Buttoned my all-weather coat, my act in gear, if not really in place.
The sad line of slow suicides.
– Jack Taylor, watching a batch of huddled drinkers
There weren’t a whole lot of things, then, to make you smile but I was flicking through the Irish Daily Mail, came across a cartoon by the gifted Graeme Keyes. Showed a full shot of the Sanctuary at Knock. The Irish answer to Lourdes.
A bewildered pilgrim, with rosary beads around her neck, staring at a signpost which read
To Knock
To Mass
To Mass Hysteria.
And in the corner, an excited pilgrim gasping,
“The sun actually danced.”
Facing him is a less exalted pilgrim who sighs,
“Wow, the sun actually appeared.”
Classic.
Summed up the whole nation. I was waiting for Stewart. He’d arranged to come to my apartment and I’d mocked him,
“Bring your own herbal tea.”
He did, arriving at noon as the Angelus bell rang. I was probably one of the three remaining people in the country who still said the prayer.
Stewart brought: herbal tea, box of McCambridge’s cookies, and an attitude.
None of which I welcomed.
I pointed at the kettle, said,
“Knock yourself out.”
No disrespect to the aforementioned shrine. He made the tea, placed the cookies on a plate, I kid thee fucking not. A plate?
Said, with gusto,
“Join me.”
Right.
I got a bottle of Blue Moon from the fridge, joined him at the table, and dared him to comment. His eyes were fixated on the gun. He asked,
“Is that a Mossberg?”
I was impressed, said so, added,
“Modified to fit in my jacket.”
He had an avalanche of comments, reined them in, bit down on a cookie, then noticed my glove. I got there first, said,
“Keeps me from freaking out.”
He drank his tea, seemed to enjoy it, then,
“The attacks on the vulnerable are continuing. The Guards insist they are isolated incidents and not connected.”
Looked right at me, asked,
“Are you familiar with Darwin?”
I flexed my nonexistent fingers, tried,
“ Origin of Species. I’m waiting for the movie.”
He ignored that, said,
“Certain things Darwin wrote and said have been used and subverted -let’s say, reinterpreted-to fit the delusions of various whack jobs.”
I waited, he took out a notebook, read a piece, asked,
“Know who wrote that interpretation?”
I said,
“No.”
He was all focus now, said,
“Columbine, the two high school killers.”
The lightbulb nearly exploded over my head as I realized, said,
“Columbine. The fucker who took my fingers, they called him Bine.”
And with the awful understanding then of what my mind had been edging about, I said,
“Jesus, they’re going to hit a school, be the first Irish event.” He nodded, could see I was coming fast up to speed. Christ, I needed to chill, went to the bedroom, drew down two Xanax from my stash. Dry-swallowed them, my mind ablaze. I came back to Stewart who was about to say something but I cut him off with,
“Drink more tea, let me think, don’t talk, do some Zen shite or something.”