“I was sitting in a bar on Western Avenue. It was

around midnight and I was in my usual confused

state. I mean, you know, nothing works right; the

women, the jobs, the no jobs, the weather, the

dogs. Finally you just sit in a stricken state and

wait like you’re on the bus stop bench waiting for

death.

— CHARLES BUKOWSKI, “No Way to Paradise.”

I HAILED A CAB outside the hotel, gave him the address. The driver had a pack of Salems beside his coffee holder, reached over, got one going, then asked,

“You care if I smoke?”

No smoking decals were plastered on every available space, I said,

“Knock yourself out.”

And got the look. Nice to know some expressions were universal; he must have felt an explanation was necessary, said,

“You’re wondering what’s with the menthol, am I right?”

I was wondering why he wouldn’t shut the fuck up, he said,

“See, I got this, like . . . throat cancer, you know what I’m saying?”

How complex was it? I grunted in a noncommittal way, you can’t encourage them. They’re off and running anyway, you show a fraction of interest, they’re all over you like the proverbial bad suit. A statue of the Virgin was on the dash, with numerous Rosary beads, medals, relics. He used his cig to indicate the Madonna, asked,

“You know who that is, huh?”

I warranted I didn’t and with a triumphant note he said,

“Our Lady of Guadaloupe, she cured my cancer but I gotta do my bit, you hearing me, you know what I’m telling you?”

I had the drift.

“So see, I smoke these here menthols, like penance, god is batting with the triers.”

I’d always wanted to ask,

“What about them Knicks?”

But there’s not a lot of opportunity in Ireland. Like calling dollars “bucks,” we love that stuff. So, I tried it.

He wasn’t cranked by my response. A Buick shot out from behind us, cut right across and rear-ended another cab. My driver didn’t react and I was bitterly disappointed, I’d wanted him half out of the window, going,

“The fuck’s the matter with you, muthahfuckah?”

And such.

Did I want stereotypes, you betcha. I looked out the window, have to write my own script. Steam was rising out of the manholes, like grey clouds of hope, and I thought,

“That’s more like it.”

I’d planned on returning to New York for so long, it had pulled me through many the Irish winter, those Monday mornings, when dawn breaks at nine and evening sets at four! Those days that the rain is personal. I’d close my eyes, summon up a New York minute and be comforted. Tommy and I had been here a year, old hands on the site, Tommy was deep into the rip-offs that occur, tools disappearing, materials gone missing, a whole other economy happening. It’s lucrative and highly dangerous, you’re treading on all sorts of lethal toes. Juan was right along with him, selling to the Mex community who were denied aces to more regular channels.

As usual, I tried to caution him but the edge was where he lived. Juan encouraged his recklessness, driving him to more dangerous stunts. One evening, he helped offload a whole floor of new fittings. I was seriously pissed, ranted,

“You bollix, the hell is the matter with you, you trying to get us killed?”

And got that lopsided grin, like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the till, his reaction a mix of fun and apprehension. He did what he always did when I confronted him, he drank, with intent.

He was your two-fisted drinker, no screwing around. Tommy’s father had made me promise a long time ago to look out for Tommy. Like a fool, I promised. My life can be summarised by two conflicting threads: times of near harmony and times of chaos. I veered twixt the two like a nun on a bicycle.

I’d be full of focus, duty, clarity, smarts, if you will, then sheer impulsiveness, a leap into the unknown. When I snap out of the latter, I go scuttling to the former. Can you follow that? It’s Irish logic at its most convoluted. I went to college, the only one in generations of pig ignorance. I like music and if you want to follow bands, being a student is the best way to go. Pursue it with a diligence bordering on hysteria. My old man worked on the railways, forty years and got a pocket watch and destroyed lungs. My mother, as Galway as Nora Barnacle and as feisty, would wonder about me, go,

“Where’d we get him?”

If she read, which she didn’t, she might have considered Yeats and “The Stolen Child.” Would exclaim to her neighbours,

“He’s as odd as two left feet.”

Because I didn’t fit the mold.

Then got the chance to study English at Trinity. Betrayal at the local point. She’d cry,

“We’ve got a perfectly good University here.”

I didn’t argue, just forged on, the payoff was that I’d be away from home. The downside was Tommy. Took him for a pint, said,

“They think I shouldn’t go to Trinity.”

He was in his headbanger phase, speed and Black Sabbath, said,

“Fuck ‘em, you gotta go.”

I’d been drinking Guinness, the creamy pints before me like communion. Tommy was on cider (Loony juice), his third, with Jack Daniels chasers, I’d reached the crux, said,

“What about you, buddy?”

He raised his glass, clinked mine, said,

“Me? I’m going with.”

And did.

Changed his act, at least outwardly, got a job in a bookies and began the highs and lows that marked his life.

Money.

He’d amass it, blow it, in/out, punctuated with dope. The booze, regular and habitual as it was, was support to the main event. He’d read, no, studied Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas and became a Gonzo convert. He financed the college years. We drank in Mulligan’s and the Joyce connection was never mentioned. After my degree, I felt I’d gone soft. Dublin was terrific but the years of booze, fish and chips suppers, blew my gut out. I hated that, saw it as weakness, loss of control. That, I dread above all. Over one too many Jamesons, at some club in Leeson Street, I said to Tommy,

“Man, I’ve got to get in shape.”

He was downing Tequila slammers, said,

“Join the army.”

“Okay.”

Clink of glasses, then I asked,

“What about you?”

“Me? I’ll come with.”

Did.

Second betrayal, the worst an Irishman can do, joined the British army. They kicked the fuck out of me. Stationed on the Salisbury Plains, as dead a place as you envisage; if Irish rain is, as they say, soft, then the stuff in the UK is as cold as the pubs during Lent.

Tommy was managing a bookies in Salisbury, up to his arse in dope, scams, and risk. Three months in, I was in bad shape. We were downing pints of bitter, JD chasers.

One of the very rare nights I’d off, he said,

“Jack it.”

“What?”

“Throw in the towel, leg it, what the fuck do you care?”

I cared.

Two points heavily against me in the army, I was Irish and maybe worse, a college boy.

Fuck on a blackboard.

A double header of destruction. They were trying to kill me and not even being subtle about it. My front teeth had been knocked out, the new crowns hurting like a son of a bitch. I downed the JD, said,

“I signed on for a year, I’ll do the year.”

Tommy signalled another round, ensuring prompt service with,

“And whatever you’re having yourself.”

Gave me one of his rare looks of total openness, he had the eyes of a child, said,

“My money’s on you, Steve-o.”

I managed to last the full twelve months in the army, it was as vicious and brutal as I could have imagined. Eight months in, the sergeant said to me,

“You want to try for the stripes?”

He hadn’t called me Paddy, which they did at every opportunity and that made me cautious. I asked,

“What stripes?”

“Corporal.”

I never hesitated, said

“No . . . thanks.”

He had begun by loathing me, trying every which way to break me, and slowly, he’d begun to ease up as I completed each task. I was in shape, and a confidence had crept in as I realised I had an aptitude for the life. He stared at me, said

“Don’t be a thick, Paddy, it’s a chance to move up, lots of perks, plus, you get to give orders.”

I held his stare, he no longer scared me, asked,

“And the men, they’re going to take orders from a . . . Paddy!”

He spat on the ground, one of his less endearing habits, said,

“You make them follow orders, that’s why it’s called command.”

I didn’t bite. I’d found a niche, a way of keeping my head down, watching my back and staying alive, I’d saved most of my pay, and knew I could get through. The sergeant was disgusted and stomped off.

One of the squaddies, guy named Sheils, from up North, had been on my case from day one. Always with the Irish jokes, the stealing of my gear, screwing with my head. He hated the Irish, liked to say,

“I’m of Scots Protestant descent and we colonised your godforsaken country, what we’d get? Fucking bombs in our public toilets, shot in the back. . . .”

He had the truly dangerous blend of arrogance and stupidity, he’d have been seriously threatening if he’d one ounce of intelligence. I’d learned a vital lesson from the Brits, take your time. So I bit down, and with every successive humiliation, like urine in my bed, glass in my porridge, I acted like it was no biggie.

Sitting in the pub in Salisbury with Tommy, my first Saturday off in weeks, I told him about Sheils. Tommy was flush, he was making money hand over fist and spending at an equal rate. He was drinking gin, said,

“You ask the fuck for Jameson, he says, they don’t stock Mick piss.”

That kind of place.

Tommy could care less, the insults of the world he didn’t take personally anymore, he’d been so severely hurt for so long, he just assimilated it into the whole bleak view he maintained. I was drinking pints of bitter and well-named it was. I daren’t lose control, my life literally depended on it.

Tommy asked,

“You have rifles, yeah?”

“Course.”

“With live ammunition?”

“Sure.”

“Shoot the bollix.”

He reached in his jacket, took out a packet, said,

“Got you something.”

This was a first, we didn’t do gifts, wasn’t sure what to say so I said nothing, unwrapped it. A black leather wallet, with a crest on the front. A shield with a diamond in the centre, crisscrossed with two heavy lines and on the top, a cat. . . a fiery looking animal but a cat nevertheless. A logo beneath in Latin, roughly translated as virtue and nobility.

It was the Blake coat of arms, my family name. I said,

“Jesus, I didn’t even know we had a crest, let alone a motto, how’d you find that?”

He was smiling, a real smile, not his usual cynical one, said,

“The Internet.”

I said,

“I’m delighted, thanks.”

He waved it off, said,

“You Prods, you like yer coat of arms.”

I kept it light, said,

“We haven’t been Protestant for donkey’s years.”

He was looking for the barman, said,

“Ah, once a Prod, always a Prod, you check in there, there’s a secret compartment.”

But we got distracted and I never did get to find the secret pocket.

The other lesson I’d learned in Salisbury was to fight dirty. None of that gentleman crap. You fought by the rules and they handed you your arse. Eventually, Sheils got tired ragging me, he’d still make the odd gesture, spit in my coffee, but he’d lost the momentum. Early morning, in the washroom, he was shaving, whistling the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai. I locked the door, picked up the metal waste bucket and blindsided him. The force of the blow actually dented the metal. I caught him before he fell, asked,

“You hear about the Paddy who goes into a bathroom. . .”

Then gave him the kidney punches we’d been taught. . . continuing

“Says to an English guy . . .”

I got him into the stall, put his head in the bowl.

“What’s the difference between a horse and an Englishman?”

Pulled his head up, butted him between the eyes, then broke his nose.

“You can bet on a horse.”

I don’t think he found it very funny, but then, Irish jokes are a lot of things, funny is rarely one of them.