“Finish the pint and flee.”
Jeff came over, mug of coffee in his hand, asked,
“Join you?”
“Sure.”
He did.
Then asked,
“Where are you on Bob Dylan?”
“In the dark mostly.”
Head shake, wrong answer.
He launches.
“Look back for a moment to Don’t Look Back, the documentary film of his ‘65 visit to Britain, when he was young and beautiful. Here he is, just turning twenty-four, with the world of celebrity and glamour kissing his feet. He is the most perfectly hip creature on earth.”
Jeff pauses, caught in the sheer wonder of this image. Shakes his head, continues,
“Imagine how you would cope with this. Even 10 per cent of it would turn your head. But Dylan does cope, telling the man from Time magazine, ‘You’re going to die. You’re going to be dead. It could be twenty years; it could be tomorrow, anytime. So am I. I mean we’re just going to be gone. The world’s going to go on without us, you do your job in the face of that, and how seriously you take yourself, you decide.’
“This is the Dylan stance. Thirty-six years on, he’s still all alone in the end-zone, determinedly unimpressed by the hullabaloo he has engendered and endured throughout.”
Jeff took a swipe of his coffee, beads of sweat on his brow. Mr Cool, Mr Mellow, Mr Laid back had got passion. Before I could say that, he said,
“That’s not my rap; it’s from a piece by Michael Gray, a Dylan chronicler from way back.”
“And what? You learnt it by heart?”
He caught my tone, defended,
“What if I did?”
“Come on, Jeff, you were a musician, nigh on Dylan’s era. You’ve survived, too.”
The bar radio kicked in, and the Kinks’ “Lola” began. We both smiled. Perhaps it was the last comment on us.
Like asking,
“Riddle me this?”
I said,
“Did you read Ray Davies’ book?”
“What, you don’t think I’ve enough grief”
I’d finished the pint and was debating another when he said,
“Do you know what it’s like to have a Down’s syndrome child?”
I’d no idea, said,
“I’ve no idea.”
“Would you like to know?”
Before I could answer, he reached in his jeans, took out a folded paper, said,
“That will tell you.”
“Did you write it?”
“No, I live it.”
Then he was up, said,
“I’ve a beer delivery. They’ll throw the barrels all over the yard unless I’m there.”
I opened the paper, read
Welcome to Holland
By Emily Pearl.
It was a long piece about planning a trip to Italy. Goes into lengthy detail about the excitement of the trip. This is the one you’ve planned all your life. You’ve even learnt the language and have all the sights outlined that you’ve always wanted to see. But when the plane lands, you’re in Holland; and bewildered, you ask how this can happen? All your arrangements are geared for Italy. After the initial shock has worn off, you begin to slowly see the wonders of Holland, different though they are from everything you had anticipated. You have to learn the new language and change all the expectations to adapt to this new landscape. Gradually, you begin to enjoy the benefits of Holland, though it takes a huge shift of perspective. In time, you actually come to love Holland, the last thing you’d have believed.
I sat there, my heart in ribbons. I no longer wanted that drink. One way or another, I felt, I too had been mourning Italy all my life.
I did the only thing I could. I went out and bought a bunch of tulips for Cathy.
“The thirst for knowledge is like a piece of ass you know
you shouldn’t chase; in the end, you chase it just the same/’
Friday evening, a young man came out of his FAS course. He was doing well. He had a few bob in his pocket and was meeting the lads in Cuba.
The club, not the country.
A buzz was in the air, with all the false promise of the weekend. He stood for a minute at the back of the cathedral. Course, being the sparkling new generation, it never occurred to him to bless himself. Why would he? That ritual was rare to rarer. Who needs God at seventeen?
On a whim, he crossed over to the embankment, down the steps to where the ducks are. He stood at the edge, feeling good. Never heard the man. People use that path from the old mill up to the bridge regularly. It’s a snatch of tranquillity from the hectic Newcastle Road.
The man stopped, put two bullets in the young lad’s head, turned and went back towards the mill. If the splash of the body was loud, it didn’t cause him to look back. He flicked the empty wrapper from the gum into the river.
Witnesses, yet again, would provide a maelstrom of conflicting information. I heard about it in Nestor’s. Jeff said,
“God almighty, what’s with the world?”
The sentry said,
“I blame the tribunals.”
Before I could comment, the door opened and Terry Boyle came storming in. The blond hair awry, his tall frame rigid with anger, he was wearing a very good suit. Towered over me, shouted,
“What the hell am I paying you for?”
I was at my regular table, a book before me. I used my index finger to indicate the other hard chair. He said,
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”
For a moment, I could see the veins throb at his temples. Weighing the odds. Jeff had tensed, and Terry glanced round, sized him up, then snapped,
“Barkeep, a vodka tonic and make it soon.”
He sat.
I noticed lesions on the tips of his fingers. Tried to recall anything I’d learned in my Templemore days. He had said he was in software, so I said,
“Those from typing.”
The sneer turned his mouth ugly, and he near spat his reply,
“Jesus, you old guys. Nobody types any more; it’s called keying.”
I leant near, said,
“Come here.”
Startled look and,
“What?”
“Come on, move closer.”
He didn’t, so I said,
“You shout at me again, and I mean ever, I’ll put your balls out through your throat... key that.”
He straightened his back, said,
“I practise Kai-tai-wan.”
Least I think that’s what he said. Before I could respond, Jeff plonked his drink on the table, said,
“Sonny, you burst into my pub like a lunatic again, you’ll need that Kai whatever.”
And was gone.
Terry let out his breath, whined,
“What’s with you old guys? You’re so goddamn touchy.”
The lapse into American didn’t endear, but I let it slide, got my smokes out, and fired up. He said,
“Haven’t you heard of the patches?”
“Terry, take a moment, have your drink, and we’ll start over. How would that be?”
He did.
I said,
“What’s the bug up your arse?”
“I haven’t received a single progress report. How are you spending my money? Kirsten is spending money like a drunken sailor. My father’s money.”
Truth to tell, I’d all but forgotten the whole deal, said,
“I’m working on a definite line of inquiry.”
Stopped myself from adding
“An arrest is imminent.”
He eyed me with huge disbelief, said,
“You’re on to something?”
“Am I ever?”