toe caps.
And finally, my all-weather Garda coat. It had been
Burned
Thrashed
Beaten
Usually with me in it.
The G Grill was the latest flash place in town and not even a storm of such ferocity could dent its allure. I reluctantly had to leave the pup alone as my neighbor Doc wasn’t answering. Most of the floodwater still clogged the main street but the ubiquitous buskers were undaunted, one so enterprising as to have a sign,
“Feel guilty about Katrina? Now is your chance to catch up.”
I gave him a ten for ingenuity and I swear he shouted,
“Yo, bro, get the boxed set of
Treme.
”
I looked at him, dressed like the joker in
The Dark Knight
, down to the horror makeup. I asked,
“You watch box sets?”
Like he had a home?
He smiled with that grim Heath Ledger smile, said,
“Get real, bro, streaming, it be the way.”
That he rasped like Bob Marley only added to the surreal tone. I carried on. Met Des Kenny, trailing off the end of his marathon.
Fuck.
Here was the oligarch of Irish bookselling, dressed in shorts and Lifeboats T-shirt, looking fit and healthy. I asked,
“You’re running now?”
He gave that radiant grin, said,
“Aw, Jack, we can’t all simply stand still.”
Deep.
He asked,
“Got a hot date, boyo?”
Heat all right.
The G Grill had a guy on the door, a guy with bags of attitude. He stepped in front of me, asked,
“Help you?”
Fuck’s sake.
I said,
“Doubt it.”
He flexed his gym pecs, smiled, thinking,
“Player.”
But another guy stepped forward, said,
“Jack, how’s it cutting?
I knew him from a brief stint I did as a security guard. We’d had some drinks and shot the shit. He looked like Jeremy Kyle,which was a hell of handicap. Kyle is the TV guy, a poor man’s Jerry Springer, makes his living shouting at folks from disadvantaged backgrounds.
I said,
“Going okay until this asshole got in my face.”
Jeremy smiled as the guy bristled, said,
“They’re keen is all.”
The guy tried,
“Boss, we can’t have riffraff hanging around.”
I breezed past the guy, his hands itching to clout me. Jeremy said,
“Have a cocktail on the house.”
I nearly smiled, said,
“Far from cocktails I was reared.”
He shrugged, his eyes scanning the room, like what he saw on
NCIS.
I asked,
“This your living now?”
Couldn’t stop the vague contempt that leaked over my tone.
He did that body look, head to toe, that sneers,
“You actually bought that shit you’re wearing? How cheap are you?”
Before I could answer, he added,
“Thing is, Jack-o, there’s great opportunity in the security biz and you, being once a Guard and all, you could nail down some serious change.”
All this crap in a quasi-American accent. I shook my head, moved to the bar, got a double Jay in, then saw what appearedto be a young Deborah Harry waving at me from the dining room.
Emily.
Jesus.
Jeremy looked at her, asked in disbelief,
“You snaring that, huh?”
“Go away,”
I said.
I knocked back the Jay, headed for Blondie. She rose to greet me, did the frigging air kiss, exclaimed,
“Jack, you look …”
Searched for a word,
Got,
“Different.”
I said,
“You have that Debbie Harry gig down.”
Sounding not un-American my own self.
Shit is infectious.
“Who?”
Right.
She seemed up, energized, and I felt bad at how I was going to blow her buzz.
Rain on her parade.
Shit on her doorstep.
Well, you get my drift.
She said,
“Punctuation is so important.”
WTF?
Was everyone obsessed with grammar? I ignored that, asked, as if I cared,
“How’d you survive the storm?”
This seemed to amuse her highly and she said first,
“You have to know that men name storms and they’re always female. Why is that?”
I tried a half-arsed smile myself, said,
“The ferocity and, I suppose, the unpredictability.”
We sat at a table as we waited to be summoned to our dinner. A woman appeared, dressed in black waistcoat, ultra-white blouse, short black
And finally, my all-weather Garda coat. It had been
Burned
Thrashed
Beaten
Usually with me in it.
The G Grill was the latest flash place in town and not even a storm of such ferocity could dent its allure. I reluctantly had to leave the pup alone as my neighbor Doc wasn’t answering. Most of the floodwater still clogged the main street but the ubiquitous buskers were undaunted, one so enterprising as to have a sign,
“Feel guilty about Katrina? Now is your chance to catch up.”
I gave him a ten for ingenuity and I swear he shouted,
“Yo, bro, get the boxed set of
Treme.
”
I looked at him, dressed like the joker in
The Dark Knight
, down to the horror makeup. I asked,
“You watch box sets?”
Like he had a home?
He smiled with that grim Heath Ledger smile, said,
“Get real, bro, streaming, it be the way.”
That he rasped like Bob Marley only added to the surreal tone. I carried on. Met Des Kenny, trailing off the end of his marathon.
Fuck.
Here was the oligarch of Irish bookselling, dressed in shorts and Lifeboats T-shirt, looking fit and healthy. I asked,
“You’re running now?”
He gave that radiant grin, said,
“Aw, Jack, we can’t all simply stand still.”
Deep.
He asked,
“Got a hot date, boyo?”
Heat all right.
The G Grill had a guy on the door, a guy with bags of attitude. He stepped in front of me, asked,
“Help you?”
Fuck’s sake.
I said,
“Doubt it.”
He flexed his gym pecs, smiled, thinking,
“Player.”
But another guy stepped forward, said,
“Jack, how’s it cutting?
I knew him from a brief stint I did as a security guard. We’d had some drinks and shot the shit. He looked like Jeremy Kyle,which was a hell of handicap. Kyle is the TV guy, a poor man’s Jerry Springer, makes his living shouting at folks from disadvantaged backgrounds.
I said,
“Going okay until this asshole got in my face.”
Jeremy smiled as the guy bristled, said,
“They’re keen is all.”
The guy tried,
“Boss, we can’t have riffraff hanging around.”
I breezed past the guy, his hands itching to clout me. Jeremy said,
“Have a cocktail on the house.”
I nearly smiled, said,
“Far from cocktails I was reared.”
He shrugged, his eyes scanning the room, like what he saw on
NCIS.
I asked,
“This your living now?”
Couldn’t stop the vague contempt that leaked over my tone.
He did that body look, head to toe, that sneers,
“You actually bought that shit you’re wearing? How cheap are you?”
Before I could answer, he added,
“Thing is, Jack-o, there’s great opportunity in the security biz and you, being once a Guard and all, you could nail down some serious change.”
All this crap in a quasi-American accent. I shook my head, moved to the bar, got a double Jay in, then saw what appearedto be a young Deborah Harry waving at me from the dining room.
Emily.
Jesus.
Jeremy looked at her, asked in disbelief,
“You snaring that, huh?”
“Go away,”
I said.
I knocked back the Jay, headed for Blondie. She rose to greet me, did the frigging air kiss, exclaimed,
“Jack, you look …”
Searched for a word,
Got,
“Different.”
I said,
“You have that Debbie Harry gig down.”
Sounding not un-American my own self.
Shit is infectious.
“Who?”
Right.
She seemed up, energized, and I felt bad at how I was going to blow her buzz.
Rain on her parade.
Shit on her doorstep.
Well, you get my drift.
She said,
“Punctuation is so important.”
WTF?
Was everyone obsessed with grammar? I ignored that, asked, as if I cared,
“How’d you survive the storm?”
This seemed to amuse her highly and she said first,
“You have to know that men name storms and they’re always female. Why is that?”
I tried a half-arsed smile myself, said,
“The ferocity and, I suppose, the unpredictability.”
We sat at a table as we waited to be summoned to our dinner. A woman appeared, dressed in black waistcoat, ultra-white blouse, short black
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