk trade in secondhand stock. Mike, the guy I worked for, did the boring stuff, kept the books, did invoices, and I got to stock the cool guys, Cash, Strummer, Tom Russell. Was drooling over an early Tom Waits album when I heard,
“Music pays?”
Turned to face Tommy, he’d cleaned up, his clothes, anyway. Wearing a new crisp white shirt and a full-length suede jacket. He’d made the effort. Hard to clean up the eyes, so he was wearing tinted glasses. I said,
“What, you’re modelling for Gap?”
A light sheen of perspiration on his brow, the morning coke blues. He asked,
“Want to get a drink?”
Couldn’t help it, I looked at my watch and he asked,
“How tight is your timetable?”
An edge to it and I said,
“Eleven o’ clock, bit early for it.”
He looked over his shoulder, said,
“I checked with your boss, he can spare you, for like, twenty minutes, I’ll time you, how would that be?”
We’d never fenced like this before, had been through highs, lows, like any close relationship, but never hit this level of sniping, I said,
“He’s not my boss.”
Tommy shrugged.
“Whatever, you coming or not?”
Truth is, I didn’t want to go. The months he’d been away, I got used to the relative calm. Sure, my nature wanted to cut loose but not as fiercely as before. I realised how much work Tommy was. The constant veering, reeling from crisis to half-baked resolution and the mountains of dope, the killer hangovers. I’d begun to admit, what I never would have acknowledged, Tommy was a pain in the ass. I grabbed my jacket and we were out of there. Tommy gave a nod to the Galway Arms and, reading my face, said,
“They do coffee . . . and hey, maybe herbal tea.”
They’d just opened and we caught a corner table, large window to our left. A blast of rare sunshine illuminated us, giving an appearance of cheerfulness. I asked,
“Get you?”
“Coffee . . . black.”
I knew the owner and he said,
“Your shop is doing mighty.”
Irish hyberbole at its finest but what the hell, it wasn’t noon yet, I could hack it, said,
“Not too bad alright.”
This covers everything from franchising to bankruptcy. He poured the coffee, asked,
“You have any of the Clancy Brothers?”
I had no idea, said,
“Sure, I’ll put them aside for you.”
I reached for my wallet and he waved it away with,
“Ary, a drop of coffee, won’t break the bank.”
The odd moments, you meet a human being, you feel life might be liveable. Back at the table, Tommy was trying to light a cig, I emphasise trying. He’d got the thing in his mouth, had a lighter but the next link in the chain seemed to have eluded him, I snapped,
“You take off the shades, you might see what you’re doing.”
Sounded even harsher than I meant. I’d leaned on shades, getting a hefty helping of scorn on there, he said,
“Can’t.”
“What, they’re glued to your face?”
No disguising my anger now, out there like a palpable force. You watch your closest friend go down the toilet, you better be agitated. As if to show me,
he raised the hand with the lighter and it shook like the stage in Riverdance. I grabbed the lighter, feeling his hand slick with sweat, said,
“Gimme the bloody thing.”
Fired him up. He took a massive hit of nicotine and I was thinking of Ginsberg’s “Howl” . . .”I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.”
Wanted to howl myself, Tommy said,
“I’m sorry, bro.”
“Hey, no big thing.”
But it was.
He stood and I thought he was going to bolt, God forgive me, I’d have been relieved and I certainly wouldn’t have followed, he said,
“Gotta pee.”
He was gone, like ten minutes. My cup was empty, his coffee had died, got that shiny top like a rancid pool. I was on the verge of going for him when he returned. First thing I noticed, the shades were off and his eyes were . . . not alive but electrified. And he was Mr. Affability, slid into his seat, said,
“That’s better, you know me Steve, mornings are not my strong point, takes me a time to catch up with you guys.”
This said in a rush, the words nearly colliding, tumbling out of his mouth like pistons. Then I saw the traces of white powder on his left nostril. What to do, let it slide, act like this was hunky dory. Did I? Did I fuck. Reached over, used my thumb to wipe it, said,
“Missed a bit, want to snort it?”
He lifted his cup, drank the cold brew, no shake visible, said,
“You didn’t used to be so tight assed.”
“You didn’t used to be so seriously fucked.”
Silence then as the pieces of our friendship danced and dipped, trying to move us from a veritable split. I asked,
“What’s with this Stapleton?”
Tommy shifted his position to escape the sunlight, said,
“He doesn’t like you.”
“Gee, that’s worrying.”
“I’m serious, Steve, he really doesn’t like you.”
“Hey, I heard you, alright?”
I looked at my watch, becoming addicted to the gesture, Tommy went,
“I owe him big.”
“Pay him off, just get rid of him.”
Shaking his head,
“It’s not simply money.” He took a deep breath, then,
“We’re going to take down a bank.”