the cards. I looked aroundthe place; even my bookcase gave no comfort. I was just about to leave when a knock at the door. Opened it to Doc.
Who looked?
Apprehensive?
I spat,
“What?”
“May I come in?”
“No, I’m just leaving.”
He tried to see over my shoulder, asked,
“Where’s the pup?”
“The fuck do you care, asshole?”
He seemed crushed, tried,
“Is this about Em?”
“Em! When do you get to call her that?”
He tried another tack, said,
“Look, I know it’s a surprise and we should have said something before this but, cross my heart, it took us as much by surprise.”
I brushed past him, said,
“Have a nice life.”
He shouted,
“Shouldn’t you be happy for her?”
Jesus, nearly a clean getaway. I stopped, said, real quiet,
“I’d have thought you might be more comfortable with someone your own age.”
He put his hand on me. I looked at his hand and he withdrew, said,
“Okay, I get it. You’re protective, but in time you’ll come around and, you know, I was hoping you might do me the honor of being my best man.”
Aw, sweet Lord. I stared at him for one long moment then spun on my heel and left. I was halfway along Shop Street when a guy stepped in front of me, said,
“Cheer up, fellah, it’s nearly Christmas.”
I said,
“So much to look forward to, I’m dizzy with choice.”
“To fully mutilate grammar you need to firstly study it obsessively.”
(Owen Daglish)
Odd times in my blasted life, I would meet a thin weather-beaten man who,
Rumor had it,
Was a mid-list crime author (i.e., didn’t sell)
And had served time in jail in South America.
We had a slightly civil acquaintanceship and had shared the rare pint and even rarer to rarest conversation.
He was to be the last person I spoke to in Galway before my great escape.
He was wearing a pea jacket with the collar turned up, and an air of violence barely suppressed emanated from his whole being, but the strangest thing was
… That vibe seemed to be turned in on himself.
I said,
“How are you doing?”
The question amused him, as we stood on a deserted street after a raging storm. He said,
“I’m doing what little I can to stay on the dry side of things.”
Me neither.
I asked,
“And how is that working for you?”
He leveled his gaze on me. Ferocity without malice, said,
“It manages to pose as normalcy.”
I thought,
“Fuck, enough shite talk.”
And moved on.
He called after me,
“Jack, you can run but the road is always a dead end.”
Way too freaking deep.
I looked back and he was gone. I thought, not for the first time, that he was mostly fiction, a rumor pretending to be relevant.
I missed Stewart in so many ways. He had been, in just about every form, the one true friend I ever had. A former dope dealer who served five harsh years in prison. On release he reinvented himself as a Zen entrepreneur. No, not selling Zen but immersing himself in business with Zen as his fallback.
He had been by my side in so many horrendous cases and though we fought like tinkers, a deep and wild friendship endured. Sergeant Ridge was part of our unholy trinity and she and Stewart had become as tight as fleas.
He never gave up on me despite my constant ripping and ragging on him. Ridge believed my total lack of care and downright negligence had resulted in Stewart being cut in half with a shotgun blast.
She said,
“The very sight of you makes me want to vomit.”
I tried,
“Don’t hold back.”
And she came as close to walloping me as is feasible.
Fleeing Galway now, I wondered if Stewart would have tried to prevent me.
My heart scalded in my chest as I felt his utter loss sweep over me.
“A split infinitive has much in common with a split head. Both hurt like hell.”
Park looked around his aunt’s home. Somewhere in his still clouded mind he knew he should be grateful for her help. She got him out on bail, secured a lawyer, let him stay in her house. But
Who looked?
Apprehensive?
I spat,
“What?”
“May I come in?”
“No, I’m just leaving.”
He tried to see over my shoulder, asked,
“Where’s the pup?”
“The fuck do you care, asshole?”
He seemed crushed, tried,
“Is this about Em?”
“Em! When do you get to call her that?”
He tried another tack, said,
“Look, I know it’s a surprise and we should have said something before this but, cross my heart, it took us as much by surprise.”
I brushed past him, said,
“Have a nice life.”
He shouted,
“Shouldn’t you be happy for her?”
Jesus, nearly a clean getaway. I stopped, said, real quiet,
“I’d have thought you might be more comfortable with someone your own age.”
He put his hand on me. I looked at his hand and he withdrew, said,
“Okay, I get it. You’re protective, but in time you’ll come around and, you know, I was hoping you might do me the honor of being my best man.”
Aw, sweet Lord. I stared at him for one long moment then spun on my heel and left. I was halfway along Shop Street when a guy stepped in front of me, said,
“Cheer up, fellah, it’s nearly Christmas.”
I said,
“So much to look forward to, I’m dizzy with choice.”
“To fully mutilate grammar you need to firstly study it obsessively.”
(Owen Daglish)
Odd times in my blasted life, I would meet a thin weather-beaten man who,
Rumor had it,
Was a mid-list crime author (i.e., didn’t sell)
And had served time in jail in South America.
We had a slightly civil acquaintanceship and had shared the rare pint and even rarer to rarest conversation.
He was to be the last person I spoke to in Galway before my great escape.
He was wearing a pea jacket with the collar turned up, and an air of violence barely suppressed emanated from his whole being, but the strangest thing was
… That vibe seemed to be turned in on himself.
I said,
“How are you doing?”
The question amused him, as we stood on a deserted street after a raging storm. He said,
“I’m doing what little I can to stay on the dry side of things.”
Me neither.
I asked,
“And how is that working for you?”
He leveled his gaze on me. Ferocity without malice, said,
“It manages to pose as normalcy.”
I thought,
“Fuck, enough shite talk.”
And moved on.
He called after me,
“Jack, you can run but the road is always a dead end.”
Way too freaking deep.
I looked back and he was gone. I thought, not for the first time, that he was mostly fiction, a rumor pretending to be relevant.
I missed Stewart in so many ways. He had been, in just about every form, the one true friend I ever had. A former dope dealer who served five harsh years in prison. On release he reinvented himself as a Zen entrepreneur. No, not selling Zen but immersing himself in business with Zen as his fallback.
He had been by my side in so many horrendous cases and though we fought like tinkers, a deep and wild friendship endured. Sergeant Ridge was part of our unholy trinity and she and Stewart had become as tight as fleas.
He never gave up on me despite my constant ripping and ragging on him. Ridge believed my total lack of care and downright negligence had resulted in Stewart being cut in half with a shotgun blast.
She said,
“The very sight of you makes me want to vomit.”
I tried,
“Don’t hold back.”
And she came as close to walloping me as is feasible.
Fleeing Galway now, I wondered if Stewart would have tried to prevent me.
My heart scalded in my chest as I felt his utter loss sweep over me.
“A split infinitive has much in common with a split head. Both hurt like hell.”
Park looked around his aunt’s home. Somewhere in his still clouded mind he knew he should be grateful for her help. She got him out on bail, secured a lawyer, let him stay in her house. But
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