last
do we pass away.
He stooped to snatch a fag end, lit it from a battered box of kitchen matches. I looked furtively round, hoping the song was through. He ate deep from the cigarette and in a cloud of nicotine bellowed,
But man may not linger
for nowhere
finds he repose.
He paused and I jumped in.
“Will you stop if I give you more money?”
He laughed, showing two yellowed teeth; the rest, obviously, were casualties of combat.
“Indeed I will.”
I gave him another pound. He examined it, said,
“I take Euros, too.”
I was crossing into Claddagh with the Spanish Arch to my left. Padraig continued to match stride, said,
“You are not a man who gives away a lot… a lot, that is, in the information department. What you do say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.”
Before I could reply to this, briefly or clearly, he was assailed with a series of gut wrenching coughs. Up came phlegm and various unidentifiable substances. I gave him a handkerchief. He used it to dry his streaming eyes.
“I am indebted to you, young Taylor. It has been many the mile since I was offered a fellow pilgrim’s hanky.”
I said,
“Your accent is hard to pin down.”
“Like a steady income, it has an elusive quality … not to mention effusive.”
There was no reply to this, I didn’t even try. He said,
“At one dark era of my existence I was, I believe, from the countryside of Louth. Are you at all familiar with that barren territory?”
“No.”
My concentration was focused on not talking like him. It was highly contagious. He rooted deep in his coat, a heavy tweed number. Out came a brown bottle.
“A touch of biddy perhaps?”
He wiped the neck with the clean end of my hanky. I shook my head. He wasn’t the least offended, said,
“The only advice I remember is it’s better be lucky than good.”
“And are you?”
“What?”
“Lucky?”
He laughed deep.
“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”
A bunch of winos emerged from the football wall. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy, said,
“My people await me. Perchance we’ll talk again.”
“I’d like that.”
Not wild enthusiasm but a certain tone of approval.
Finally, I made Salthill and hit out along the prom. I thought again about the sentries in Grogan’s. Any given day, come noon, they took off their caps, blessed themselves for the angelus. Even bowed their heads as they quietly whispered the prayer.
Save for those odd pockets of remembrance, the angelus, like the tenements and pawn shop of Quay Street, had been blown away by the new prosperity. Who’s to measure the loss? I couldn’t even recall the prayer.
When you come off the booze, you acquire a racing mind. A hundred thoughts assail you at once.
Three lads in their barely twenties passed me. They were holding cans of Tenants Super. I could have mugged them. The smell of the lager called loud.
I’d come across some books by Keith Ablow. A practising psychiatrist with a specialty in forensics, he wrote,
You need a drink. That’s how it starts. You need. And the need was real, always is. Because I did need something. I needed the courage to face what I had to do next. And I didn’t have it. The booze makes you forget that you’re a coward, for a while. Until awhile runs out. Whatever you needed to face has grown claws and become a monster you don’t ever want to meet. Then the monster starts pissing out booze faster than you can pour it in.
Walk that.
Remember the primary laws of physics: every force begets an equal and opposite
force. If you perform an act of grace, you buck the system. It’s like throwing down
the gauntlet to Satan. All kinds of hell can come looking for you.
Next day, invigorated from my walk, I decided to get my hand checked.
I had a doctor, but over the years of drink, I’d lost contact. Once, I’d gone to score some heavy duty tranquillisers and he ran me.
I didn’t even know if he was
do we pass away.
He stooped to snatch a fag end, lit it from a battered box of kitchen matches. I looked furtively round, hoping the song was through. He ate deep from the cigarette and in a cloud of nicotine bellowed,
But man may not linger
for nowhere
finds he repose.
He paused and I jumped in.
“Will you stop if I give you more money?”
He laughed, showing two yellowed teeth; the rest, obviously, were casualties of combat.
“Indeed I will.”
I gave him another pound. He examined it, said,
“I take Euros, too.”
I was crossing into Claddagh with the Spanish Arch to my left. Padraig continued to match stride, said,
“You are not a man who gives away a lot… a lot, that is, in the information department. What you do say has the qualities of brevity and clarity.”
Before I could reply to this, briefly or clearly, he was assailed with a series of gut wrenching coughs. Up came phlegm and various unidentifiable substances. I gave him a handkerchief. He used it to dry his streaming eyes.
“I am indebted to you, young Taylor. It has been many the mile since I was offered a fellow pilgrim’s hanky.”
I said,
“Your accent is hard to pin down.”
“Like a steady income, it has an elusive quality … not to mention effusive.”
There was no reply to this, I didn’t even try. He said,
“At one dark era of my existence I was, I believe, from the countryside of Louth. Are you at all familiar with that barren territory?”
“No.”
My concentration was focused on not talking like him. It was highly contagious. He rooted deep in his coat, a heavy tweed number. Out came a brown bottle.
“A touch of biddy perhaps?”
He wiped the neck with the clean end of my hanky. I shook my head. He wasn’t the least offended, said,
“The only advice I remember is it’s better be lucky than good.”
“And are you?”
“What?”
“Lucky?”
He laughed deep.
“It has been a long time, anyway, since I was any good. Whatever that means.”
A bunch of winos emerged from the football wall. Padraig shook himself in artificial energy, said,
“My people await me. Perchance we’ll talk again.”
“I’d like that.”
Not wild enthusiasm but a certain tone of approval.
Finally, I made Salthill and hit out along the prom. I thought again about the sentries in Grogan’s. Any given day, come noon, they took off their caps, blessed themselves for the angelus. Even bowed their heads as they quietly whispered the prayer.
Save for those odd pockets of remembrance, the angelus, like the tenements and pawn shop of Quay Street, had been blown away by the new prosperity. Who’s to measure the loss? I couldn’t even recall the prayer.
When you come off the booze, you acquire a racing mind. A hundred thoughts assail you at once.
Three lads in their barely twenties passed me. They were holding cans of Tenants Super. I could have mugged them. The smell of the lager called loud.
I’d come across some books by Keith Ablow. A practising psychiatrist with a specialty in forensics, he wrote,
You need a drink. That’s how it starts. You need. And the need was real, always is. Because I did need something. I needed the courage to face what I had to do next. And I didn’t have it. The booze makes you forget that you’re a coward, for a while. Until awhile runs out. Whatever you needed to face has grown claws and become a monster you don’t ever want to meet. Then the monster starts pissing out booze faster than you can pour it in.
Walk that.
Remember the primary laws of physics: every force begets an equal and opposite
force. If you perform an act of grace, you buck the system. It’s like throwing down
the gauntlet to Satan. All kinds of hell can come looking for you.
Next day, invigorated from my walk, I decided to get my hand checked.
I had a doctor, but over the years of drink, I’d lost contact. Once, I’d gone to score some heavy duty tranquillisers and he ran me.
I didn’t even know if he was
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