Doug couldn’t keep from wobbling no how hard he tried. Stiffening his muscles or relaxing them produced the same result on his attempts to normalize his walking, namely he resembled a small sailboat caught in variable seas with a strong starboard wind across its bow. The wide berth other pedestrians were giving him as he navigated westward across Broadway and towards 6th Avenue, served as further proof of this affliction.
One pint too many, or maybe the addition of the several Irish whiskeys to the pints poured him by the affable Dublin refugee barman (“drink-serving terrorist”) stood him in appreciation of Doug’s longtime custom (“fishing for larger gratuity”) and grateful for the company of Doug and his pals on a slow Saturday afternoon. They were all members in good standing of the Empty Leg Association, and fully paid up. After all, Doug hadn’t been back to his old neighborhood in quite a while and though the plan had been to rendezvous at O’Faolain’s with the fellas and then to repair elsewhere to have an adult lunch over which much shit would be shot, and then to head homewards in the early evening sporting a pleasant buzz. The rendezvous was successfully and punctually made but the action plan stalled there.
That original plan died pretty early in the afternoon and at a half-past three pm David the Englishman, was the first to fall by the wayside blaming his early exit from the festivities on the weekend train schedules up to Westchester where he was staying with the in-laws. I stepped outside to see him off and watched him careen his way up the street to the corner of Lafayette and hail a yellow cab heading uptown.
Jumbo (bless his poor sainted mother) was so-named by Doug for the size of his asteroidal noggin, and next to him at the bar Ian MacLeod (aka Mac, or Piss-Face or “MacLoud” no one ever called him Ian) also possessed of a sizeable bonce , were both made of sterner stuff and we three turned again united in purpose, towards the rail. After a few pulls at our jars, Mac and Doug took one of the many regular trips out to the sidewalk to indulge their nicotine habit.
Mac fired up a Winston with his Ronson and commented on Trevor’s recent departure, noting “He can’t put them down like he used to can he?”
Doug grunted a laugh in agreement, lighting his Marlboro from the proffered lighter. “Well, Mac… he’s married and trying to stay that way, certainly it’s not been so long that you’ve forgotten?” Mac produced a brittle laugh in response.
The foot traffic was constant in both directions, it being Saturday and we being in what’s now called the East Village. The demographics of the people passing had certainly changed since the years Doug had lived only a few short blocks away after returning to New York from Eire (yes, brilliant, right - he leaves NY and goes not to London, but Ireland) where he had tried to crack the music business in Dublin and Belfast and spent most of his time eking a living writing pop music criticism for pennies, tending bars or drinking at them. Doug’s own long-suffering patient wife had made the journey over and back with him all the while retaining her patient, pleasant demeanour and her affection for Doug in spite of his several, erm, imperfections, let’s call them. True to Doug’s uncanny sense of (bad) timing, Dublin and the Republic of Ireland were now booming, money was flowing like the Guinness at Hogans and the rest of the world now paid Ireland attention it had never received before. So of course, where was himself now
but back in the Big Apple, which had turned sterile and become yupped-out and expensive all the way from the Spuyten Duyvil down to Battery Park, and from Hell’s Kitchen to Loisaida. “Home sweet home -my ass”, thought Doug.
Jumbo joined them outside as they stood and smoked looking across at the few remaining brownstones on the north side of the block. Jumbo hated cigarettes but enjoyed a different type of smoke inhaling quickly one deep draught then bashing his lit number against the wall and turning back into the bar followed closely by the other two.
The fresh pint of porter stood waiting for Doug and Jumbo’s Bass Ale and Mac’s screwdriver had both been refreshed. Behind their glasses stood three empty shot glasses and barman grinned his evil little smile at them from the other end of the long bar as Doug (keeping his eyes fixed on the amiably malevolent, ginger-headed, pint puller) toasted his pals’ health and prosperity again and it was somewhere about this time he lost track of the time and count of the drinks he’d had, losing himself willingly in the pleasure of the good company that he had often missed when away from the place.
Mac related to them tales of his ex-wife who had mentally gone off the rails spectacularly in spite of his best efforts to help her and continuing this even after they had separated and Jumbo recently married mentioned his wife not at all, but as ever was keen to tell us about some book by minor talents like Banks or T.C. Boil he’d found at the Strand or at Shakespeare & Co. hailing it as “Groundbreaking!” or “Evocative” or “Seminal!” or some other overwrought adjective he liked to apply to books he enjoyed. Mac who followed recent fiction said he too had read it and as usual politely deemed it “All right, I guess”.
Doug too loved books of fiction but had a peculiar bent that he always felt he had missed too many great works from the past and was therefore un-interested in modern or current fiction until he had mastered the masters so-to- speak.
Darkness began to descend on the late summer Manhattan streets and the three stalwarts settled up their tab tipping the beverage banshee at a rate of about 60% for being so free with his boss’ liquor. They turned left out the door following the path Trevor had blazed some hours earlier. At Lafayette Mac bade the others farewell and headed south to catch the F train to Brooklyn and some bars nearer his flat as Doug headed west walking quickly and waving to Jumbo as he grabbed a cab to head uptown.
After a trek which felt like he had done the Rongai route up to the summit of Kilimanjaro but in fact encompassed only 2 avenues and 5 streets of the Manhattan grid on a pleasant late summer evening, Doug spied salvation in the form of the entrance to the PATH train and the promise of transport home.
The PATH train to Hoboken ratcheted and screeched into the sweltering station and Doug increased the pace of his weaving to get as far forward in the train as he could - his only thought was of a restorative nap on the train as it crossed northern NJ.
