Eddie Gilligan works on the nineteenth floor with his brother, Joe. Our job is to set up for functions, meetings in rooms and banquets and weddings in the ballroom, and Joe isn’t much use the way his hands and fingers are like roots. He walks around with a long-handled broom in one hand and a cigarette in the other pretending to look busy but he spends most of his time in the lavatory or smoking with Digger Moon the carpetman who claims he’s a Blackfoot Indian and can lay carpet faster and tighter than anyone in the U.S. of A. unless he’s had a few and then watch out because he remembers the sufferings of his people. When Digger remembers the sufferings of his people the only man he can talk to is Joe Gilligan because Joe himself is suffering with arthritis and Digger says Joe understands. When you have arthritis so bad you can barely wipe your ass you understand all kinds of suffering. That’s what Digger says and when Digger isn’t going from floor to floor laying carpet or pulling up carpet he sits cross-legged on the floor of the carpet room suffering with Joe, one with the past, the other with the arthritis. No one is going to bother Digger or Joe because everyone in the Biltmore Hotel knows of their suffering and they can spend days in the carpet room or stepping across the street to McAnn’s Bar for relief. Mr. Carey himself suffers with a bad stomach. He makes his inspection rounds in the morning suffering from the breakfast his wife cooks and on the afternoon inspection he’s suffering from the lunch his wife packs. He tells Eddie his wife is a beautiful woman, the only one he ever loved, but she’s killing him slowly and she’s not in such good shape herself with her legs all swollen with rheumatism. Eddie tells Mr. Carey his wife is in bad shape, too, after four miscarriages and now some kind of blood infection that has the doctor worried. The morning we set up for the annual banquet of the American-Irish Historical Society, Eddie and Mr. Carey stand at the entrance to the nineteenth-floor ballroom, Eddie smoking a cigarette and Mr. Carey in his double-breasted suit draped nicely to make you think he doesn’t have that much of a belly, stroking it to ease the pain. Eddie tells Mr. Carey he never smoked till he was hit on Omaha Beach and some asshole, excuse the language, Mr. Carey, shoved a cigarette in his mouth while he was lying there waiting for the medics. He took a drag on that cigarette and it gave him such relief lying there with his gut hanging out on Omaha Beach he’s been smoking ever since, can’t give ’em up, tried, Christ knows, but can’t. Now Digger Moon strolls up with a huge carpet on his shoulder and tells Eddie something has to be done about his brother, Joe, that that poor son-of-a-bitch is suffering more than seven Indian tribes and Digger knows something about suffering after his stint with the infantry all over the goddam Pacific when he was hit with everything the Japs could throw at him, malaria, everything. Eddie says, Yeah, yeah, he knows about Joe and he’s sorry, after all it’s his brother, but he has his own troubles with his wife and her miscarriages and blood infection and his own gut messed up from not being put back right and he worries about Joe the way he mixes alcohol and all kinds of painkillers. Mr. Carey belches and groans and Digger says, You still eating shit? because Digger isn’t afraid of Mr. Carey or anyone else. That’s how it is when you’re a great carpetman, you can say what you like to anyone and if they fire you there’s always a job in the Hotel Commodore or the Hotel Roosevelt or even, Jesus, yeah, the Waldorf-Astoria, where they’re always trying to steal Digger away. Some days Digger is so overcome by the sufferings of his people he refuses to lay any carpet and when Mr. Carey won’t fire him Digger says, That’s right. White man can’t get along without us Indians. White man gotta have Iroquois sixty floors up the skyscrapers to dance along steel beams. White man gotta have Blackfoot to lay good carpet. Every time Digger hears Mr. Carey belch he tells him stop eating shit and have a nice beer because beer never bothered nobody and it’s Mrs. Carey’s sandwiches that are killing Mr. Carey. Digger tells Mr. Carey he has a theory about women, that they’re like black widow spiders who kill the males after they screw, bite their goddam heads off, that women don’t care about men, once they’re past the age of having kids men are really useless unless they’re up on the horse attacking another tribe. Eddie Gilligan says you’d look pretty fuckin’ silly riding your horse up Madison Avenue to attack another tribe and Digger says that’s exactly what he means. He says a man is put on this earth to paint his face, ride the horse, throw the spear, kill the other tribe and when Eddie says, Aw, bullshit, Digger says, Aw, bullshit, my ass, what are you doin’, Eddie? spending your life here setting up for dinners and weddings? Is that a way for a man to live? Eddie shrugs and puffs on his cigarette and when Digger suddenly swings around to walk away he catches Mr. Carey and Eddie with the end of the carpet and knocks them five feet into the ballroom.
It’s an accident and no one says anything but still I admire the way Digger goes through the world not giving a fiddler’s fart like my Uncle Pa in Limerick just because no one can lay carpet like him. I wish I could be like Digger but not with carpets. I hate carpets.
If I had the money I could buy a torch and read till dawn. In America a torch is called a flashlight. A biscuit is called a cookie, a bun is a roll. Confectionery is pastry and minced meat is ground. Men wear pants instead of trousers and they’ll even say this pant leg is shorter than the other which is silly. When I hear them saying pant leg I feel like breathing faster. The lift is an elevator and if you want a WC or a lavatory you have to say bathroom even if there isn’t a sign of a bath there. And no one dies in America, they pass away or they’re deceased and when they die the body, which is called the remains, is taken to a funeral home where people just stand around and look at it and no one sings or tells a story or takes a drink and then it’s taken away in a casket to be interred. They don’t like saying coffin and they don’t like saying buried. They never say graveyard. Cemetery sounds nicer.
If I had the money I could buy a hat and go out but I can’t wander the streets of Manhattan in my bald state for fear people might think they were looking at a snowball on a pair of scrawny shoulders. In a week when the hair darkens my scalp I’ll be able to go out again and there’s nothing Mrs. Austin can do about that. That’s what gives me such pleasure, lying on the bed and thinking of the things you can do that nobody else can interfere with. That’s what Mr. O’Halloran, the headmaster, used to tell us in school in Limerick, Your mind is a treasure house that you should stock well and it’s the one part of you the world can’t interfere with.
New York was the city of my dreams but now I’m here the dreams are gone and it’s not what I expected at all. I never thought I’d be going around a hotel lobby cleaning up after people and scouring toilet bowls in the lavatories. How could I ever write my mother or anyone in Limerick and tell them the way I’m living in this rich land with two dollars to last me for a week, a bald head and sore eyes, and a landlady who won’t let me turn on the light? How could I ever tell them I have to eat bananas every day, the cheapest food in the world, because the hotel won’t let me near the kitchen for leftovers for fear the Puerto Ricans might catch my New Guinea infection? They’d never believe me. They’d say, Go away ower that, and they’d laugh because all you have to do is look at the films to see how well off Americans are, the way they fiddle with their food and leave something on their plate and then push the plate away. It’s hard even to feel sorry for Americans who are supposed to be poor in a film like The Grapes of Wrath when everything dries up and they have to move to California. At least they’re dry and warm. My Uncle Pa Keating used to say if we had a California in Ireland the whole country would flock there, eat oranges galore and spend the whole day swimming. When you’re in Ireland it’s hard to believe there are poor people in America because you see the Irish coming back, Returned Yanks they’re called, and you can spot them a mile away with their fat arses waggling along O’Connell Street in trousers too tight and colors you’d never see in Ireland, blues, pinks, light greens, and even flashes of puce. They always act rich and talk through their noses about their refrigerators and automobiles and if they go into a pub they want American drinks no one ever heard of, cocktails if you don’t mind, though if you act like that in a Limerick pub the barman will put you in your place and remind you how you went to America with your arse hanging out of your trousers and don’t be putting on airs here, Mick, I knew you when the snot hung from your nose to your kneecaps. You can always spot the Real Yanks, too, with their light colors and fat arses and the way they look around and smile and give pennies to raggedy children. Real Yanks don’t put on airs. They don’t have to after coming from a country where everyone has everything.
If Mrs. Austin won’t let me have a light I can still sit up in the bed or lie down or I can decide to stay in or go out. I won’t go out tonight because of my bald head and I don’t mind because I can stay here and turn my mind into a film about Limerick. This is the greatest discovery I’ve made from lying in the room, that if I can’t read because of my eyes or Mrs. Austin complaining about the light I can start any kind of a film in my head. If it’s midnight here it’s five in the morning in Limerick and I can picture my mother and brothers asleep with the dog, Lucky, growling at the world and my uncle, Ab Sheehan, snorting away in his bed from all the pints he had the night before and farting from his great feed of fish and chips.
I can float through Limerick and see people shuffling through the streets for the first Sunday Mass. I can go in and out of churches, shops, pubs, graveyards and see people asleep or groaning with pain in the hospital at the City Home. It’s magic to go back to Limerick in my mind even when it brings the tears. It’s hard to pass through the lanes of the poor and look into their houses and hear babies crying and women trying to start fires to boil water in kettles for the breakfast of tea and bread. It’s hard to see children shivering when they have to leave their beds for school or Mass and there’s no heat in the house like the heat we have here in New York with radiators singing away at six in the morning. I’d like to empty out the lanes of Limerick and bring all the poor people to America and put them in houses with heat and give them warm clothes and shoes and let them stuff themselves with porridge and sausages. Some day I’ll make millions and I’ll bring the poor people to America and send them back to Limerick fat-arsed and waddling up and down O’Connell Street in light colors.
I can do anything I like in this bed, anything. I can dream about Limerick or I can interfere with myself even if it’s a sin, and Mrs. Austin will never know. No one will ever know unless I go to confession and I’m too doomed for that.
Other nights when I have hair on my head and no money I can walk around Manhattan. I don’t mind that one bit because the streets are as lively as any film at the Sixty-eighth Street Playhouse. There’s always a fire engine screaming around a corner or an ambulance or a police car and sometimes they come screaming together and you know there’s a fire. People always watch for the fire engine to slow down and that tells you what block to go to and where to look for smoke and flames. If someone is at a window ready to jump that makes it more exciting. The ambulance will wait with flashing lights and cops will tell everyone move back. That’s the main job of cops in New York, telling everyone move back. They’re powerful with their guns and sticks but the real hero is the fireman especially if he climbs a ladder and plucks a child from a window. He could save an old man with crutches and nothing on but a nightshirt but it’s different when it’s a child sucking her thumb and resting her curly head on the fireman’s broad shoulder. That’s when we all cheer and look at each other and know we’re all happy about the same thing.
And that’s what makes us look in the Daily News the next day to see if there’s any chance we might be in the picture with the brave fireman and the curly-haired child.