Кен Бруен: A Fifth of Bruen: Early Fiction of Ken Bruen

“It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;

and the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;...

That ere, condemn’d we go

To freeze ’mid Hecla’s snow.

We would taste it awhile and think we live once more!..”

I spoke to a fellah who frequented the early morning houses by the docks. He had no doubts about resurrection. According to him, the dead lined up each morning. No conversation. Absolute quiet. An hour after opening, the “curses” took effect and the “dead” indeed came back to alcoholic life.

All through Joyce is the theme of the dead returning. In Ulysses , Stephen sees corpses rising from their graves like vampires... to deprive the living of the joy. Like the Inland Revenue. “The Dead” begins with a party and ends with a corpse. Like Finnegan’s Wake , you get the blend of “funferal” and “funeral.” America sags under the weight of Joycean study. My own favourite piece of Joycean lore was uttered by his daughter Lucia. Hearing of her father’s death she said... in disbelief:

“What is he doing under the ground, that idiot. When will

he decide to come out? He’s watching us all the time.”

Who’s to say.

I work as a security guard. It’s not in preparation for better things. I have no aspirations to act or better myself. The shift system is ideal for my funeral timetable. When I told my father, he laughed.

“It takes you all your time to mind your own business.”

Neither of us noted the significance of his next remark.

“Anyway, it’s your funeral.”

The Weir and Marisa were now indistinguishable. Over the bar, I knew I had to change my behaviour. For the moment I settled for changing my drink.

“A Jameson please?”

A fellah was nodding into his pint. He looked up.

“Did you ever see God?” he asked.

“I’d say you saw him recently,” said the barman.

“Fruggit,” he said.

A new obscenity or more of the same, but slurred... perhaps.

I’d just ordered the coffee. She arrived.

“I got you that,” I said.

“Thanks.” Whoops, the ice dripped from the gratitude. Murder with manners.

“Will you sit for a minute?” I asked.

“Okay,”... I had to ignore the tone of sulk. I’d go for broke. I began.

“I like you a lot, but I’m woeful in the beginning. If you could suspend the surface stuff. Bear with me for awhile till you see if mebbe we have something going here. Could you ignore the outside while, as Donne wrote, ‘our souls are in negotiation.’”

She smiled. Donne is an unfailing hook. I waited. Fiddled with the nigh on empty glasses. I was on the verge of laying out the gist of Lowry’s Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend Is Laid . That nervous I couldn’t throw the ole “don’t care switch.” She spoke. Phew-oh.

“I dunno what to make of you. The most I see of you is your back... rushing away. You have me mystified. I’d like to take the chance. I read that funeral thing you gave me so I’m going to ask you the same. Then I’ll leave and I’ll meet you here on Saturday night. Is that okay?”

I nodded. She gave me a sheet of paper, smiled awkwardly, and left. I read:

“And Dark Rain”

Out of the rain

a suitcase full of show

contains

a sandwich turned

to staler expectations... eating

slow

un-relished most

is eaten sat

at but another departure

have put in motion

hurt... I feel intense

these hours — lull

of cheered conversation

buzzin’ clear, breathin’ agonised

“the rain itself was dark”

if you I might part ways

have freed from this

I’d travel... whoa

that twice it back again

if you’d be un-affected

stand!

to grant me un-afraid

the moment

in our loss.

And what was I to make of that. “Fruggit,” I said and got me another one of them Jameson. Marissa and I would be okay, I reckoned. As long as she kept out of the funerals, we’d have a shot at it.

Family!

“Will you come to the house?” she asked.

We were sitting on the Square. Side-steppin’ the winos, we’d wrestled a bench from a stray tourist.

“No,” I said and said nothing else. Long pause. The winos had put the make on the tourist.

“Is that it... blunt and no explanations?” she fumed.

I considered carefully.

“Right.”

“Just come once... and I’ll never ask you again.” It was now a point of principle. I had to make a stand. All sorts of un-spoken freedom rested on my not submitting. True to my heritage... I said, “Okay.”

“What... janey mack... will I ever understand you... cripes, thanks. Call tonight so... am... at eight.”

Dazed... she left. The head wino bowed graciously as she passed. Preoccupied, she neglected to give him anything. Her turn towards the town was orchestrated with a hail of abuse. The type that begins, “I know your ould wan,” and trails off in spittle and, “God blast all belong to you...”

Few have the hallmark in abuse like the Irish. The Americans have an elaborate style which prefaces their obscenities with mother... This may be a by-product of a matriarchal society. The essence of their swearing further involves the addition of an initial to various deities as in Jesus H. Christ.

Growing up, two names held complete power. You knew you were in deep stew when an adult described you as a “pup.” And the ultimate trouble... was when teeth-grit they whispered, “You young pup”... you could prepare your will on that. Second only to this was a “blackguard” used to describe low-life of every type.

A wino sat beside me.

“How-yah,” he croaked.

“Fair to middlin,’” I replied.

I knew he wouldn’t ask for money as his greeting hadn’t included, “Sur.”

“We’ll hardly get a summer now,” he said.

“Right enough,” I said.

The fact that it was November was neither here nor there. Neither of us remarked on it. He produced the Cyrus and gave it a fierce wallop. It took him places as he twitched and jerked to silent melodies.

“Ar... gh... ah... orh... whee.”

I took this to be appreciation of the desired effect. I took my leave and left him to his visions.

I tried not to project the visit to Marisa’s home. I owed her on two counts:

1. She hadn’t yet mentioned Elton John’s dirge “Funeral for a Friend,” despite flaunting a battered copy of Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers .

2. She hadn’t commented on my not commenting. (Dare one Irish phrase it, that this spoke volumes.)

I went to work. I was then the security guard for Traders’ new supermarket. The usual mausoleum. My brief was to prevent people borrowing the trolleys. I had yet to apprehend one of these criminals. The chances of so doing were remote. The customers usually greeted me by name. Familiarity here definitely bred conspiracy. The security firm sent a van round on Sunday mornings to collect errant trolleys. The blind-eye arrangement was maintaining us in employment. How bad was Traders hurtin’...?

Being Irish means never having to say you don’t know. The accuracy of the reply is purely a wing-shot. Despite the video revolution, going “to the pictures” is still a prerequisite in courtship. I hadn’t yet escorted Marisa to them and was mystified as to her bringing me home to meet her parents. This was stage eight, at least, in the game. “Why,” I wondered during my shift at Traders. “Dunno,” I said as yet another neighbour greeted me and wheeled Traders’ finest into a sunset.

Back at my place, I washed slowly and drank quickly. I had a bottle of Metaxa brandy for special occasions. Taste didn’t matter. Anything that walloped the back of your eyes like this had to be quality. The vague headache I was entertaining testified to the quantity I was having. Next I’d be humming! I put on a black tie. This was in heavy current use... for work and the funerals. I’d miss a funeral today but I could double up on Saturdays. My quota was high... what else... I hummed.