remembering me, Jack-o.”
The faux stage-Irish with the frigging O on my name got to me in ways I’d forgotten. Ways that conjured up the flash of a hurley and steel toe caps. That is, my days as a Guard.
He said,
“I used to help your mum, you know, carry the shopping, look after the garden.”
My mum!
Fucksake.
Like she was a slice of Irish whimsy.
She’d been a walking bitch, spat and snarled her way through a sham religiosity, with a tame priest as buffer. I stopped, asked,
“What did you call her?”
His eyes, startled, went,
“What?”
My voice was cold as yesterday’s Mass, asked,
“Did you call her ma’am, Mrs., your ladyship?”
Relief flowed, he said,
“Oh, right, I am . . . Mrs. Taylor, you know.”
He wasn’t even worth a wallop for his worthless lie. I asked,
“And you’ll want, how is it? A little something for your . . . thoughtfulness ?”
He was unsure now, maybe stories of my erratic behavior had reached him. I shot out my hand, shook his shoulder, said,
“If only we had more of your kind, we’d be a richer country.”
And moved past him, a dumbfounded expression on his face. I got to the hospital, went into the patients’ shop, bought some very expensive flowers, box of flash chocolates, and the daily tabloid. The headline screeched about the new sly tax the government was planning.
A water charge.
In Ireland.
Where we were surrounded at every turn by it, now we were to pay for it, with meters to be installed free of charge. The woman behind the counter said,
“Now I’ll have to give up water, like everything else.”
As I came out of the shop, I saw a woman on the edge of my vision and stopped, frozen. The tilt of the head, the way her body moved, then, no, saw her face and it was not who I thought. Time back, I’d been as close to commitment, a relationship, as it ever gets for a loner like me. An American woman, for a few months, it was bliss. Made me believe I could even feel good about me own self and that’s some leap.
One conversation had leaped into my mind. She’d been listening to my fear,
“It’s the dread of becoming boring, that the gold dust will fade, the glitter evaporate.”
She’d said,
“Jack, you’ll never be boring to me.”
I’d snapped,
“Not talking about you.”
Outside Ridge’s room, I thought about sharing this with her and realized it wouldn’t much improve my standing, walked in, and found an empty bed. Shock at first, thinking,
“Jesus, she’s dead.”
Until a passing nurse told me she’d checked out last night. We both looked at the array of stuff in my hands. I asked,
“Will you give them to the children’s ward?”
She would.
Back at my apartment, I’d done a fevered job of cleaning, not so easy when one hand is missing digits but I’d learned to compensate. Not smoking, drinking, drugging, I sure had the time, and even, part-time, the energy. Lady Antebellum on the radio, singing about being a little drunk after midnight and needing you now.
Trouble was, I didn’t know anymore who I missed the most.
Distracting my own self, I arranged the boxed DVDs for the second time, it gave me a fragile sense of order, of weak control, and the titles were a testament to all the shows that had been canceled after one or two seasons, the ones that didn’t cut it.
Eastbound and Down
The Riches
Testees
Bored to Death
Seemed apt I’d go for shows that didn’t last the distance. I phoned Ridge, told her I’d been to the hospital, tried to keep the whine out of my tone. She lashed,
“Oh, I’m sorry ; should have immediately called you when I got released.”
Fuck.
I asked, not so much caring now.
“You doing okay?”
Deep sigh, then,
“Long as I don’t have to run any errands for you, I should be fine.”
Jesus, the bitterness. I did the only thing you can do, said,
“God bless.”
And hung up.
You had to figure: this is how I got on with my friends, imagine the rest of the world. No wonder I
The faux stage-Irish with the frigging O on my name got to me in ways I’d forgotten. Ways that conjured up the flash of a hurley and steel toe caps. That is, my days as a Guard.
He said,
“I used to help your mum, you know, carry the shopping, look after the garden.”
My mum!
Fucksake.
Like she was a slice of Irish whimsy.
She’d been a walking bitch, spat and snarled her way through a sham religiosity, with a tame priest as buffer. I stopped, asked,
“What did you call her?”
His eyes, startled, went,
“What?”
My voice was cold as yesterday’s Mass, asked,
“Did you call her ma’am, Mrs., your ladyship?”
Relief flowed, he said,
“Oh, right, I am . . . Mrs. Taylor, you know.”
He wasn’t even worth a wallop for his worthless lie. I asked,
“And you’ll want, how is it? A little something for your . . . thoughtfulness ?”
He was unsure now, maybe stories of my erratic behavior had reached him. I shot out my hand, shook his shoulder, said,
“If only we had more of your kind, we’d be a richer country.”
And moved past him, a dumbfounded expression on his face. I got to the hospital, went into the patients’ shop, bought some very expensive flowers, box of flash chocolates, and the daily tabloid. The headline screeched about the new sly tax the government was planning.
A water charge.
In Ireland.
Where we were surrounded at every turn by it, now we were to pay for it, with meters to be installed free of charge. The woman behind the counter said,
“Now I’ll have to give up water, like everything else.”
As I came out of the shop, I saw a woman on the edge of my vision and stopped, frozen. The tilt of the head, the way her body moved, then, no, saw her face and it was not who I thought. Time back, I’d been as close to commitment, a relationship, as it ever gets for a loner like me. An American woman, for a few months, it was bliss. Made me believe I could even feel good about me own self and that’s some leap.
One conversation had leaped into my mind. She’d been listening to my fear,
“It’s the dread of becoming boring, that the gold dust will fade, the glitter evaporate.”
She’d said,
“Jack, you’ll never be boring to me.”
I’d snapped,
“Not talking about you.”
Outside Ridge’s room, I thought about sharing this with her and realized it wouldn’t much improve my standing, walked in, and found an empty bed. Shock at first, thinking,
“Jesus, she’s dead.”
Until a passing nurse told me she’d checked out last night. We both looked at the array of stuff in my hands. I asked,
“Will you give them to the children’s ward?”
She would.
Back at my apartment, I’d done a fevered job of cleaning, not so easy when one hand is missing digits but I’d learned to compensate. Not smoking, drinking, drugging, I sure had the time, and even, part-time, the energy. Lady Antebellum on the radio, singing about being a little drunk after midnight and needing you now.
Trouble was, I didn’t know anymore who I missed the most.
Distracting my own self, I arranged the boxed DVDs for the second time, it gave me a fragile sense of order, of weak control, and the titles were a testament to all the shows that had been canceled after one or two seasons, the ones that didn’t cut it.
Eastbound and Down
The Riches
Testees
Bored to Death
Seemed apt I’d go for shows that didn’t last the distance. I phoned Ridge, told her I’d been to the hospital, tried to keep the whine out of my tone. She lashed,
“Oh, I’m sorry ; should have immediately called you when I got released.”
Fuck.
I asked, not so much caring now.
“You doing okay?”
Deep sigh, then,
“Long as I don’t have to run any errands for you, I should be fine.”
Jesus, the bitterness. I did the only thing you can do, said,
“God bless.”
And hung up.
You had to figure: this is how I got on with my friends, imagine the rest of the world. No wonder I
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