‘If you are going to sup with the Divil, bring a long spoon.’
Old Irish proverb
Come Friday, the gig at Ridge’s. She’s said to dress casual, mentioninga
sports jacket,
tie.
Like look in my wardrobe, see the black suit, the Garda coat and…some jeans and T-shirts.
Time was, I bought all my clobber in charity shops.
I’d have thought with the economic meltdown people would be flocking back to those stores.
Nope.
People were no longer giving stuff to the charity shops!
I headed down to my favourite one, St Vincent de Paul, and the women who worked there had the welcome of the world for me.
I got grey slacks, a snazzy corduroy jacket with leather patches on the sleeves, a Van Heusen shirt and a dark knitted tie.
Cost?
Ten Euro.
I swear to God.
On the bookshelves, I found:
Brian Evanston, with an intro by Peter Straub,
Daniel Woodrell’s first two novels and John Straley’s volume of poetry.
Add four Euro to my total bill.
And they thanked me.
I had been really trying to cut down on the booze and even the Xanax, and outside the shop, I got a dizzy spell.
I thought,
‘Uh-oh, drop in blood sugar.’
Hoping to fuck that’s what it was.
I walked slowly along Merchant’s Road. Not many merchants there any more, only the usual luxury apartments. Turned left at the tourist office, which was empty, and into Eyre Square.
Walked up past the Skeffington Arms, which had been renovated and looked quite posh now. Past Abracadabra, who’d given Colin Farrell a free card for life for their fare. After the pub, he’d always fancied a kebab.
I crossed at Holland’s newsagents and moved on up to Supermacs.
Galway owner, and fat chips.
What more could you ask?
I went to the counter and reckoned a burger, the big fucker, would bring me levels up, not to mention the fun it would have with my cholesterol.
A pretty girl in the Supermacs T-shirt said,
‘How are you?’
OK, I know they’re told to be polite, but this?
She added,
‘You don’t remember me, and me thinking I made such an impression on you.’
The college student I’d talked to, who luckily was wearing a name tag. Emma.
I gave my best laugh, tried,
‘Emma, how are you? Didn’t recognize you in uniform.’
Did she buy it?
Did she fuck.
Said,
‘Yah divil yah, you read my name tag.’
I ordered the burger and she told me to take a seat and she’d be right over.
Worked for me.
It was busy, always is, and I had to share a table with a guy in a bad-fitting suit, munching down on the Philly Steak Sandwich, which was new to the menu, like his life depended on it.
He had the look of somebody who’d got all the bad news there is and recently. Without preamble, as grease dribbled from his mouth, he launched,
‘Know why the country is gone to the dogs?’
I had a feeling he was about to tell me.
He did.
Said,
‘The fucking non-nationals, you know they get free medical cards? I’ve worked all me fucking life, do I have a medical card?’
I was guessing no.
But thank Christ, his mobile rang, with one of those awful tunes you can download, like a baby crying.
He muttered,
‘Right away.’
Then, grabbing the remains of his Philly, he stood up, said,
‘Fuckers won’t give you two minutes for lunch, and yeah, a non-national.’
The careless bigotry, now more prevalent, was like a slap in the face.
Emma arrived with the burger and chips, said,
‘I added French fries cos you need fattening up.’
I barely stopped meself from correcting her.
French fries?
Chips. Jesus.
But as the Brits say, that would have been a tad churlish.
No doubt about it, I was channelling Evelyn Waugh.
I thanked her and then her face fell, literally, as she said,
‘Poor Noel, what an awful way to die, the poor creature.’
I could hardly bite down on the burger. I asked,
‘What are the students saying, anything to do with Mr K?’
She shook her head, said,
‘No one’s saying anything, and not a light or a sight of Mr K since.’
She motioned to me to eat my food, saying,
‘It will be stone cold.’
I gave it a shot and asked her,
‘You’re a bright girl, Emma. What do you think?’
She looked at her watch. The place was really jamming up and she stood, said,
‘Mind the darkness. Evil rarely appears that on the surface.’
I’d have to hook her up with Stewart.
I’d never seen him with anybody. But then he’s never seen me with anybody either.
I liked her, she was that new bright shining face of Ireland, working to pay her way through college, smart, confident and no one’s inferior.
My generation, we’d been raised Church-beholden and afraid, and wouldn’t have recognized self-esteem if it bit us on the arse.
If we’d had a mantra, it would have been,
‘Expect nothing, and by Christ, you’re entitled to even less.’
I got outside. The part of the burger I’d eaten had lodged in me stomach like a bad prayer.
I took out my mobile, ruefully thinking,
‘If I’d gotten to America, I’d be calling it my cell phone.’
Stewart answered on the second ring.
I asked,
‘Are you going to Ridge’s…’ I had to swallow hard and then spit it out. ‘Soiree?’
I could hear him laughing and I waited.
He took the hint, said,
‘Yes, I’m invited, and would you be needing a lift?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
I let my resentment pour all over that and he said,
‘I’ll pick you up at seven, and try to be a bit sober.’
He hung up.
Anthony Bradford-Hemple, now isn’t that one hell of a name?
No way you’re going to be working in a fast-food joint with a name like that.
Ridge’s husband.
I was afraid to join up their names. Hers in Irish, Ni Iomaire.
Jesus, you’d need a prompt card to spit it out.
And worse, I’d been the one who hooked them up.
His daughter, Jennifer, was being threatened and her pony was stolen. I’d got Ridge to check it out, thinking I was helping her away from a dire place she’d reached.
And so, dear reader, she fucking married him.
I could understand her reasoning. As a gay Ban Garda, she was already heavily compromised, and then having a radical mastectomy, she was indeed all out of options.
Sure enough, she got her promotion, was now among the ruling classes.
And mostly, I’d kept my mouth shut.
Comes a horseman, came the dreaded Friday.
I put on my new gear, leaving the jacket till last.
Studied me own self in the mirror, tried to persuade myself that I looked like a slightly befuddled English professor.
Didn’t fly.
The doorbell went and there was Stewart, in a fucking Louis Copeland suit. The kind of suit, you roll in the gutter with it, you come to, that suit is brushing you off, saying, ‘You’re a player.’
He looked at my gear, said,
‘Wow.’
My temper wasn’t at its best. I’d only dropped one Xanax and one shot of Jameson and it wasn’t mellowing me out at all.
I said,
‘That is one flash suit, three grand or so, I’d guess.’
He gave his enigmatic smile, said,
‘You’re close.’
I deliberately moved across the room, glancing briefly at the nuns’ convent – they’d be starting evening rosary – poured a large Jameson and asked,
‘Get you something? I’m fresh out of that decaffeinated tea, alas.’
He settled himself on the sofa, like a cat, total relaxation, and I pushed,
‘What is it you do again, since you stopped pushing dope, that affords you the suit?’
He didn’t rise to the bait, rarely did, said,
‘Jack, I have all sorts of interests and if you ever want to get your act together, I’d be delighted to have you along.’
I looked at my watch, said,
‘We’d better get this over with.’
He got to his feet, his suit without a crease or crinkle, and added,
‘You might have fun.’
As we headed out I said,
‘Yeah, and I might get to America someday.’
His car was the new sleek Datsun, grey. Accessorized his suit. He turned the key and pulled effortlessly into the traffic. He hit the tape deck or iPod or whatever and we were blasted by music. I listened in silence for five whole minutes – I know, I counted out the time – and finally asked,
‘What on earth is that?’
He turned it up a notch, said,
‘Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus.’
There are some lines there is just no reply to.
Ridge’s new home was one of those huge sprawling monsters, so beloved by the Anglo-Irish when they ruled the land.
Once impressive, no doubt, but badly in need of repair.
And a bastard to heat.
We drove up a tree-lined path to the main entrance. I asked,
‘How many acres you figure he’s got?’
Without a beat he said,
‘One hundred and fifty-eight.’
‘You checked?’
He gave that familiar half-smile, said,
‘I check everything.’
Didn’t add,
‘Reason I have the suit and the car.’
The whole place was lit up, and a bevy of cars were already parked. Stewart reached into the back seat, grabbed flowers and bottles of wine. He looked at me, asked,
‘You didn’t bring anything?’
I waited till I was out of the car, said,
‘Brought you.’
A girl in a maid’s uniform welcomed us and offered to take our jackets.
No.
Led us into a large room, with maybe fifty people already lashing into champagne, a huge chandelier overhead and the walls lined with paintings.
We were offered canapés and champagne. I took a glass and Stewart asked for some water.
Ridge emerged from a throng of people, looking radiant.
I’ve seen her look
like shite,
lost,
angry,
hurt,
but radiant, never.
A blue silk gown made her seem like a beauty.
She hugged Stewart, thanked him for the lovely flowers, then turned to me, said,
‘Well, you tried.’
I was a bit taken aback, asked,
‘You don’t like the jacket?’
She hugged me, a rare and rarer event, and said,
‘It’s so…you.’
The fuck was with that?
There was Anthony Bradford-Hemple and a tall bald-headed man. She told us that her husband was deep in conversation with a very important prospective client.
Something about him.
The man felt my stare, turned, and I felt a chill. Bald or not, it was the guy from the airport, Kurt.