Ken Bruen - Merrick

In Ireland, during our nigh ten years of Economic prosperity, we’d developed the obese

Problem. Not too surprising, a country starved for five hundred years, then rushed to

the other end of the scale. Fast food joints almost outnumbering the number of pubs, well

almost. Certainly outnumbering the number of priests, an endangered species. I could

hear Roisin, my ex wife screech

‘Anorexia, in my day, we called it poverty.’

Not your emphatic lady.

I’d heard that Herald Square was a stone replay of the feud between The Herald and The

Tribune. Like I knew what the fook that meant? The barista in Starbucks, notice the

barista, the guy said that’s what he was.

Ok, just gimme the bloody coffee.

But he was not to be stemmed, I think the tip encouraged him, he pointed to The Square,

said it used to The Tenderloin Area. Now it was just sad. The dancing, brothel’s,

dangerous tavern’s long gone. Replaced by a dull shabbiness. A gone to shite blot on the

landscape.

Macy’s, in view, trying to look like it was on another block. Me, I think I’d have fit in

better with the edgy times rather than just plain decrepit.

I hailed a cab, headed for the hospital. Had gotten a call from Shona, Merrick had come

out of surgery, was doing well and sitting up in bed.

His cop buddies had wrangled him a private room. With the cost of Health care in The

States, it was like getting the mini lottery. Required serious clout or juice as they’d say. I

looked at the gifts id gotten him, thought……shabby, bit like The Square.

I met his wife outside the room, she looked knackered. Dark circles under her eyes, like a

Galway bad tide.

She glanced at the bag in my hand, asked

‘For Steve?’

Jesus, I’d never get used to his name. I said, going full Irish, which happens when I’m

nervous,

‘Tis nothing, nothing at all.’

She gave me a hug.

Said

‘You are such a great friend.’

File that under

Delete.

Merrick was sitting up in bed, IV tubes a riot. He looked tired and I hoped to fook, not

beaten.I asked

‘How’s it going mate?’

‘Could be worse.’

I handed over the bag, he took it, asked

‘Ryan, you going soft?’

I defended

‘The book was something I had for years.’

True, belonged to my mother in fact.

I pulled up a chair, and he tore open the bag, spilling the contents on his bed. He picked

up the collection of Yeats, checked it, said

‘Fuck, it’s a first edition.’’

Then a large bottle of Sprite. He stared, asked

‘No grapes?’

And held up the sprite, an incredulous gleam in his eyes, went

‘You brought me a fucking bottle of pop?’

Pop, soda, back home, we call them minerals. Pop is for absent fathers.

I said

‘You suspicious bollix, it’s not sprite.’

He took the cap off, hope alight, smelled, went

‘Jameson?’

I nodded, said

‘Mixed with the sprite, God forgive me for the desecration.’

and blessed me own self.

Then he surprised me,the ultra cautious Merrick, took a slug, gasped

‘Oy veh, it is.’

He offered it, I said

‘No, I have to go to a funeral.’

I told him about Cloud Dancer, my voice trembled a little but I made it. Cleared my

throat, asked

‘Do they, you know, Indians? Have like your ordinary funeral?’

He nearly smiled, said

‘I don’t know, there are no ordinary funerals, especially if you’re the guy being buried. I

never had any Indian friends, mine…………they’re all Brooklyn cowboys.’

Sensing my distress, that was the reason I guess we were friends, he changed tack

completely, asked

‘Ryan, you have any heroes?’

Then before I could respond, he looked at the Yeats, said

‘The Centre cannot hold.’

Did he mean, The World Trade Centre?

As an outsider, I knew not to mention it to New Yorkers unless they brought it up. But he

was into his own hero, said

‘Back in 2003, a young kid, twenty, was drafted to the Majors. At 5.9, for football, he

was small, but he won their respect with his raw courage and his fearless tackles. He was

offered a new contract, by The Cardinals, 3.2 Million. Instead, he volunteered for Iraq.

Not just the regular Army, The Rangers, the elite. Say, 400 go into the Ranger training

course, all but maybe fifty wash out. He did his tour, came back and The NFL were

alight. A bona fide hero, with movie star looks, he could have been the next Jimmy

Caan.’

He stopped, took a slug out of the sprite, said

‘You know Caan wasn’t really Italian.’

I sighed, another icon bites the pseudo dust.

He shook his head, physically re-grouping himself, continued

‘Sorry, I digress. The kid, he re-enlists. You fucking believe the balls on this guy? For

Afghanistan! and his brother comes along too. He was killed a short time after. The team,

in respect, retired his number, 40.

He was done, silent. Was I expected to reciprocate? I had nothing. I don’t do heroes.

Went with

‘Hell of a story.’

Piss lame, I know.

He said

‘There’s a kicker.’

Ok, I waited.

‘A month after his funeral, The Goddamn Justice Department admitted………….he’d

been killed…………….by

………………………………………..friendly

………………………………………………………..fire.’

Oh fuck.

Now I truly had nothing.

The nurse came, with a tray of medications. But first, she had to fluff the pillows,

essential one in the Nurses manual, fluff the freaking pillows at all times, especially if the

patient just got off to sleep.

Shot me a look.

I wanted to try out my American, go

‘What am I, chopped liver?’

But let it slide.

I leaned over Merrick, took his meaty hand in mine, said

‘I’ll be back soon.’

He seemed to have already drifted off.

I go to the door, heard

‘Bring grapes.

Cloud Dancers funeral was held, if that’s the right word, in a large loft in Greenwich

Village. Shona gave me the directions, said she had to be there with the women to

prepare the food.

How do you dress? If you’re a white eyes.

With care I guess.

I wore dark chino’s, white shirt, black tie. If it were an Irish wedding, you’d bring a Mass

card and a bottle/flask. I stuffed cash in an envelope. If the kid had family?

I got there to discover they had already had the burial and Crow, taking me aside, said

‘No offence but you’re an outsider.’

Like being Irish was carte blanche to life?

Jesus, not even in Ireland.

The loft was massive, on one side, the women were lined, wearing traditional costume.

The men wore the gear too. I felt like I was in the movie ‘Soldier Blue.’

Shona came and held my hand, said

‘After, we’ll go somewhere.’

Returned to the women. Fook, there a mountain of food. Crow, who seemed to have

been

designated my mentor, said

‘I will explain the food later, we don’t want you eating raw liver by mistake.’

He nearly smiled, continued

‘Cloud Dancing is buried in the Wichita Mountains, among his ancestors, the caves there

hold our spirits.’

A young Indian approached, offered Crow something, he took it, asked

‘Like some Peyote?’

He explained it was made from cactus, and had powerful halogens. I said