The Ghosts of Galway (Jack Taylor)(16)
With a terse note:
“Sing as if you wanted to.”
Plus a check for a serious amount, note pinned on it:
“I stole this.”
Probably.
I laid low, lots of box sets, treats for the pup and fifty-year-old Jameson. The highlight was a small brilliant concert by Johnny Duhan. I was being careful, kind of, with my health. The previous scare had made me very conscious of time. The city half expected reindeer to be thrown on Eyre Square but the perpetrators had decided to take a break from leaving dead animals there.
The new year brought the death of Lemmy and then David Bowie. Could there be a worse way to begin the wretched year?
I had been to the doctor and got told,
“You are somewhat of a miracle!”
The fuck is that?
I asked,
“Meaning?”
The doctor did that peering at me over the rim of his glasses, the look that sees nothing, absolutely nothing worth saving. He said, “Last year, you seemed …”
He searched for a term that didn’t include litigation.
Got,
“You seemed very weak.”
Then he peered some more at a chart, probably his golf scores, and said that jingle they live by, “We would like to do some further tests.”
’Course they would with an MRI kicking off at a thousand euros a pop. I said, “Don’t hold your breath.”
He gasped,
“I beg your pardon?”
In that prissy tone that warrants a serious puck in the mouth. Outside, I deep breathed and looked at my hand, shaking like the last gasp of a wino.
A distinguished-looking guy in a dressing gown was looking lost and trailing an IV. Hard to look impressive in that gear but he managed. He asked, “Is there an area for smoking?”
Not anymore.
I said,
“Not anymore.”
He said,
“Life is full of irony. I had not smoked for years then, with this health scare, I started again and now there is nowhere you can actually practice the foul deed.”
I said,
“Go ahead, I’ll deal with the fallout.”
He looked at me anew, said,
“That is awfully generous of you. This world needs more of your thinking.”
I seriously doubted that.
He lit up, dragged deep like only a former smoker can, guilt and relief dancing that waltz of addiction. He gasped, “My word, that is good.”
Then reveled in the hit, said,
“Inherent vice.”
Quick as a first-year lit wanker, I said,
“Thomas Pynchon.”
He was impressed, said,
“Erudite too.”
I gave an enigmatic smile as if I knew what that even meant. Then a shout and a galloping security guard appeared, all puff and indignation, shouted, “Hoi, smoking is forbidden.”
He looked at me. I said,
“Verboten.”
He went,
“What?”
“German,”
I said.
He looked at the smoker, snarled.
“I don’t give a toss where you’re from but no smoking here.”
I got right in his face, hissed,
“I know you and wonder does your employer know you used to have a thing for wee kiddies?”
He stepped back, said,
“That was never proven.”
I smiled.
He weighed his options, then,
“I’ll let it slide this time but don’t let me catch you here again.”
I had full respect for the man who continued to smoke, watching the exchange with almost disinterest. I said to the security guy, “Run along now. Must be a car or two needs clamping.”
He sized me up, said,
“I’ll remember you.”
And slunk off.
The man dropped his cig, said,
“You have a way with you.”
I held out my hand, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
He shook it warmly, said,
“Jeremy Cooper.”
The Late Sixties in every sense of the word seemed to be dying.
Glenn Frey (67)
Lemmy (70)
David Bowie (69)
Alan Rickman (69)
It was either a very dangerous age or
Extremely fortunate to have reached that decade.
Trump was leading the polls in the U.S. and it seemed as if he were giving vent to all the voiceless and then he got the endorsement of Sarah Palin.
Phew.
To see them embrace in Iowa was to see ignorance and prejudice entwined. Their smiles of glee sent a shiver along every line of reason you ever had. The water cooler moment in Ireland was the screening of the documentary series Making a Murderer.
With
The Jinx.
Podcast of Serial.
The public was transfixed with true crime. Then, to add ridicule to disbelief, Sean Penn literally led the authorities to capture Chappie.
He wrote an article in Rolling Stoma that was a crash course in a little knowledge being so dangerous.
No wonder I drank.
Ghost No. 1, Jeremy Cooper, was back from his unexpected trip to the hospital. He had been stunned when the doctors told him his prognosis was bad, well … dire.
People react to such news in so many different ways.
Anger
Disbelief
Fear