Кен Бруен - In the Galway Silence

“My dear, wild, uncouth Jack.”

What the hell was he taking?

He sounded benign.

I knew then that even his name was indeed Malachi, no more Malachy.

He said,

“I have been the unworthy recipient of many blessings.”

I was near speechless. I tried,

“ The Red Book , it made you a star.”

He smiled, touch of the old Malachy seeping through, though the yellow teeth of yore were now glorious white. He said,

“We are aware of your own tiny contribution to the miracle.”

Tiny .

I asked,

“Do you actually believe your own bullshit?”

Got another dig from one of the minders. Malachi said,

“We’ll try and fit you in, to have afternoon tea at the Residence.”

He raised his hand in blessing and, I swear, if he patted my head I’d have taken his blessed arm from the elbow. A hint of the old priest peered through the smoke screen and he withdrew his hand. He intoned,

“God mind you well, my son.”

And he was gone.

I headed out, the door guy waited, his eyes dancing with curiosity. He asked,

“How’d it go?”

I gave the answer that offered me the only chance to use the expression. I said,

“Totally disco.”

A young man, four times with his license suspended, got behind the wheel of a Toyota Corolla. He had been on a marathon drinking session, downing fourteen pints of lager, followed by three shots of tequila. The now standard kill rate for young motorists. At over 100 mph, he plowed into a Mini Cooper, killing a young mother and her daughter.

His defense cited his depression and deep remorse. His life, said the defense, was ruined.

Yeah.

He got eighteen months suspended and a year’s probation.

He celebrated in the nearest pub.

He wouldn’t, he said,

“Drink tequila anymore.”

A week later, in a field near a bus stop, he was found with his suspended license shoved down his throat, the word silence written in red marker across his forehead.

I got a call from Marion.

It did not begin well. She started,

“What were you thinking?”

Now when Jay Leno asked that of Hugh Grant after the Los Angeles hooker scandal, his tone was friendly, perplexed, as in

“Hey buddy, we get it, kind of.”

Marion’s tone was

Ice

  To

   Coldest

Felt.

She did not get it.

I tried for bumbling but lovable rogue, said,

“I thought the kid might be thirsty.”

She echoed,

“ The kid. ”

“Sorry, Joff.”

Fucked up again as she ice corrected,

“Joffrey.”

Phew.

Then,

“You think a pub ...”

Let the word hover like a goddamn virus until,

“Is suitable for my child?”

I wanted to say,

“Actually, the docks would be the best place for the brat.”

But for once in my fucked-up life I went with caution, tried,

“I’ll do better next time.”

Silence.

Then,

“There won’t be a next time. He said you tried to get him to smoke.”

“What?”

I could actually sense the sheer rage coming over the phone. She said,

“Joffrey said that you said every boy needs to break loose.”

I was nearly speechless.

Nearly.

Said,

“He is a liar.”

Phew-oh.

She let the loaded word swim a bit, then,

“You are calling my son, my son, a liar?”

“I am.”

She hung up.

Save for the wee touch of trouble at the end, I think it went fairly okay otherwise.

I was in the pub, the guy beside me saying,

“Listen to this.”

I said,

“Sure.”

Block out the click of Marion hanging up. The guy said,

“The White House has fallen into the hands of a bully, a boor, and a braggart, a demagogue who taunts his neighbors and revels in his own ignorance.”

He looked at me, checking I was paying attention. I made a vague sound of assent.

He continued.

“To his supporters he is a hero who speaks for the white working class against the sneering East Coast elite.”

He drained his glass, making a small burping sound, then called for a refill, got it, and asked me,

“You’re thinking Trump, right?”

Nope.

I was thinking,

“Shut the fuck up.”

He pounced.

“That was Andrew Jackson in, get this, 1829.”

Okay, I was a little interested, said,

“Wow.”

He wasn’t quite done with the quiz aspect, asked,

“You ever see a snap of the man?”

Andrew Jackson?

I said,

“Not so I recall.”

He was delighted, said,

“You’ve seen a twenty-dollar bill?”

“Well, yeah, probably.”

“Then you’ve seen Jackson.”

He looked ’round as if the whole pub might have been mesmerized.

They weren’t.

But he wasn’t about to give it up, pulled a page of a newspaper from his jacket, shoved it in my face, asked,

“What do you see?”

For a brief moment, I could see this lonely bastard in his lonely room, scouring the papers for articles that might make him appear interesting. That deeply saddened me so I looked at the cutting, saw a guy in what seemed to be very dirty stained jeans. I said,

“He’s got soiled jeans.”

He was near frothing now, said,

“Guess what he paid for them?”

I gave one last try, said,

“Don’t know.”

With glee, he said,

“Four hundred fifty quid. It’s the new fashion.”

I asked the obvious,

“Why?”

The drink turned on him, turned him mean as a snake. He snarled,

“Why? What the fuck do you mean why ? It shows the world has gone apeshit.”

I asked with exaggerated patience,

“You’re only realizing that now?”

He took a step back, the brawler preparing to launch, mouthed,

“You think you’re better than me?”

I asked,

“The old Irish green pound note, who was on it?”

It confused him, he spluttered,

“What?”

“Yeah, the green note, back when the country was still Irish.”

He was showing tiny bits of foam on his mouth, spat,

“Who the fuck knows that?”

I said in a very patient, almost Dr. Phil tone,

“That’s the trouble with this country. We know who is on the dollar bill but not our own history.”

He tried to weigh the weight of the insult, decided to go with,

“Hey, I’m an Irishman.”

I shook my head, said,

“What you are is a buffoon.”

Now he began his swing but his hand was grabbed from behind, moved up fast behind his back. A familiar voice said,

“Now you don’t want to be a nuisance.”

Tevis.

Who then bum-marched the guy outside, all in the space of a few seconds.

Came back in, said,

“He decided to call it a day.”

I was impressed, said,

“Fancy footwork.”

He signaled to the bar guy for a round, said,

“Ballroom dancing, always a help.”

I asked,

“Are you following me?”

His pint was in his hand and he held up the glass to the light. The Guinness appeared to shine, if such a thing were possible. I had found that many things were possible with drink, if only briefly. He said,

“Such dark beauty.”

He drained half in an impressive gulp, said,

“But nothing lasts and, yes, I was indeed following you.”

“Why?”

He motioned to a table and we moved there. He settled himself, then,

“The man they call Silence goes by the name of Allen. He asked me to tell you he is about to do you a major favor.”