drank, the truth being, maybe I wasn’t drinking half enough. Shook myself. I’d be buried in a bottle in a jig time and I had a meal to prepare. Yup, I was cooking dinner for Kelly. Where did that place our relationship? Dark side of the manic moon.
Okay, I could do this.
I’d watched Come Dine with Me .
How hard could it be?
Starter.
Fuck, who needs a starter?
Main course.
Could only be Irish stew. You’ve served your time in the Guards, two things you can do:
Use a hurley
Make stew.
Got all the ingredients laid out
Mass of potatoes
Ton of vegetables
Salt
Chorizo
I kid thee not, chorizo gives it a kick like bargained absolution. Profane but exhilarating. Washing the veg, then slicing, even with my dud hand, was a comfort, as if normality might be accessible, like in a patch. Lashed the lot, with the spuds, into a huge pot, added a wee dram of the Jay, now leave to cook for a few hours. The smell permeated the apartment, like a childhood revisited, save we never had the peace such aromas supposedly bring.
I had white wine cooling, Kelly said it was her preference. Made the bed, clean sheets, and ignored what this might entail. Set the table, with a red candle centerpiece, then surveyed.
Not bad.
Wanted to call Ridge, describe it, then roar,
“See, I can do this shit.”
But she’d say I was drunk. I’d taped the big match, Man City versus Man U in the game of the decade. Didn’t think Kelly would want to watch but you could dream. I put the Pogues on, sat back as Shane gnarled his way through Dirty Old Town . Their thirtieth anniversary this year. Who figured Shane would still be around? He made me seem positively teetotal—part of the reason I loved the band.
Now all I had to do was wait.
A tricky gig when I’d oceans of booze right there but I managed, barely. I’d just checked on the stew, added some more Jay, left it to simmer when the doorbell went off.
“Game on,”
I whispered.
* * *
Kelly looked divine, black silk shirt, tight, over white jeans and scuffed boots with a serious heel. Her hair, tumbling over her face in the way that begged wrap your fingers in this. I said,
“Jeez, you look great.”
“I know.”
She came in, gave that detailed inspection that women do. Said,
“Zen via poverty.”
I laughed, went,
“I’m not that deep.”
She plunked herself down on the sofa, said,
“Oh, I know that.”
I offered a drink and got,
“Only if you’re joining me.”
Hmmm . . .
Took that long to reach my decision. As she sipped on a vodka tonic, I drew from a Shiner Bock, checked my stew, sure smelled . . . strong. The slug of Texas beer only increased my nervousness. Second drink in, I suggested we might try the dinner but, no, she produced a spliff, said,
“We mellow out, won’t no ways matter how bad the food is.”
Fuck.
Trouble was, hitting on the joint made me want a whole pack of Marlboro Red. Must have been strong dope. We’re sitting on the floor, piled plates of stew on our laps, eating like munchkins. She said,
“No shit, but this is like being back at Kent State.”
Showing I was still in the set, I asked,
“Where you studied?”
“Fuck no. Where I smoked major dope.”
Right.
She asked,
“Am I really flying or do I taste whiskey in this here stew?”
I said,
“That would be crazy.”
I curse my own self. Jesus wept. The mix of dope and the food, booze, I felt my eyes droop. Kelly said,
“Hey Jack, put your head on my shoulder, grab five.”
Damn it to hell.
Woke early next morning, blankets around me and no Kelly.
She left a note.
“I had my way.”
What?
And
She’d done the dishes.
To block out my frustration, I switched on the radio.
Sarkozy was gone, Hollande the new president.
You could say he and I got the wake-up call too late.
Quel dommage. Bad fook to it.
14
An angel in Hell flies in its own little cloud of paradise.
—Eckhart
Stewart heard the news late in the evening. He’d been keeping busy, his various
Okay, I could do this.
I’d watched Come Dine with Me .
How hard could it be?
Starter.
Fuck, who needs a starter?
Main course.
Could only be Irish stew. You’ve served your time in the Guards, two things you can do:
Use a hurley
Make stew.
Got all the ingredients laid out
Mass of potatoes
Ton of vegetables
Salt
Chorizo
I kid thee not, chorizo gives it a kick like bargained absolution. Profane but exhilarating. Washing the veg, then slicing, even with my dud hand, was a comfort, as if normality might be accessible, like in a patch. Lashed the lot, with the spuds, into a huge pot, added a wee dram of the Jay, now leave to cook for a few hours. The smell permeated the apartment, like a childhood revisited, save we never had the peace such aromas supposedly bring.
I had white wine cooling, Kelly said it was her preference. Made the bed, clean sheets, and ignored what this might entail. Set the table, with a red candle centerpiece, then surveyed.
Not bad.
Wanted to call Ridge, describe it, then roar,
“See, I can do this shit.”
But she’d say I was drunk. I’d taped the big match, Man City versus Man U in the game of the decade. Didn’t think Kelly would want to watch but you could dream. I put the Pogues on, sat back as Shane gnarled his way through Dirty Old Town . Their thirtieth anniversary this year. Who figured Shane would still be around? He made me seem positively teetotal—part of the reason I loved the band.
Now all I had to do was wait.
A tricky gig when I’d oceans of booze right there but I managed, barely. I’d just checked on the stew, added some more Jay, left it to simmer when the doorbell went off.
“Game on,”
I whispered.
* * *
Kelly looked divine, black silk shirt, tight, over white jeans and scuffed boots with a serious heel. Her hair, tumbling over her face in the way that begged wrap your fingers in this. I said,
“Jeez, you look great.”
“I know.”
She came in, gave that detailed inspection that women do. Said,
“Zen via poverty.”
I laughed, went,
“I’m not that deep.”
She plunked herself down on the sofa, said,
“Oh, I know that.”
I offered a drink and got,
“Only if you’re joining me.”
Hmmm . . .
Took that long to reach my decision. As she sipped on a vodka tonic, I drew from a Shiner Bock, checked my stew, sure smelled . . . strong. The slug of Texas beer only increased my nervousness. Second drink in, I suggested we might try the dinner but, no, she produced a spliff, said,
“We mellow out, won’t no ways matter how bad the food is.”
Fuck.
Trouble was, hitting on the joint made me want a whole pack of Marlboro Red. Must have been strong dope. We’re sitting on the floor, piled plates of stew on our laps, eating like munchkins. She said,
“No shit, but this is like being back at Kent State.”
Showing I was still in the set, I asked,
“Where you studied?”
“Fuck no. Where I smoked major dope.”
Right.
She asked,
“Am I really flying or do I taste whiskey in this here stew?”
I said,
“That would be crazy.”
I curse my own self. Jesus wept. The mix of dope and the food, booze, I felt my eyes droop. Kelly said,
“Hey Jack, put your head on my shoulder, grab five.”
Damn it to hell.
Woke early next morning, blankets around me and no Kelly.
She left a note.
“I had my way.”
What?
And
She’d done the dishes.
To block out my frustration, I switched on the radio.
Sarkozy was gone, Hollande the new president.
You could say he and I got the wake-up call too late.
Quel dommage. Bad fook to it.
14
An angel in Hell flies in its own little cloud of paradise.
—Eckhart
Stewart heard the news late in the evening. He’d been keeping busy, his various
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