no?”
As is the Irish way, she immediately avoided the issue with,
“Them Orange bastards have stitched up Sinn Féin, raided their offices in Stormont.”
I was taken aback, marvelling at her choice of words. She was over eighty, as old Galway as the Spanish Arch. I asked,
“Stitched up? Good Lord, where did you learn that?”
“I watch The Bill and Eastenders .”
“I thought you were a Coronation Street fan?”
“Not since Hilda Ogden left.”
That’s a conversation killer right there. I nodded and said,
“See you later.”
It was strange being out, back in public. Hospital has its own complete world, and I wasn’t sure it wasn’t more appealing.
A priest crossed the street, said,
“How are you?”
Jeez, I was up to me eyes in clergy. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him. He asked,
“What happened to you?”
“A rugby accident.”
Stick it to him, he’d be GAA…they all were. He seemed confused, then put it together, said,
“Oh, I see. I actually was referring to mass, to your attendance. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
The word “attendance” was one of my triggers. Even in my days as a guard, I was poor at regulation. I asked,
“What, you’re marking my card?”
He was surprised and tried to rally.
“Good Lord, I put that badly. What I meant was we missed you.”
I wanted to grab him by the collar, shake him and scream “wake up”. I said,
“Sure you did.”
He did the religious bit of turning his cheek, ignored my tone and said,
“No doubt we’ll be seeing you this Sunday?”
“And pigs might fly.”
I turned on my heel and limped away.
“People I knew had turned out to be strange and savage. They had hung Mose and kicked and hit me and my father.”
Joe R. Lansdale, The Bottoms
Near Eyre Square I saw the young blond guy, and no mistake, he was staring at me. I decided to put an end to this and moved, but he turned and was gone before I could reach him. I swore that next time, one way or another, I was going to have a chat. I mean, what the hell, was he stalking me?
I got into Nestor’s, visions of whiskey before my eyes. The sentry was in place, said,
“Jaysus, look at the cut of him.”
This is not complimentary; it’s as bad as it gets. I shot him a look.
Jeff was stocking shelves, said,
“Welcome back, buddy.”
I took my usual chair, the hard one, my back to the wall. Felt tired, my knee aching; the damn painkiller wasn’t kicking in. The news was on: a bomb in Bali, 187 dead, three Irish missing. The newsreader was speculating on Al-Qaeda involvement. Jeff brought over a pot of coffee, two mugs. I felt a flash of anger, the presumption I wasn’t drinking made me want to roar. Jeff paused, asked,
“Coffee OK?”
“Sure, just what the doctor ordered. You’re joining me?”
“If you don’t mind, I need a word.”
I waved my hand, indicating the empty chair. He sat, poured two fills. Despite myself, I responded to the caffeine aroma. Maybe I’d drink later, live on the expectation.
The sentry asked,
“Want to get in the pool?”
“Pool?”
“Yeah, for five euro, pick a date that Bush will bomb Iraq. November fifth, fifteenth and twenty-fifth are gone.”
I gave it a bit of thought, said,
“November twentieth.”
The sentry made a note in a small red book, said,
“There’s a fair whack going to be in it; everybody wants to play.”
I got a five out of my wallet and left it on the table. Jeff asked,
“You heard about the schoolgirl?”
“Being attacked, you mean?”
He nodded. Now that he had a daughter, he’d be particularly sensitive to this. But as usual, I was wrong. I’d jumped yet again to the wrong conclusion. He said,
“There’s a guy I know, Pat Young, we’ve been friends…”
I put up my hand to shush him. The radio had kicked in and Jimmy Norman was playing Emmylou Harris, my favourite track from Red Dirt Girl… “Bang the Drum Slowly”. Kills me. Jeff waited till it was
As is the Irish way, she immediately avoided the issue with,
“Them Orange bastards have stitched up Sinn Féin, raided their offices in Stormont.”
I was taken aback, marvelling at her choice of words. She was over eighty, as old Galway as the Spanish Arch. I asked,
“Stitched up? Good Lord, where did you learn that?”
“I watch The Bill and Eastenders .”
“I thought you were a Coronation Street fan?”
“Not since Hilda Ogden left.”
That’s a conversation killer right there. I nodded and said,
“See you later.”
It was strange being out, back in public. Hospital has its own complete world, and I wasn’t sure it wasn’t more appealing.
A priest crossed the street, said,
“How are you?”
Jeez, I was up to me eyes in clergy. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place him. He asked,
“What happened to you?”
“A rugby accident.”
Stick it to him, he’d be GAA…they all were. He seemed confused, then put it together, said,
“Oh, I see. I actually was referring to mass, to your attendance. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
The word “attendance” was one of my triggers. Even in my days as a guard, I was poor at regulation. I asked,
“What, you’re marking my card?”
He was surprised and tried to rally.
“Good Lord, I put that badly. What I meant was we missed you.”
I wanted to grab him by the collar, shake him and scream “wake up”. I said,
“Sure you did.”
He did the religious bit of turning his cheek, ignored my tone and said,
“No doubt we’ll be seeing you this Sunday?”
“And pigs might fly.”
I turned on my heel and limped away.
“People I knew had turned out to be strange and savage. They had hung Mose and kicked and hit me and my father.”
Joe R. Lansdale, The Bottoms
Near Eyre Square I saw the young blond guy, and no mistake, he was staring at me. I decided to put an end to this and moved, but he turned and was gone before I could reach him. I swore that next time, one way or another, I was going to have a chat. I mean, what the hell, was he stalking me?
I got into Nestor’s, visions of whiskey before my eyes. The sentry was in place, said,
“Jaysus, look at the cut of him.”
This is not complimentary; it’s as bad as it gets. I shot him a look.
Jeff was stocking shelves, said,
“Welcome back, buddy.”
I took my usual chair, the hard one, my back to the wall. Felt tired, my knee aching; the damn painkiller wasn’t kicking in. The news was on: a bomb in Bali, 187 dead, three Irish missing. The newsreader was speculating on Al-Qaeda involvement. Jeff brought over a pot of coffee, two mugs. I felt a flash of anger, the presumption I wasn’t drinking made me want to roar. Jeff paused, asked,
“Coffee OK?”
“Sure, just what the doctor ordered. You’re joining me?”
“If you don’t mind, I need a word.”
I waved my hand, indicating the empty chair. He sat, poured two fills. Despite myself, I responded to the caffeine aroma. Maybe I’d drink later, live on the expectation.
The sentry asked,
“Want to get in the pool?”
“Pool?”
“Yeah, for five euro, pick a date that Bush will bomb Iraq. November fifth, fifteenth and twenty-fifth are gone.”
I gave it a bit of thought, said,
“November twentieth.”
The sentry made a note in a small red book, said,
“There’s a fair whack going to be in it; everybody wants to play.”
I got a five out of my wallet and left it on the table. Jeff asked,
“You heard about the schoolgirl?”
“Being attacked, you mean?”
He nodded. Now that he had a daughter, he’d be particularly sensitive to this. But as usual, I was wrong. I’d jumped yet again to the wrong conclusion. He said,
“There’s a guy I know, Pat Young, we’ve been friends…”
I put up my hand to shush him. The radio had kicked in and Jimmy Norman was playing Emmylou Harris, my favourite track from Red Dirt Girl… “Bang the Drum Slowly”. Kills me. Jeff waited till it was
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