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

He signed the card, and I handed him the toll. I’d put a pack of Afton with it. Strong, unfiltered, and basic cigarettes... to match his faith. We both acted as if I hadn’t.

“How’s yer father?”

“Am... he’s doing as well as can be expected.”

“A martyr for the drink. It will kill him. You tell him that for me. Do you hear me!”

It would have been hard not to. He was roaring like a bull. I was about to leave when he grabbed my arm.

“I hear great things about that drink crowd...”

“The Pioneers?”

“Ary not them lunatics... the A.A. fellahs. Alcoholics Anonymous.”

He was lost in thought. What’s he seeing I wondered. Tee-totaling nuns on a football pitch perhaps. He returned... his hand rooted deep in the folds of his brown habit.

“Give this to your father,” he said. And he headed back for his dinner. I looked at what he’d given me. A silver Saint Jude medal. The patron saint of hopeless cases.

My father would have appreciated the grim humour. Weaving through the winos, I slipped into the public toilets on the Square. I fitted Saint Jude onto the chain Julie had sent me from Greece. Emerging with this new protection, I was besieged by winos.

“Gawd bless ya, sur... have you a few coppers, sur... and a happy Christmas to all belong to you.”

Under such a concentrated assault, I parted with a few bob. They clapped me on the back, shook my hand. If I was to receive half of what they wisht me, I could run for local office. Jude ruled indeed.

Julie’s father was in that A.A. He was a drinking partner of my father’s in the old days. A taxi-driver. I knew he hadn’t touched a drop for five years. On impulse I walked to the taxi-rank... he was there.

“How are you doing, Mr. Brady?” I said.

“Well be the holy! Young Dillon, how are you son?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Brady. I wonder if mebbe you had time for a drink... oops... I mean... am, a tea... you know.”

He smiled... a little sadly, I thought.

“Wotever, Dillon, I’m due a coffee break. Let’s go over to The Central.”

Nice compromise, I thought. A hotel was neutral ground. We got a pot of coffee, and I the shock of my life at the price of it. I tried to pay, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I didn’t struggle. I could have kept a wino for a week in blessings with the money. Mr. Brady looked marvelous. He had to be over sixty but he looked forty. There was a glow in his face, and the eyes were hopping with vitality. I had seen those eyes leap with lunacy in the days he beat Julie’s mother along the length of our street. In the old days, as I said.

“Any sign of the young wan?” he asked.

Julie. I took it for what it was. They weren’t reconciled. Again, the flash of sadness in the eyes. I did the verbal dance of saying a lotta stuff and meaning nothing. He got that.

“Was there a specific idea you wanted to kick around?” he asked.

“I wondered... well, would your A.A. have saved my father?”

He poured some more coffee. The caffeine hit. My heart-beat moved way up. How much did I want to get into this area.

“Your father didn’t want to quit. I tried to talk to him. In my own case, I just couldn’t continue. I didn’t give up drink... it gave up on me. I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

“Do you miss it?”

“No, drink is great for removing stains... did you know that?”

I didn’t... and said... “I didn’t.”

“Oh yeah. It will also remove your clothes, your wife, your health, your home, your sanity. Alcohol is the great remover.”

I was tempted to laugh. I didn’t know whether I should. I didn’t know this man at all and I’d known him all my life.

“What about yourself, Dillon... any problems with the bottle?”

Did I? None I was gonna admit to. Okay, I felt threatened.

“No.”

“If you ever want to talk... about anything, at any time, here’s a number where you can find me.”

“Thank you.”

We stood up. A total air of calm characterised him.

“You know, Dillon, despite all the things you may have seen your father do, he loved you more than anything else.”

I couldn’t think of any reply to that. He asked quietly, “Do you believe that?” I didn’t know.

“I dunno.” He smiled.

“That’s honest, anyway.”

We parted there. Him in his calm and me in bits.

Near my flat I ran into a band of young tinkers. More thug than itinerant. Bands of these were a recent phenomenon, and they roved the town in part-time terror. Encircled, the chief thug stood before me.

“Give us a cigarette,” he demanded.

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

We had us the eye-balling fandango. He shrugged and led his reptiles away. The blast of fear rooted me to the path. It wasn’t ’till I felt the sharp pain that I noticed the cigarette which had burned the fingers of my right hand. Phew... oh... God, I said, very quietly. Time for a re-run of some “Dirty Harry” movies.

In the flat I looked at the empty Metaxa bottle. Julie’s father or otherwise, I’d have lit into it (if it had been carrying). I checked my funeral timetable as recompense. I’d the Traders manager’s funeral in the morning. With the word-association in full flight, I looked to see had I any fruit. I took an early night. The best solution to some days is to cancel them. I ran the thug scene by myself one more time. My father applied an inflexible maxim. “Kick before you are kicked. Wallop before you are walloped. ALWAYS retaliate FIRST.” I thought about the lines I was attempting to write for him. At his sickest, mangled in a hangover, he’d look like an undertakers dream and mutter, “Winter waits.” The bareness of his eyes discouraged enquiry. I’d nurture a hate. It didn’t float. Then I’d try to build towards a flat indifference. I couldn’t get a handle on that either.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he’d roar.

“Not bloody much,” I wanted to roar right back. But I never did. At fifteen years of age, I’d sat with him on one of these mornings. I watched as he tried to put a shakin’ cup to his lips. I’d said, “Can I hold it for you.” A mighty back hand slap had lifted me out of the chair. Retaliate first. A practical application.

At school, I hadn’t learned a whole lot. I was never tortured with “what was I going to be.” I had trouble enough with “what I was.” I remembered a word from French lessons. The sound of it hooked deep. It was the word of a nightmare. That night I had me one... a beauty of a “cauchemar.” My father and old Father Benedictus were walking behind my funeral. I was sitting up in the hearse trying to get their attention. “Be quiet,” they said. “Do one thing right in your life.” At the cemetery, my grave was lined with cabbages, and I was dressed in the Penney’s suit. “You didn’t drink half enough,” whispered Mr. Brady. “I’ll give him no Benediction,” said Father Benedictus. The band of thugs were kicking the coffin — “Come out — we know you have cigarettes...” I woke drenched in sweat. No Benediction. I looked on the bedside table. No cigarettes either.

   “Benediction”

   Never believed

   in such as blessings

   were

   you threw

   a make un-helped

   upon the day... and

   help available

   was how you helped

   yourself... a crying

   down

   to but a look in caution — stayed alert

   reducing always towards

   the basic front

   in pain

   — never

   — never the once

   to once admit

   you floundering

   had to be