If you’re Irish and you’ve
been to Chicago then you will know The Sodden Gael. You will remember the dark
wooden furnishings, the treasured bric-a-brac from the Auld Country, the worn
Guinness posters, the deluded menus with their Irish Car Bombs and Black and
Tans. You will certainly remember all too well the limited and repetitious
music, crowd pleasers from “Danny Boy” to “Christmas in New York” to “The Wild
Rover” to “Whiskey in the Jar” and back to “Danny Boy”. You will know the kinds
of people who frequent the place – long term ex-pats and grizzled Irish Americans
clinging to the bar and to a romanticised notion of identity which makes their
failure a form of authenticity, recent arrivals circling round them looking to
ingratiate themselves in the hopes of getting work, and pockets of J1 visa
types in GAA jerseys lowering pints and stoking their Irishness because they
believe it is magnetically attractive to American women, and because no matter
how much they stoke their courage it is never enough for them to make an advance
before they have drunk themselves into a paralytic stupor. You will recognise
instantly that tension in the air, and if you are sharp you will see that its
cause is that people here feel a duty to be belligerent at all times because
they are the Fighting Irish. Let the quick use their tongues and the dull their
fists and may the best Irishman among them be master of both. So the legend
goes.
Nothing at all will
surprise you at first glance about the young man who is the hero of this story.
True, he speaks with a thick Cork accent and is clearly a native of the mother
country, yet has a tattoo of the tricolour, a rather Irish American thing to
have, feeling as they do that if they don’t mark their identity onto their
bodies they might forget it somewhere as they slop around in the great melting
pot. Yet this is a small discrepancy. Even the blandest people have
idiosyncrasies. His broad red face is as free from malice as it is
intelligence. The fact that he has passed through the entire Celtic Tiger and
come out the other end untainted by metrosexual foppery, his sensible Bryll-Creamed
short-back-and-sides still intact and still symmetrical, surprises you in that
it brings fondly to mind a kind of person you once knew and whom at the time
you felt you would never remember with any sympathy. Yet somehow now, looking
at him, you do.
He is pouring beer into
his mouth when he breaks off mid-glug to take up a conversation where he has
left off. It splatters onto his chin and the upturned collars of his Cork
jersey, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He leans on the bar and
looms over his interlocutor who is perched on a high stool, a strange and
spider-like man in black with a gleaming bald head and a long, curved nose
tapering to so fine a point as to resemble the bill of some cruel shrike. They
make an odd couple. Let us eavesdrop:
“I’m
telling you I’m over here ‘cause I’m going to beat the fuck out of this
recession, like. It’s always been the place for the Irish to come, America has.
US fuckin’ A like. Do you know what I’m saying to ye?”
“It’s
not easy here either. Do you have any qualifications? Is there anything you can
do?”
“I
passed a degree in business from UCC, it’s a good university, me auld fella told
me it would be a sensible way to start out and that and fair play to him I
think he’s right because I’ve had the ideas and the balls to come out here like
when there’s a lot of lads sitting on their arse at home collecting the dole,
you know what I mean like?”
“A
degree aint much. How did you do anyway?”
“A
third, but a pass is a pass at the end of the day like and I’ve a sound head on
my…”
“Did
you say a turd?”
“A
third you daft cunt, do you want your go do you or what?”
“Relax.
My ears aint so good no more. I’m old. You get your kicks beating up on old
guys?”
“Ah
sorry mister, I get a bit of a head on me with the pints sometimes. Here, Mick,
get us another will ye!”
“Well
look, you seem like a nice kid. I’ll see what I can do, I know all the guys
round here, the whole community. What did you say your name was again?”
“Kinsella.
John Joe Kinsella.”
“That’s
right, John Joe Kinsella. I like that. That’s a good Irish name.”
“Too
fuckin right, Irish through and through I am. Listen mister -”
“Malachi”
“Right,
yeah, Malachi. Listen, I’m serious about it, you find any work out there, I’m
your man. I’ll ride the fuck out of this recession I will.”
“Sure
kid, sure. Gimme a call, here’s my card.”
“You’re
in the movie business! Score!”
“That’s
right kid. And kid, watch yourself - either you’ll ride the fuck out of the
recession, or the recession’ll ride the fuck out of you."
*
Not ten steps away from
the door of the bar, Malachi takes out his phone and makes a call. He hunches
himself up and continues down the street as he waits for the person to pick up,
instinctively radiating mistrust and venom at anyone who passes. He starts to
talk. "Hey. I think I've got just the guy. Yep, Irish, just what you
wanted. Just right for the project. How do I know he'll do it? Cause he's dumb
as shit, that's how I know he'll do it. You want me to set up a meet? Good. You
won't be disappointed."
Back inside, John Joe has
his arms round the shoulders of a group of other Irish lads, some of them even
from different counties, and they are united in a loving chorus line. The beer
is flowing, the song is rolling, and the craic is only great. The Sodden Gael
has its Karaoke machine on, cycling through all of its seventeen tracks, and
the young lads are loving it, the ex-pats are loving it, and the Irish Americans
are loving it, all together, hierarchy forgotten. It's the zenith of the night.
The tension is gone. A pregnant hush descends as the machine changes to the
next song. Tawdry chords begin and are drowned out by a hearty Celtic roar from
all sides of the bar, and John Joe is in the middle of it, eyes closed in an
ecstacy of brotherhood, muttering, then shouting, "I love this song, Ah
lads let me sing it, I fuckin love this song like, ah lads", and the words
pop up on the screen, the first line, and perfectly in time with the line of
green as it courses along evenly, pushing the white in the letters gradually to
the right, John Joe lets loose his heart, his voice, and...
"Ooooh OOOOH THE
FIELDS OF ATHENRY......"
*
"God damn it you've got
no sense of cock. Get the hell away from me!" Malachi, if that is his
name, zips up his pants and walks to the kitchen in a squalid flat, a look of
disgust on his face, his back turned resolutely to the soft sobbing that is
just starting to break in the other room. Pausing in the doorway, his resolve
seems to falter. He takes out a small wrap of tinfoil from his pocket and
flings it onto the floor of the room he is leaving. "Take it! Take your
goddam high! But I'm warning you if you don't learn how to suck cock your ass
is out! Out! It's a fucking recession we're in here, capiche?" He takes a
swig from a bottle of bourbon on the table and heads out into the landing where
he lights up a cigarette and pauses for thought. "Fucking faggots..."
he says to himself, then shakes his head and sets off down the steps. Half way
down, his phone rings.
"What. Who? John Joe!
Yeah I remember you! John Joe Kinsella, Irish kid, right? You a go getter John
Joe, huh? You wanna make some money? Yeah? Some real money? Who doesn't, right?
Listen Irishman, you're in luck. Meet me in half an hour at The Sodden
Gael."
By the time Malachi has
gotten to the bar John Joe is already there with a pint in his hand. He greets
Malachi with a complaint about his hangover, and in truth he does seem a little
the worse for wear. Malachi orders a straight bourbon and sits down on a stool,
his lanky legs drawn up high, the right one twitching ceaselessly. John Joe
remains standing, or rather leaning, just as the other night, though the scene
is not quite the same, it is earlier, it is midweek, and John Joe is somewhat
more subdued. After a bit of casual small talk, Malachi cuts to the chase:
"There's a man I want
you to see, a man with money, a movie man, but I gotta warn you this aint a guy
you fuck with. An I gotta warn you too, this guy, he has a certain way of
talking. Don't let him get to you, whatever he says. You let him get to you,
you freak out, then you're done. Fucked. No money. You know what that means kid
– there aint many chances out there, this is a recession. But I'm serious, this
guy means business. Think you can handle it?"
"I'll tell ye Malachi,
I can handle any fuckin thing on God's green earth, there's nothing I can't
handle. I won't let any fooldog to walk over me, like."
"Glad to hear it. I
knew you were my guy. Now let's go. We've gotta meet this guy in his place in
half an hour."
They take the train,
Chicago's famous loop line. All through the journey they are strangely silent,
Malachi staring straight ahead, leg twitching, eyes flicking as they latch onto
buildings that go by the window and then swiftly relinquish them as if
satisfaction was always just slightly ahead, just out of reach. John Joe rests
his head on the window and clears his throat occasionally, never once bothering
to look out despite the fact that this is his first turn on the loop and his
best chance yet to get an idea of what is in this city he has chosen, other
than his shitty flat, the airport and The Sodden Gael. Malachi stands up.
"This is it. We gotta walk up to Damon and Division now, meet a guy there
that will take us to him."
They arrive at the
intersection mentioned by Malachi. A slightly built hispanic youth in baggy
clothing comes up to them. "Hey Malachi, this your new bitch?" he
asks.
"Are you looking for
your fucking go - "
"Shut up. And you
shut your goddamn mouth too Enrique or I'll shut it for you."
The three arrive at a
large house after a few minutes’ walk. Enrique stops at the gate and begins to
hover about, obviously keeping a look out for trouble. He tells them to go on,
he has to stay here. A hummer is parked in the driveway. The vehicle is painted
green, white and orange, and in the centre of the bonnet on the white part is a
picture of a brown clenched fist, under which is written "The Brown
Hand of Ulster Pictures. Fisting for a United Ireland."
They are ushered into a
waiting room by a huge bodyguard and sit down. There is no-one else there. John
Joe is unnerved. The room is painted silver, and all around there are statues
of Celtic warriors, but not just ordinary statues. Each warrior is doing
something that would bring shame even to the ancient Greeks. Here is Fionn Mac
Chumaill apparently impaling an entire legion of lesser warriors at once – with
his penis. It goes into the first warrior through the back door and comes out
his mouth and then into the next, et cetera, almost a hundred in all. Beneath
are lines alleging to be from the Fianna:
" And his member was
as long as ten fullgrown oaks, and its girth as great as twelve stout clubs,
and its strength as great as a hundred and forty-four men at arms straining
till their muscles burst. And he impaled on it first one warrior, and the next
time two warriors, and the next time four warriors, and the next time eight
warriors, and the next time..."
..and so on. Next to Fionn
is Chu Chullain, who appears to be holding the hound by the ears and choking it
with something other than a sliotar. John Joe stands up.
"I don't like this, I
don't fucking like this at all, let's get the hell out of here Malachi, there's
a queer smell about this gaff..."
"Aw for Chrissake sit
down. Siddown! You promised me. You said you can handle it! You afraid, Irish?
So the guy's a faggot. So what? You can't handle a puny faggot? You scared? You
scared to make money?"
"Alright, alright. I
can handle it. I'll not let any fucker walk over me. No fuckin faggot is going
to walk over me. I'm here for the money!"
"That's it kid!"
"Show me the
money!"
"That's the spirit
kid!"
A voice comes from inside
the room. "Next! John Joe Kinsella! Get the hell in here if you're an
Irishman!"
He pushes open the door
and almost falls back blind in shock. The room is gold, plated not painted, and
the walls are lined with frescoes of some of the greatest heroes of recent
Irish history embroiled in the most sinful debauchery. The Wild Geese are doing
a daisy chain. Dev the long fellow and Michael Collins the big fellow look like
they are trying to choke each other to death by doing a sixty-niner. Padraig
Pearse is holding onto the handles of Connelly's wheelchair with his crotch in
the poor cripple's face. Charles Stuart Parnell is busy wringing Daniel
O'Connell's come out of his beard. In the middle of it all sits a hideous purple-faced
man with a lank, tobacco-stained moustache and a brown tweed suit, the trousers
of which are crotchless. Burst blood vessels spread out like streams of lava
from the tip of his nose and trickle towards his mean and glinting little eyes.
This must be Satan himself, thinks John Joe, it must be the very Devil. God
help me. Satan opens his mouth and speaks in a soft voice:
"Can you do the work
I have for you? Malachi tells me that you can handle anything. Isn't that right
Malachi?"
"Sure is sir. Boy
said he can handle anything on God's green earth. His own words."
"Can he handle about
twenty cocks?"
John Joe falls back
towards the door in terror. "Get me the fuck out of here. Jaysus fucking
Christ lads this is nuts, the jokes over, enough is enough, oh Jaysus Christ
get me the fuck out of here."
"Don't be scared John
Joe, all I want is for you to star in a movie. Let me make my offer and then
you can decide. If you say no, you are free to go, though I will be greatly
disappointed in you. You'll stay? Yes, I see it in your eyes. You'll stay.
Good. That's good John Joe. May I call you JJ? My name is Tiberius Kennedy. You
might recognise the name Kennedy. It is an Irish name. It was the name of my
younger brother, who was once president. He was shot. Do you know why? Because
he would not listen to me, the firstborn, and he would not run the country as I
saw fit. People don't know about me JJ, but I have always been there, just
beyond view, my hands on the strings. In some ways, JJ, I like to think that I
actually am America herself. Many people think so. Malachi thinks so,
don't you Malachi? You wouldn't deny a little favour to America now JJ, would
you?"
JJ says nothing. He stands
transfixed, trembling, praying, please let me wake up, please, please.
"Let me tell you more
about our movie. Have you seen 'The Quiet Man'? It's a nice movie, isn't it.
It's set in Ireland. It stars John Wayne as the hero. Well, we are going to
make a tribute to The Quiet Man, only our movie is going to be called The Queer
Man instead. You will play the role played by John Wayne in the original. You
will play The Queer Man who comes back from America to his ancestral village in
Ireland. All the young men are bursting to fuck but the village priest, an old
tyrant, has put the fear of God into them so much that they can barely glance
at a woman without having visions of hellfire and eternal torture. That’s where
you come in. You, back from America, out to disseminate your new ideas. Need to
release? Where there’s a will there’s a way, you’ll say. And you will be ridden
dry by every man in that village. John Wayne died of a blocked intestine.
You'll have plenty of eager plumbers to make sure the same doesn't happen to
you. Do it for me, JJ. Do it for the Kennedies. Do it for the money. But do
it."
"No..no. Never. Never
you flamer, never!" JJ is regaining himself. "I don't need your
fucking queer money. Not at the price of my hole and my dignity. Fuck yous, and
fuck you especially Malachi you filthy shite for getting me into this!"
JJ turns and flings
Malachi aside from the door. Just as he is passing through, he hears a last
sibilant lisp from Tiberius:
"Do you call yourself
an Irishman?"
"What the fuck do you
mean by that?"
"Do you support the
struggle for a unified Ireland? Do you call yourself an Irishman?"
"You bet your bottom
dollar I do."
"Where do you think
the money for the struggle comes from? Why do you think we are making The Queer
Man in the first place? Because the money has dried up. Irish Americans are
losing interest in the struggle. They think the North is at peace, they've been
listening to too much Clinton, too much Blair. Have you ever heard of the pink
pound?"
"That's what they
call queer money."
"That's right. We get
a large share of the pink pound. And that money is funnelled directly into the
coffers of my good friends in Sinn Feinn. That pink money goes to the struggle,
especially from the Irish American gay community, who have an overwhelming
thirst for porn. The Queer Man will be the biggest money spinner of them all.
It will be our swansong. With it, Adams et al will finally have enough for all
the weapons they need to unify Ireland at last. Think of it JJ. A nation once
again. Thanks to you. And one more
thing JJ.”
“What?”
“We’re
in the middle of a recession…….”
JJ closes the door and
returns to Tiberius Kennedy.