Кен Бруен - Tower

Smitten.

Good word that. I like it and that’s what I was, right from the get go. Signed, sealed and delivered, baby. Fucked, in other words, and total. Here’s the odd thing. Todd caught it, or spotted something, looked at the woman, then back to me, said

“Who’d have believed it?”

I didn’t answer him, didn’t want that moment spoiled. She took the mike, said

“This is a Neil Young song.”

And launched into

“Powderfinger.”

I swear by all that’s holy that I’d heard that song, lots of times. Who hasn’t?

No biggie.

Now, now it was alchemy, and okay, bear with me here, it sounds like jerk-off rapping but she glowed in the rendition and I could feel Todd’s eyes on me, I wouldn’t look at him.

Would you?

Then she did a Tom Waits song and she was done. Rapturous applause. They fucking flat out loved her. I pitied the bastard who had to go on next. How could you follow that? She went to the bar, started talking to another woman, took a hefty belt from a long neck, no glass, my kind of woman. And I was up, moving towards her, asked

“Can I buy you a beer?”

Without turning, she said

“Fuck off.”

Did I push it, grab her, ask her

“Where’s your goddamn manners?”

Nope.

I slunk back to my seat, tail between my legs, whipped and Todd asked

“Strike out, huh? Just like the Yankees.”

I gave him my granite look, feeling cold fury rising and drained my Beam, shouted at the waitress for another round. Todd’s lady nearly smiled and my evening had gone right down the shitter. Did I take it well?

Like fuck.

Proceeded to get loaded and get myself geared to kick ass, any ass. Todd stood, said

“We’re outa here. Share a cab?”

I glared at him and he warned

“You don’t want to stay here, why don’t you just call it quits? We can hit a club.”

I waved him off and he shrugged, said

“You take it easy buddy. You don’t wanna do something stupid.”

Oh, yes I did.

But first I had to pee. I had to edge past the bar. She was still with her friend, a guy on stage mutilating the English Language with some tribute to Ginsberg. She asked

“What’s the matter with you, you give up that easily?”

Her voice was soft, a slight rough edge but she’d put work in, hard to tell she was from the Bronx. I stared at her, said

“Babe, life’s too short for you fucking with my head.”

She laughed, a rich full one, said

“The amount of booze you’re sinking, your head is already fucked. And don’t call me babe.”

I pushed on. Who needed this crap? The restroom was packed, guys pissing away the week’s wages. A guy shoved against me, knocking me, threatened

“Watch your step, fellah.”

I hit him fast and low, said

“Sorry.”

Then unzipped, let all the beer shower over the dude. His buddy, washing his hands, asked

“The fuck you doing?”

I glared at him and he let it slide. I was kinda sorry.

I came back, feeling vented in every sense, and as I passed her, she handed me a cold one, said

“Sláinte.”

I took the bottle, asked

“You’re Irish?”

She raised her eyebrows, went

“Duh, hello. It’s like a Mick bar. What were you expecting, Romania?”

Fucking mouth on her, she had to be a Mick, just what I needed. I put the bottle on the counter, said

“Shove it.”

And went back to my table, downed some more Beam, simmered afresh. I don’t remember much after that. Those blackouts, a curse and a blessing. Most times, the former.

I woke in my own bed which is miraculous enough, and better, alone. Times, I woke, saw my bed partner, wondered what the hell I’d been doing.

Yeah, that rough.

I was in my clothes so no surprise there and a greenish leg of chicken testified to late night munchies. My stomach heaved and I hit the bathroom, tore my jeans off, checked the pockets and found a slip of paper. Written on it was

Shannon

You need to lighten up

And a phone number in the city.

I muttered

“The fuck is that chick at?”

Todd had told me no one calls babes chicks no more, but then he also switched from the Yankees, so like, how much notice was I going to pay him?

Six Advil, a gallon of water, two strong coffees and I was good to roll. Good-ish. Todd and I were to hook up in the Village for another job for Boyle. More and more, we were spending our time on his business. It was starting to pay serious bucks and I was able to give my mother some cash. My old man, seeing me do it, barked

“You’ve got a job?”

I didn’t answer. No reply was going to satisfy him. But he wasn’t through, said

“The boys tell me you’re jobbing for that Boyle.”

The ‘that Boyle’ was loaded with contempt. The boys were his buddies from the force. Course, I should have known they’d be on it. I looked at him, asked

“So?”

He wasn’t able to take his hand to me no more, I was too big, but his face let the thought show. He spat

“Piece of shit hoodlum, gives our race a bad name.”

I decided to fuck with him, said

“He’s been to Ireland three times this past year. How many times you been, Dad, like, in your whole life?”

None.

And well he knew it.

Always meaning to, if... fucking if... the lottery came through or he stopped drinking or the Knicks could win another goddamn championship. My mother intervened

“Will ye stop it? I’ve a nice stew made, and for once, could we just have some peace to enjoy it.”

Yeah, and pigs might fly or the Brits pull out of Northern Ireland.

The stew was thrown against the wall shortly after and I stormed out, Sunday as usual. Happy families on a Brooklyn afternoon.

Todd was leaning against a Buick, a Pall Mall in his mouth, said

“You’re late.”

He had a half smirk building and I figured he’d gotten laid with the lip gloss queen. I asked

“Score?”

He flicked the cigarette high, watched it spin then flutter to the sidewalk, opened the door of the ride, said

“You sure as hell didn’t.”

He was pulling out into traffic and I went

“Shannon, that’s her name.”

Surprised him and he gave me a brief appraisal, said

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope, I got her phone number too.”

He cranked the radio. An old Heart song came on. I sang along in my head. High school, I always had a thing for them. He nodded, said

“I know her.”

I let that sit then

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, used to run with an old buddy of mine. She’s got a kid, a damaged one, something wrong with him. Like mental stuff.”

I didn’t know what to do with this information so I did nothing with it. We were parking alongside a deli and he said

“She’s a ball buster. Way too much broad for you.”

He indicated I was to get out and I volleyed

“Broad? No one calls babes broads any more.”

I think he gave a slight smile, least that’s the way I want to remember it. I asked

“What’s the deal?”

He straightened his back. He’d hurt it in Philly and it gave him lotsa grief, said

“Guy owes some vig.”

I wasn’t packing anything save attitude, asked

“He gonna be a problem?”

Todd pushed the door, said “Let’s find out.”

He was.

I look back on those days and I’m not proud of what we were doing, but hey, we had to eat. The deli guy, big mother with beefy arms, sneered at Todd, said

“Two-bit punk, you come in here, expect me to hand over my hard-earned dough. The fuck is the matter with you? Can’t you find some decent line of work?”

Todd looked bored, even a touch apologetic, which was him at his most unpredictable. He fired up a smoke, blew a perfect ring, said