‘Of course.’
‘Your tribe, the coloureds — why do they wear those caps the wrong way round?’
‘It’s fashion, Ma’am.’
‘I think it’s rather silly, but … if it keeps you happy … Then she added, ‘I hate to be a nuisance but will I be able to get my Papermate back?’
The American way
The Alien walked into a Seattle coffee place. He’d always wanted to say, ‘Hi, how you doin’? My usual … half-caff decaff triple Grande caramel cappuccino with wings …
And of course, the chick’d say, ‘You’re British, right?’
Instead he said, ‘Espresso please.’ Got that and a wedge of Danish, went to check the phone directory.
Bingo.
There she was, under the name Bill had given him. Jotted down the address and bit into the Danish. Too sweet. The sports bag was at his feet and the shape of the bat was barely discernible.
Stella, the Alien’s ex-wife, had snuck a cigarette. In America now they don’t frown on smoking they just out and out shoot you. Her last trip home, unbeknownst to Jack, she’d bought a carton. Rothmans. In all their deadly glory. They’d come with a free T-shirt which shrunk in the wash. Size XL, a few more spins, it would fit a person.
Cracking the cellophane, she opened a fresh pack and lit up with the kitchen matches.
Ah … Dinner was in the oven and she’d have time to use air fresheners before Jack got home, add a splash of Patchouli.
Her mother regularly sent Liptons tea and the South London Press. Jack would say, ‘You English and your tea!’ Loving it, loving she was English and stressed it. When Jack got home she made him a dry martini, very dry and with two olives. It was a ritual. He’d say, ‘Two?’
‘Cos I love you too much.’
Like that.
Then, ‘Something smells good.’
‘It’s your favourite.’
‘Meatloaf?’
‘You betcha.’
When he’d first asked for it, she thought he meant ‘Bat Out Of Hell’. She was still English then. Now she had to work at it. It wasn’t that she ever felt American, but she had the moves.
Then he hugged her and she got a blast of Tommy Hilfiger. For one fleeting moment she remembered Brut and Fenton, but let it slide, not even linger … just keep on moving, like a song you can’t recall.
So that was how it was when Jack got home. After the meatloaf, the doorbell went and Jack moved to answer.
A voice said, ‘Package for Stella.’
As he opened the door, he was still half turned to her, a huge smile making him look boyish. Fenton said, ‘One!’
And slammed the bat into Jack’s stomach.
‘Two!’
Upended it and drove the top against Jack’s chin, the bone splintering into his brain.
‘Chun!’
And he beamed at Stella, asked, ‘Howzat, darlin’?’
She was holding the dinner plates, too frozen to drop them.
Fenton kicked the door shut.
‘Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner …? And blacker than you can begin to imagine.’
‘We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.’
(Opening lines of ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’)
‘You’re a cute hoor,’ said Pat.
‘What?’
‘The way you handled them cops at the station. Jaysus, they were eating outta yer hand. When did a policeman ever offer a cup o’ tea? I’ll never get over the bate of that … As I said,
‘Click?’
‘It’s the same as cute hoor, but slyer.’
‘But it’s a compliment?’
‘Is it?’
They were in The Quays pub on Quay Street. Lest you forgot, it said so above the door. Pat had told Brant that Brad Pitt had been in and that, ‘No more than Geldof, he was a bit shy of the soap ’n’ water.’
Brant exclaimed, ‘You can be one vicious bastard, you know!’
‘Ary, I’m only coddin’.’
Brant had come to Ireland for all sorts of reasons and curiosity was probably the best he’d articulated. Getting laid never came into it, but lo and behold, he was about to. They were drinking slow bottles of Guinness and Pat said, ‘There’s a wan over there has an eye for you.’
‘What?’
‘She has a mighty chest on her and a bit o’ mileage, but for all that …
‘What are you on about?’
Pat moved back from the bar, gave Brant the full Irish appraisal, then said, ‘I’d say you’re a holy terror for the women.’ And then he stepped over to the woman, had a few words and returned. ‘She thanks you kindly and a glass of sweet sherry would be grand.’
Brant took a look, not bad at all. A touch of the Margo Kidders … well, OK — Margo’s mother, but in prime shape. Course, the fact that she fancied Brant gave her bonus points all over the shop.
As Brant ordered, Pat said, ‘Tis what Connemara men do for penance.’
Yet again, Brant had no idea what he meant and dreaded trotting out, ‘What?’ yet again. What he’d do, he’d get two small cards printed,
1. Yellow
2. Red
Write in small letters ‘What?’ on the first, then ‘WOT?’ on the second. Jaysus, they’d think he was deaf. Scratch that. So he said, ‘What?’ And threw in, ‘Excuse me?’ for colour.
‘Connamara men, they drink sherry as penance.’ The sherry was placed on the counter and Pat said, ‘Well, go on, man, she can hardly whistle for it.’
He brought it over, said wittily, ‘Hi.’
She laughed and said, ‘I can see I’m not going to get a word in edgeways.’
‘What?’
‘Sit down there, you big lump — I’m Sheila.’
A while later, Pat came over, said, ‘I’ve lost me friggin’ lighter.’
‘The Zippo?’
‘Aye, blast it to hell, it had “1968” on the front.’
Sheila said, ‘Ask St Anthony.’
