A Galway Epiphany

Keefer and I were in my living room, sipping brewed coffee — not instant, yer actual roasted beans, whole real nine-yards gig. Keefer felt it was his influence as, on a previous occasion, I had given him a mug of instant that he unceremoniously spat on my not-so-new rug, snarled,

“What is this shit?”

Now, he was here, satisfied with the real java (Colombian, if you persist), dressed per usual like a cross between biker/thug/longshoreman. His bike boots were perched on the coffee table due not so much to horrendous manners but to the spliff he’d just smoked. I’d been all righteous, saying,

“Little early for recreational drugs.”

Got the withering look, then he produced his silver flask with the Stones tongue logo, a flask that on close scrutiny had what seemed like bullet dents in it.

“Altamont,”

He said.

When I asked.

He unscrewed the top, poured some liquid into my mug of still-steaming coffee, said,

“Kentucky sour mash.”

Tasted real fine.

Took a full pot of the elite coffee for me to lay out the whole saga of the miracle girl and why she was now sleeping in my apartment. He took it all in, then,

“Fuck.”

I said,

“Might need a little more than that, buddy.”

He looked at me, said,

“You have an uncanny knack of attracting the weirdest vibes. You know that, right?”

I said,

“She can identify the man who not only set the fire but bolted the front door to prevent anyone from getting out.”

The horror of it touched his eyes, which first turned a shade of sadness I had rarely seen, then he shook himself and his eyes returned to the dark slate he presented to the outside. He guessed,

“You’re thinking this is our old buddy Benjamin J., the nonsafety match dude?”

I noticed a worn paperback protruding from his side pocket, went,

“You’re reading?”

Alas, my tone did carry a hint of superciliousness that only a complete asshole would do. He pulled it out, ignoring my barb, said,

“Hey, you’re the guy who told me to read some mystery novels. You said, I think, some of the best writing is in that neighborhood these days.”

He handed over the book, battered as it was:

Tin Roof Blowdown,

By James Lee Burke.

I said,

“It’s a stone-cold classic and disproves the idea that a series goes stale. This, his sixteenth, is his best ever and probably the finest writing on Katrina.”

God only knows how long I would have droned on about American mystery writers but the bedroom door opened and Sara came out, wearing an old Notre Dame sweatshirt that Emerald had left behind.

If you were a literary type, you might suggest a Kate Atkinson use of coincidence between the shirt and the fire in Paris the week before.

She held a small book in her hand, asked, sleep in her voice,

“Who is A. A. Milne?”

She saw the leaflet on Ballyfin on the table, snapped it away, warned,

“Do not put your nose in my business, ever.”

She sounded like a complete psycho, like the cobra about to strike, her lethalness uncoiling like a black slither. Keefer didn’t even notice. I blame that fucking whiskey.

She took a step back when she saw Keefer, her body in flight/fight mode. She asked,

“Who is he?”

Keefer gave a warm smile, a rare to rarer event for him, said,

“I’m the dude who brought breakfast.”

Reached in his backpack, produced cornflakes, pancakes, asked,

“You think Jack has breakfast stuff?”

She shook her head. Keefer stood, handed me the items, said,

“Go be domestic.”

I managed to produce some bowls, heated the pancakes, made tea, more coffee, put this hopeful bunch on the table. Keefer looked at Sara, asked,

“What’s missing?”

Before I could say,

Her childhood.

He said,

“Can’t have no pancakes without syrup, am I right, girl?”