by Ken Bruen
“What airline, buddy?”
I said the first thing came into my head:
“American.”
He launched into a rap about Iraq, about farmboys from Iowa and the heartland. Kids, he called them, dying every day in the rebuilding of that forsaken country. We got to the airport and as I reached for my wallet, he asked,
“So, what do you think of my solution?”
I’d never heard it, tuned out as I was, so I said, laying a ten on the fare,
“Can’t see how it would fail.”
He gave me a suspicious look but all he got was my neutral face, tried,
“The Jets choked, huh?”
Let him see I was a player but the wrong guy, he near spat, went,
“I follow hockey, them Bruins, outta Boston, that’s a game.”
Juan in the limo, between lines of coke had lectured me on American sport, said,
“Hockey is for bitches.”
I didn’t think I’d share this with the cabbie, so I said,
“You better believe it buddy.”
And he was gone. A valet asked if I needed help and I wanted to go,
“Do I ever?”
But waved him off, I found the ticket desk and the clerk asked,
“Where you headed?”
“When’s the next flight to Vegas?”
Why not. I was already on the biggest gamble of my life. He said,
“You’re in luck.”
And I nearly smiled, a flight was leaving in forty minutes, I said that’d be good and he asked,
“Round trip?”
“One way.”
Didn’t faze him and he punched out my ticket. Almost a pun there, I’d just punched Juan’s ticket. I paid by credit card, always the anxious moment. Was Siobhan as good as she claimed, was the money going through as smooth as she promised, he handed me a pen, asked,
“Sign here, please.”
I did.
Siobhan was on the money.
Security was even tighter on domestic flights. I joined a line of shoeless people, a man in front, turned, looked at me, said,
“You’re going to have to remove those, buddy.”
I nodded, took off my loafers, put my change, watch in my jacket, took that off, bundled them in a tray. The security people were grim-faced but kept the line moving, a woman protested,
“I’ve got film in here.”
The guard, patient, said,
“Then take it out.”
She started to complain, saying she was the mother of four grown kids, did she look like some . . . like . . . terrorist? Even I knew she was buying grief. Sure enough, after she stepped through the metal detector, she was herded to one side, given the full treatment. First, stretch out her arms, the hand detector all over her body, then, “take a seat, Ma’am.” The loaded politeness in the address, the easy intimidation through manners and then, raise her right leg, then the left. All done with deliberate slowness, my turn and as I stepped to the base, ZING. The guy said,
“Step back, sir.”
I did, was asked if I’d any other metal on my person, I touched my neck, said, “A medal.”
The guy nodded, motioned me through, he asked,
“That Saint Christopher?”
“No, it’s the Miraculous Medal.”
He stared at me, said,
“Irish, huh?”
“Yes, “sir.”
Bounce them manners right back, he said,
“That’s like a talisman, a good luck deal, right?”
Did I want to make a convert, explain the significance of the Mother of God? I settled for,
“She keeps us safe.”
And got a tired smile, he was in the security business, at the literal hands on end of the business, he said,
“Man needs all the protection he can get.”
Argue that.
I was going to say, a Walther PPK doesn’t hurt either, but you don’t mention weapons to those guys, especially when you’re almost clear, so I asked,
“You get a lot of hassle in your work?”
He rolled his eyes, like tell me about it, said,
“Some. The way it is, some folks get real uptight, but me, it’s my job, do it right.”
He was waving me by, added,
“What we do, they get difficult, we go real slooowww. . . .”
And winked, then,
“They move fast or slow, ain’t never no mind to me, I get paid by the hour, not the passenger.”
The American work ethic right there. The job gets done. Then he was calling the next passenger. Manners might not make the man but they sure as hell smooth the passage. I went to Starbucks, got a tall latte, added a little vanilla, get those flavours blending, then looked round the airport, most everyone had a coffee in hand, a caffeined world. No wonder the planet was jittery. I’d some time yet, headed straight for the music outlet, bought a Gretchen Peters CD, the new one, Halcyon, strapped on my headphones.
I got a seat near my gate, took a sip of the latte, began to listen to Gretchen, she soothes my soul. A track from years ago, what first got me tuned to her . . . “On a Bus to St. Cloud.” Such longing in the lyrics and, too, the awful loss that never goes away.
My flight was boarding.
Bhi curamach . . . Be careful
I GOT MY SEAT, the aisle of course. The window was taken by an obese man. Bulging over the small space, the seat belt like a bad girdle, barely containing him. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt like the squad in Jack Lord’s outfit, sweat was already climbing under his arms, I nearly went,
“O-la.”
He gave a sheepish grin, said,
“Guess I should have booked two seats, you think?”
I thought he needed to cut out the burgers, but smiled noncommitedly. He extended a fat hand.
“Bob Milovitz, outta Chicago.”
His hand was drenched in perspiration and did I want to touch it, like fuck, took it, said,
“Stephen Blake.”
Wanted to add the rider,
“Outta my depth.”
He gave a huge grin, delighted, asked,
“Irish, yeah?”
“Yes.”
He went into the near mandatory American reply:
“I got me some Irish on my mom’s side, third generation then Polack on Granddaddy’s, even some Scottish Presbyterian.”
The Americans present themselves like a cocktail, a mix of genetic influences, delivered with pride.
U2, pride in the name of love or whatever.
He gave me a quizzical look, asked,
“You in the services?”
Came out of left field, I faltered, went,
“Excuse me?”
His brow was awash in sweat, rivulets coursing down his swollen jowls. Thing is, I liked him. Not knowing one item about him, intuition told me he was a decent man, and like, how many of those do you meet? In my forty years, I met maybe three. Was it worth the wait? I do know it’s so rare, you recognise the quality straight off.
There’s a lighthouse off Galway Bay, the beacon is erratic, sweeps the water at the most unexpected moments. When it does, your spirits are lifted, especially if it happens obliquely. He apologised,
“Don’t mean to pry.”
I thought, then why are you doing it? He continued,
“But hey, we’re on our way to Vegas, where truth is the flip of a card but you sit like an army brat. You mightn’t believe it but I was in the corps, did a hitch at Fort Bragg.”
And he laughed, a deep rumble, continued,
“Yeah, catering, as you can see, thing is, I recognise other vets, they never lose that bearing.”
As I said, I liked him, so I conceded,
“Yeah, I did a jolt.”
“In these here United States?”
Since 9/11, the dignity ordinary joes imbue that term with, he had it in bucketfuls. I said,
“No, another man’s army.”
I wasn’t prepared to give any more. He gave
a rueful grin, said,
“Same deal, am I right?”
I was saved a reply by the engines rumbling. He said,
“Man, I hate flying.”
We didn’t talk till after takeoff, the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign clicked off. Bob asked,
“Any sign of the drinks cart?”
I looked round, said,
“Any minute now.”
Fifteen minutes later, it came. He ordered a Bloody Mary and I opted for Maker’s Mark. Bob said,
“You know your hooch.”
We hit a blast of turbulence and the plane veered, put the shite crossways in me, Bob went pale, muttered,
“Uh-oh.”
I was with him on that. Five more minutes of lurching and diving, I’d downed the bourbon in one. Bob’s glass was empty, too, I said,
“They’ve suspended the trolley service.”
He’d gone paler, staring straight ahead, he asked,
“Wanna get drunk?”
Without moving his head, he pointed down, said,
“My carry-on, could you reach it?”
I could. He said,
“Open it.”
Jesus, I remembered Juan, in the limo, the first time, nudging a briefcase, saying those exact words.
No guns here but maybe as lethal, stacks of miniatures, every brand. He gave a sheepish grin, said,
“I collect ‘em.”
I selected seven: three vodka, two Easy Times, two rum.
Got the vodka in his glass, I drank the bourbon from the tiny bottle, drank fast. The turbulence eased and Bob uncapped a few more. In jig time, I’d a nice buzz building, Bob asked,
“Where you staying in Vegas?”
I’d no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
He laughed, said,
“I’m at the Sahara, for the poker.”
I nodded as if this made sense. The hostess came by, saw the mess of little bottles, asked,
“Party time, guys?”
Bob asked,
“Got any pretzels, nuts?”
She gave a winning smile, said,
“We’ll be serving dinner soon but I’ll see what we’ve got.”
She looked at me and I went,
“No nuts.”
Came off as,
“Numb nuts.”
Sent Bob into the giggles. He said in that way Americans have,
“I like you, buddy.”
It’s so forthright. So almost innocent.
I come from a completely different race. We’d near die before we’d say such a thing. Tommy was my best friend, we’d be through hell and high water, spent an inordinate amount of time together and the closest we’d ever come to such a statement was,
“Ah, you’re not the worst.”
And even that is couched in throwaway style, lest it sound too intimate, too invasive. The neighbourhood I grew up in, sure, you’d have friends, people you loved, that you’d trust absolutely but never and I truly mean never would you demonstrate your feeling in a public fashion.
You ever tried to hug someone there, you’d lose your arm from the elbow. You asked someone,
“How are you?”
It was more likely to mean,
“How are you fixed?”
Meaning do you have money and more importantly, are you willing to give me some?
Ask any Irish woman about her man, about the sweet talk he’d produce, and you’ll hear,
“Oh yes, he told me I wasn’t the worst.”
My parents, I loved them, no question, I never once told them so, as my mother lay dying, fighting for breath, my declaration of love consisted of,
“Can I get you anything?”
I am aware of what a tragedy that is.
So when we came up close and personal with Americans, we were more than a little astounded at their candour.
Tommy, hidden and furtive all his life, both from necessity and nurture, never got a handle on this aspect of America. When we’d worked on the site, we had an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Flat out, we both loved the area. The apartment was nothing to write home about, two small rooms you could barely swing a cat in.
First night there, we did what you do, if you’re Irish, you go the neighbourhood bar. Get orientated. As it goes, we got talking to a guy who worked on the trains. Two beers in, he says,
“I love you guys.”
And goes to get us a brew.
Tommy watches him and turns to me, asks,
“What’s fucking wrong with him?”
Me, the sophisticated college boy tried,
“He’s just been friendly.”
Tommy shook his head, said,
“Oh, he’s gay.”
I kept my voice low, said,
“No, it’s the way they are, they’re just ...”
I had to search for a word to capture the essence, attempted,
“Up front.”
He actually mouthed the word, let it dance about his mouth, he looked like it didn’t fit and he nodded, went,
“So back to my original point, there’s something wrong with him.”
I told the sad truth, said,
“No, there’s something wrong with us.”
Sitting on the plane, looking at Bill, his earnest face and the total sincerity with which he’d said he liked me, I felt such a pang of sorrow. And that’s the curse of our race, we sure as hell feel the stuff, we just can’t express it. Probably why we have so much music.
Bill asked if I’d been to Vegas before and I said no. He assured me I’d have me an experience. The next twenty minutes, we did as they term it, shoot the shit. He told me of other visits to Vegas and various larger-than-life characters he’d met, explained,
“The reason they talk about Vegas rules, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, is not so much discretion as who the hell would believe it?”
I would remember those words and wish I’d paid more attention.
Bill had a wonderful laugh, one of those up from the stomach, the whole system involved, his eyes near distorted from merriment.
I have never laughed like that in my whole life, not even when drink was involved. I did the best I could to join Bill in his hilarity but, as always, I was holding on, that ice control watching every single word. Could almost hear my mother as she’d said and often,
“Stephen, he lives one step away from the rest of us.”
Forced myself to relinquish a little of that steel, even told Bill a story about some high jinks in New York. A complete fabrication but to let him see I could be a fun guy.
He bought it.
You were observing us, you’d have seen couple of guys, letting their hair down, getting in party mode.
Just two guys hitting Vegas, having a high old time. Not twenty-four hours gone, I’d left a man gut shot, leaking blood on a hard floor. Made the big mistake of dozing off.
You wake with a headache and a hard-on. One as painful as the second is useless. We were touching down and the pilot was welcoming us to the Strip, adding,
“Be lucky.”
Yeah.
After we disembarked, Bob shook my hand, said,
“Look me up, the Sahara is at the bottom of the Strip, near the Hilton.”
I agreed I might and he waddled towards a slot machine, feeding coins into it. I went to collect my bag, noticed the number of men wearing cowboy hats. Tommy would have loved it. There was an air of festivity, adrenaline, and despite my throbbing head, I felt the buzz.
The only piece of Tommy, materially, I possessed was his poems, maybe twenty in all, written in Gothic script in a small leather-bound journal. He said,
“Bruce Chatwin kept his writing in one of those.”
The story was Chatwin had them handcrafted in Paris, a story more appealing than truthful. Tommy had handed me the volume on a lads’ night out, Siobhan was out on that new ritual, hen night. Translated as “women on the piss.”
We were in O’Connor’s in Salthil
l, where you get serious music at a serious juncture in the evening. That holy moment betwixt all out inebriation and simply feeling mighty. The band lit the bodhrans, fiddles, then spoons tapping out from the edge of the stage. They were local, fronted by a feisty girl singer who belted out the songs like she was raging, spitting iron. No older than twenty but a voice more ancient than Billie Holiday. I knew her, and off stage, she was shy, quiet, unremarkable, but hit that stage and she was Rilke’s panther, something primeval unleashed. She was doing Neil Young’s “Powderfinger,” via The Cowboy Junkies. Tommy reached in his duffel coat, produced the book, said,
“Some stuff I wrote.”
Was astounded, went,
I didn’t know you wrote.”
He was staring at the girl, tears in his eyes, for Neil Young, his writing, my comment, shit, could have been the smoke. The no-smoking edict wasn’t due for another while. He said,
“Man, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
True enough.
I finished my Jameson, tasted good, tasted like . . . another? I asked,
“Poems?”
He shrugged.
“Poems manqué. I call them tones, lets me off the poetry rap.”
Throw a stone in Ireland, you hit a poet, rarely a decent one. No wonder Tommy wanted out from that category. I went to open the book and he shouted,
“Jesus, not now, what’s the matter with you?”
Good question.
Not one I’ve ever been able to answer.
In Vegas I opened the book, read the first title:
“A
Star
Clandestine.”
Un-even-ness
best . . . perhaps
a label is
to how to love
I did
Conduct it poor
Invited all the errors
. . . star insanity
do fate control
I’d near believed
Your star
I’ve only once
The ever, comprehended
Had just this once, real
Close, this once
Had come
Lost you behind
A star façade
A loss befall
Might write on that
Ill-fated.
I took a deep breath, then noticed the brackets at the bottom of the page and in them were a few more lines, like what? . . . an afterthought, an explanation. Read them aloud to get the taste.