I’m pissing curly black pubes around the urinal in Cú Chulainn’s jax, the melodic air of “Back Home in Derry” sluicing around my alcohol-addled brain.  Finished expelling kidney-processed Guinness, I wash my hands with drunken overly careful care to avoid snagging myself on the sink’s assortment of broken pint glasses.

“In ay…teen…oh…tree, we sailed out … ta sea,” I mutter-mumble-sing, “out from t’sweet town a Derree.”

I turn, shake my hands dry and, with sneaker toes jutting up from lake piss-and-beer, head for the door.  Halfway there, I’m stopped in my watery tracks when the jax door wallops open, cracking hard into the wall.

In the open-door flies Round Rory’s ‘cushion!’  

He fast-shuffles backwards splashing through the flooded floor, his hands balled into white fists, his arms flailing wildly at the ‘perfessional boxer,’ whose arms and fists easily deflect the ‘cushion’s’ flails. 

The ‘cushion’ backs up against the toilet stalls and unable to escape any further, he stretches his right arm way behind him, the fist squeezed close and throws a huge round-the-house-mind-the-dresser haymaker.

The ‘perfessional’ boxer easily brushes off the ‘cushion’s’ haymaker.  Then the ‘perfessional’s’ fists flash: One, two: One, two.

The ‘cushion’s’ head snaps back twice; his knees buckle; he slumps to the ground; then crashes face first into lake piss-and-beer.

“Ahhh Jaysys, why’d ya hafta do that in here?” I hear Fintan’s voice, as he crushes in past the ‘perfessional.’  “Sure, we’d a put him out inta t’carpark an’ ye coulda battered t’shite outta him out dere like everyone else does.”

The boxer doesn’t answer but his eye, surrounded by a purpling blackeye, sparkles. 

He raises his fist to his mouth; blows across the knuckles; turns and walks out.

Fintan and I, trying badly not to get contaminated with floodwater, extract the ‘cushion’ from lake piss-and-beer.  The dead load of his barely conscious body is too heavy and Fintan gives up on staying dry.  With a barman’s expertise, he eases his head under the ‘cushion’s’ arm to get him fully upright.  Following suit, I prop up the other side, feeling his damp-nastiness soak into my faded-green Ireland rugby shirt. 

The waters of lake piss-and-beer part behind us as we drag the ‘cushion’ back into the bar and jam him in between a barstool and the counter.  His eyes flutter open but are wildly unfocused; his face expressionless; the front of his soaked through blue-and-white-striped dress shirt clings to his skin.

Last call has come and gone.  The bar’s blindingly bright fluorescent lights subdue the smokey haze, erasing the darkened sense of intrigue that was likely never there.

Round Rory, gripping the bar hard with both hands, gives his cousin a hard look over and then eyes rolling up into his skull, tosses his head back. 

“Ah dis fookin’ fool an’ dat drink mouth on ‘im!  He’ll be fooken kilt wan a dese days.”

He releases one hand from its hard grip on the counter to imperiously wave away his barely conscious ‘cushion.’

“Dat fella does look fer de biggust, tickust fella in de bar,” Rory says, spit flying from his mouth. 

He leans too far forward toward me, loses his footing and grabs the bar again with his free hand.

“An’ den dats who he hasta fight: De worstest fella in de bar.  Ahhh, he has he’s mudder an’ my mudder’s hearts broke.”

The ‘cushion’ starts to slump down between the barstool and the counter. 

I half-heartedly try to save him, but gravity easily wins.

“Cum ‘ere,” I grunt at Rory.  “Let’s move this gobeshite over ta that seat.”

I nod at a vinyl bench-seat up against the wall, then pull the stool back to get at the ‘cushion.’  Rory starts toward me but immediately trips over the stool, saving himself at the last minute by grabbing the counter with both hands.

 “Sit down on that stool, ya fucken leibide!” Fintan scoots in past Rory and slips his head under the ‘cushion’s’ arm.  Together we deposit the ‘cushion’ onto the bench.

“Let me flip ‘im sideways, that ways he don’t choke on he’s puke,” Fintan says.  “What sorta a fucken world did we make where that’s what we hafta do for lads?  Stoppin’ them from chokin’ on their own vomit, huh, huh!”

His head wags from side to side as his strong hands grab the ‘cushion’s’ drenched shirt: Nasty-water seeps from the grabbed-fabric, as he tussles the ‘cushion’ over onto one shoulder.

“That fucken fella with you earlier, in t’shorts an’ Ireland shirt, like yours.  He’s a fucken nutjob that fella, so he is!” Fintan snaps at me, pretend-laughing but his eyes don’t smile. 

“Tom’s more of a nut…job than …,” I slowly wave my hand around the bar.

“Well, stoopid then, or some fucken ting,” he says, frowning hard.  “I hadta pry t’fucken car keys outta he’s hand.  An’ I tol’ t’fucken stoopid bollix, a drunk drivin’ charge’ll cost ya wot a fucken hundert taxis home’d cost!”

He wags his finger so close to my eyes that I blink.

“He’s keys is behind t’bar, he can get ‘em in t’morning, with a hair a t’dog.”

I nod a lot and turn to the butt end of my pint.  Swirling the once creamy, now tan, top of the Guinness around inside the glass, I survey the bar:  A few other lads, falling-down-drunk, slobber the last of their pints; streams of beer streaking across their cheeks; the BIA window rapid-shovels out the last few servings; greasy bags get ripped open, chips tumble to the floor; bared teeth rip ravenously into crusty-brown chicken legs.

My mouth waters as my impaired senses absorb the sight-sound-smell of protein, carbs and fat.

Involuntarily, I start for the BIA window.

“We’re done luv,” the matronly, red-faced Dub says, issuing me a fake-sympathetic smile.

“Ya wouldn’t haf an ould burger back there, wudya?” I drunkenly negotiate, forcing a forced smile into my barely responsive face muscles.  

“Not if we’re done now luv, how cud we?” her fake smile fades; she stares at me with sober-fed-up-with-the-drunks’ eyes.

“Just t’wan burger, that’s all.”

She sighs and flicks a look over her shoulder. 

“How ‘bout a coldish chickun box?”

“Soult!”

I reach for my wallet but almost topple from the sudden movement.

“Take it azy dere luv,” her red face softens as she snort-laughs. “Or youse’ll end up like de fool as bot dis chickun box de first time.”

She circles her index in the air.

“Dowen on yer arse, wid de stars circlin’ round yer head, like dey do in de car…too…ins.”

I transact badly, and with my mouth watering, slouch back towards the bar.

“Awright Fint…tan, I’m off,” the cop walks in the door from Dorchester Ave.  “That fighter guy’s got some punch.  I don’t think he should be usin’ it outside the ring.  It don’t seem like it’s actually safe fer reg’lar people ta get hit that hard.”

“Ah, that fella has me heart broke,” Fintan sprays himself an ice filled pint glass of Coke, shaking his head.  “After every fight there’s weeks a t’lot a them on the rant up an’ down Dorchester Ave..  An’ sure sooner ‘r later the skelpin’ starts.  It’s near a’ways wan a their own, so I suppose that’s the on’y gud part, we don’t want udder lads….”

“Sure, sure, I’m sure whatever yer sayin’ Fint…tan is the Gawd’s honest truth, the Irish Gawd that is,” the cops smiles bemusedly at the still rambling barman.  “Anywayz, I gotta go, Seamus has a little league game in the morning.”

“Ah will ya not go in a haf a drink within t’office?” Fintan intones.

“Nah, tamorrow’s a mess for me: It’s first mass at Saint Joe’s, then little league, then off ta her parents in Norwood for a barbecue.  Tamorrow night I’ll have a few.  Tanite, I needa get some sleep.”

“Awright so Aidan, we’ll see ya tamorrow night so.  An’ de first wan’s on me.  Course I won’t be here, it’s me night off, I’ll be balow in Nostalgia’s, there’s a great singer out from Ireland, T … R … sumptin ‘r udder – ‘oohhh, who shot JR Ewin’….’”

He laughs a barman’s who-gives-a-fuck-laugh, slapping the cop on his shoulder.

“But ya can tell that tight fucker O’Toole that I said t’furst wan’s on him.”

The cop laugh-nods and heads for the door.

“He’s an awful nice fella that Gard,” Fintan says, nodding a lot.   “He’s mudder’s from Cork, … Bantry I think, an’ de ould fella’s a Dub, but ya’d never know it.”
He bunches up his eyebrows for emphasis.

“Nicest cop they ever sent us, stays t’whole night, causes no one no harm, just threatens them with a night balow in t’station.  That settles t’most a them, an’ a wee crack in t’jaw settles t’other fuckers.”

He looks at the crowd still struggling with the last of their pints, opens his mouth wide and yells to no one and everyone:

“CUM ON, CUM ON, finish up there ta fuck!”

I lean hard against the bar, fighting gravity and drunkenness, while my teeth satiate their craving to rip into the cold-crusty-greasy chicken.  Beer driven ravenousness assumes full control, as gasping between chews, I stuff my mouth with handfuls of soggy chips.

 Fintan, bored with clanging barstools upside down onto the counter, wanders over to the open front door and stands hands-on-hips gazing out onto Dorchester Ave 2:00AM. 

A balding, pudgy-faced barman stops his half-hearted sweeping around the tables and, standing well back, delicately prods the ‘cushion’ with the broom handle.

“Cum onta fuck, haf ya no home ta go ta!” he growls at his one-punch-and-way-too-many-pints comatose customer.

“Lave ‘im alone,” Rory speaks up from his gripping the bar to stay upright.  “In a coupleea minutes, I’ll shovel ‘im inta de Caddy an’ ….”

He trails off to focus on the work at hand.  With his last full pint seeming inordinately heavy, he slowly raises the glass to his gaping lips, flicks his wrist and pours Guinness into his mouth.  He downs half the pint, his throat glugging in and out.

 From the bar’s open front door, the sound of screeching rubber, the crunch of metal collapsing and the pop of a windshield dying turns drunken heads.

“Ahh Jaysys, for fucken fuck’s sake!” Fintan yells and disappears out the doorway into the darkness.

I stumble for the door using the counter and stools as crutches against the pernicious effects of gravity.

On the opposite side of a rain drenched Dorchester Avenue, the front of Tom’s big blue Chevy is crumpled around a light pole; the windshield sprayed all over the street and footpath; from under the engine eases thick, dark liquid.

Fintan is across the street at the car, pulling open the driver’s door.

“Git out ya fucken ludramon,” Fintan tries to pull Tom out the open door. “How in t’fuck did ya get this ting goin’?”

He’s pulling hard on Tom’s arm when Aidan the cop’s red Ford Taurus hisses along the wet street and jerks to a stop.

“Awright there Fint…tan?” the cop asks out his open window.  “Do I needa call this inta District 11?”

“Aragh no, no, no, not atall,” Fintan says with a forced laugh.

He puts his hands on hips, looks up at the streetlight. 

“No, no, sure that pole’s as right as rain, ‘tis just this lad’s a wee bit sleepy is all.  We’ll get him inside an’ pour some coffee inta him, an’ sure then he’ll be as right as rain.”

“Ok, but no more drivin’ for him tanite, ok, you got it Fint…tan?”

“I do indeed, we’ll keep him locked within in t’office ‘til he sobe…, ‘til t’sleepiness goes offa him.”

“I seen him down on he’s knees takin’ a key outta he’s hubcap.  First, I thought he was prayin’ ta get home safely, then I figured he’s just a knucklehead.  Ya know t’only thing I really learned from nine years bein’ a cop is that ya can’t beat humans for stoopidity!”

He wags his finger out the window at Fintan as he pulls off down Dorchester Ave.

“Cum here ya fucken ludramon,” Fintan yanks Tom out of the driver’s seat, the door complaining with loud metal squawk.

The pudgy-bald barman, hands jammed into his pockets, stalks across the street to help.

“Grab a hoult a this fucker,” Fintan says, one of Tom’s arms over his shoulder.

They pick their way across the street, Tom supported by the two them.

“Git de fuck outta me way!” Rory’s voice comes from behind me.

I turn to see he has the ‘cushion’ in a similar arm hold headed out the door.

Stepping aside, they barely make it past me before they both fall face first onto the footpath. 

A couple of smokers grumblingly help them back up.

The ‘cushion’ moans in pain.

“Cum on Rory, git t’fuck outta t’way,” Fintan barks from the edge of the street. “Jaysys Christ will I ever git home tanite.  Cum on, cum on Rory, an’ lave that gobeshite owa cousin a yours home t’next night ya cum in.  He’s a fucken holy scourge on t’place.”

“Aragh, we’ll be awright now,” Rory says, nodding way too much.  “Sure in de morning no wan’ll remember a fucken ting!”

He stutter-lurches a couple of steps, badly fighting gravity on behalf of his-drunken-self and the ‘cushion.’

“Awright, cum onta fuck, git outta our way.”

Rory and the ‘cushion’ lurch-stumble down Dorchester Ave towards Rory’s big old Caddy parked at an angle with the front wheel well up on the footpath.

“Goodnight now lads,” Fintan yells after them.

“We’ll see ya tamorrah night,” Rory yells back.

“Ya won’t,” Fintan says with a smile.  “I’ll be balow in Nostalgia’s dancin’ me ass off ta, ‘who shot J…R Ewing?’”

Fintan’s lilting voice rings out over a shiny wet Dorchester Avenue competing with the hissing of a taxi rolling slowly along the street.  The cabby’s elbow rests on the open window, his pale, sagging face obscured by the smoke from the cigarette dangling from his mouth.  Slowly the cabby turns his eyes from the Chevy buried in the light-pole to Fintan, Tom and the barman filling Cú Chulainn’s doorway to Rory and the ‘cushion’ stumble-lurching to their Caddy.