American Skin

I got my seat, the aisle of course. The window was taken by an obese man. Bulging over the small space, the seat belt like a bad girdle, barely containing him. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt like the squad in Jack Lord’s outfit, sweat was already climbing under his arms, I nearly went,

“O-la.”

He gave a sheepish grin, said,

“Guess I should have booked two seats, you think?”

I thought he needed to cut out the burgers, but smiled noncommitedly. He extended a fat hand.

“Bob Milovitz, outta Chicago.”

His hand was drenched in perspiration and did I want to touch it, like fuck, took it, said,

“Stephen Blake.”

Wanted to add the rider,

“Outta my depth.”

He gave a huge grin, delighted, asked,

“Irish, yeah?”

“Yes.”

He went into the near mandatory American reply:

“I got me some Irish on my mom’s side, third generation then Polack on Granddaddy’s, even some Scottish Presbyterian.”

The Americans present themselves like a cocktail, a mix of genetic influences, delivered with pride.

U2, pride in the name of love or whatever.

He gave me a quizzical look, asked,

“You in the services?”

Came out of left field, I faltered, went,

“Excuse me?”

His brow was awash in sweat, rivulets coursing down his swollen jowls. Thing is, I liked him. Not knowing one item about him, intuition told me he was a decent man, and like, how many of those do you meet? In my forty years, I met maybe three. Was it worth the wait? I do know it’s so rare, you recognise the quality straight off.

There’s a lighthouse off Galway Bay, the beacon is erratic, sweeps the water at the most unexpected moments. When it does, your spirits are lifted, especially if it happens obliquely. He apologised,

“Don’t mean to pry.”

I thought, then why are you doing it? He continued,

“But hey, we’re on our way to Vegas, where truth is the flip of a card but you sit like an army brat. You mightn’t believe it but I was in the corps, did a hitch at Fort Bragg.”

And he laughed, a deep rumble, continued,

“Yeah, catering, as you can see, thing is, I recognise other vets, they never lose that bearing.”

As I said, I liked him, so I conceded,

“Yeah, I did a jolt.”

“In these here United States?”

Since 9/11, the dignity ordinary joes imbue that term with, he had it in bucketfuls. I said,

“No, another man’s army.”

I wasn’t prepared to give any more. He gave a rueful grin, said,

“Same deal, am I right?”

I was saved a reply by the engines rumbling. He said,

“Man, I hate flying.”

We didn’t talk till after takeoff, the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign clicked off. Bob asked,

“Any sign of the drinks cart?”

I looked round, said,

“Any minute now.”

Fifteen minutes later, it came. He ordered a Bloody Mary and I opted for Maker’s Mark. Bob said,

“You know your hooch.”

We hit a blast of turbulence and the plane veered, put the shite crossways in me, Bob went pale, muttered,

“Uh-oh.”

I was with him on that. Five more minutes of lurching and diving, I’d downed the bourbon in one. Bob’s glass was empty, too, I said,

“They’ve suspended the trolley service.”

He’d gone paler, staring straight ahead, he asked,

“Wanna get drunk?”

Without moving his head, he pointed down, said,

“My carry-on, could you reach it?”

I could. He said,

“Open it.”

Jesus, I remembered Juan, in the limo, the first time, nudging a briefcase, saying those exact words.

No guns here but maybe as lethal, stacks of miniatures, every brand. He gave a sheepish grin, said,

“I collect ’em.”

I selected seven: three vodka, two Easy Times, two rum.

Got the vodka in his glass, I drank the bourbon from the tiny bottle, drank fast. The turbulence eased and Bob uncapped a few more. In jig time, I’d a nice buzz building, Bob asked,

“Where you staying in Vegas?”

I’d no idea, said,

“I’ve no idea.”

He laughed, said,

“I’m at the Sahara, for the poker.”

I nodded as if this made sense. The hostess came by, saw the mess of little bottles, asked,

“Party time, guys?”

Bob asked,

“Got any pretzels, nuts?”

She gave a winning smile, said,

“We’ll be serving dinner soon but I’ll see what we’ve got.”

She looked at me and I went,

“No nuts.”

Came off as,

“Numb nuts.”

Sent Bob into the giggles. He said in that way Americans have,

“I like you, buddy.”

It’s so forthright. So almost innocent.

I come from a completely different race. We’d near die before we’d say such a thing. Tommy was my best friend, we’d be through hell and high water, spent an inordinate amount of time together and the closest we’d ever come to such a statement was,

“Ah, you’re not the worst.”

And even that is couched in throwaway style, lest it sound too intimate, too invasive. The neighbourhood I grew up in, sure, you’d have friends, people you loved, that you’d trust absolutely but never and I truly mean never would you demonstrate your feeling in a public fashion.

You ever tried to hug someone there, you’d lose your arm from the elbow. You asked someone,

“How are you?”

It was more likely to mean,

“How are you fixed?”

Meaning do you have money and more importantly, are you willing to give me some?

Ask any Irish woman about her man, about the sweet talk he’d produce, and you’ll hear,

“Oh yes, he told me I wasn’t the worst.”

My parents, I loved them, no question, I never once told them so, as my mother lay dying, fighting for breath, my declaration of love consisted of,

“Can I get you anything?”

I am aware of what a tragedy that is.

So when we came up close and personal with Americans, we were more than a little astounded at their candour.

Tommy, hidden and furtive all his life, both from necessity and nurture, never got a handle on this aspect of America. When we’d worked on the site, we had an apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Flat out, we both loved the area. The apartment was nothing to write home about, two small rooms you could barely swing a cat in.

First night there, we did what you do, if you’re Irish, you go the neighbourhood bar. Get orientated. As it goes, we got talking to a guy who worked on the trains. Two beers in, he says,

“I love you guys.”

And goes to get us a brew.

Tommy watches him and turns to me, asks,

“What’s fucking wrong with him?”

Me, the sophisticated college boy tried,

“He’s just been friendly.”

Tommy shook his head, said,

“Oh, he’s gay.”

I kept my voice low, said,

“No, it’s the way they are, they’re just ...”

I had to search for a word to capture the essence, attempted,

“Up front.”

He actually mouthed the word, let it dance about his mouth, he looked like it didn’t fit and he nodded, went,

“So back to my original point, there’s something wrong with him.”

I told the sad truth, said,

“No, there’s something wrong with us.”

Sitting on the plane, looking at Bill, his earnest face and the total sincerity with which he’d said he liked me, I felt such a pang of sorrow. And that’s the curse of our race, we sure as hell feel the stuff, we just can’t express it. Probably why we have so much music.

Bill asked if I’d been to Vegas before and I said no. He assured me I’d have me an experience. The next twenty minutes, we did as they term it, shoot the shit. He told me of other visits to Vegas and various larger-than-life characters he’d met, explained,

“The reason they talk about Vegas rules, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, is not so much discretion as who the hell would believe it?”

I would remember those words and wish I’d paid more attention.

Bill had a wonderful laugh, one of those up from the stomach, the whole system involved, his eyes near distorted from merriment.

I have never laughed like that in my whole life, not even when drink was involved. I did the best I could to join Bill in his hilarity but, as always, I was holding on, that ice control watching every single word. Could almost hear my mother as she’d said and often,

“Stephen, he lives one step away from the rest of us.”

Forced myself to relinquish a little of that steel, even told Bill a story about some high jinks in New York. A complete fabrication but to let him see I could be a fun guy.

He bought it.

You were observing us, you’d have seen couple of guys, letting their hair down, getting in party mode.

Just two guys hitting Vegas, having a high old time. Not twenty-four hours gone, I’d left a man gut shot, leaking blood on a hard floor. Made the big mistake of dozing off.

You wake with a headache and a hard-on. One as painful as the second is useless. We were touching down and the pilot was welcoming us to the Strip, adding,

“Be lucky.”

Yeah.

After we disembarked, Bob shook my hand, said,

“Look me up, the Sahara is at the bottom of the Strip, near the Hilton.”

I agreed I might and he waddled towards a slot machine, feeding coins into it. I went to collect my bag, noticed the number of men wearing cowboy hats. Tommy would have loved it. There was an air of festivity, adrenaline, and despite my throbbing head, I felt the buzz.

The only piece of Tommy, materially, I possessed was his poems, maybe twenty in all, written in Gothic script in a small leather-bound journal. He said,

“Bruce Chatwin kept his writing in one of those.”

The story was Chatwin had them handcrafted in Paris, a story more appealing than truthful. Tommy had handed me the volume on a lads’ night out, Siobhan was out on that new ritual, hen night. Translated as “women on the piss.”

We were in O’Connor’s in Salthill, where you get serious music at a serious juncture in the evening. That holy moment betwixt all out inebriation and simply feeling mighty. The band lit the bodhrans, fiddles, then spoons tapping out from the edge of the stage. They were local, fronted by a feisty girl singer who belted out the songs like she was raging, spitting iron. No older than twenty but a voice more ancient than Billie Holiday. I knew her, and off stage, she was shy, quiet, unremarkable, but hit that stage and she was Rilke’s panther, something primeval unleashed. She was doing Neil Young’s “Powderfinger,” via The Cowboy Junkies. Tommy reached in his duffel coat, produced the book, said,

“Some stuff I wrote.”

Was astounded, went,

I didn’t know you wrote.”

He was staring at the girl, tears in his eyes, for Neil Young, his writing, my comment, shit, could have been the smoke. The no-smoking edict wasn’t due for another while. He said,

“Man, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

True enough.

I finished my Jameson, tasted good, tasted like... another? I asked,

“Poems?”

He shrugged.

“Poems manqué. I call them tones, lets me off the poetry rap.”

Throw a stone in Ireland, you hit a poet, rarely a decent one. No wonder Tommy wanted out from that category. I went to open the book and he shouted,

“Jesus, not now, what’s the matter with you?”

Good question.

Not one I’ve ever been able to answer.

In Vegas I opened the book, read the first title:

I took a deep breath, then noticed the brackets at the bottom of the page and in them were a few more lines, like what?... an afterthought, an explanation. Read them aloud to get the taste.

Put the volume down, only nineteen to go, I’d ration them, have a daily blast of anguish. I didn’t try to make sense of them, hell, I’d never made sense of Tommy.

He just was.

No, I’d let it soak, wrap round me for a while, then maybe and big maybe, read it again.

Vegas has towering blocks of hotels, maybe a thousand rooms per hotel and high, fuck, all the way into the skyline. I’d gotten the courtesy coach into the centre and decided to walk the Strip, try to get a sense of the place. The heat was ferocious, within seconds I was drenched, the booze from the flight pouring out of me. I muttered,

“Ah, Tommy. You’d love it here.”

Found a two-story hotel and if that wasn’t remarkable enough, it was old. Old in America being over fifty years.

La Concha.

Just what I needed... a shell. Crouched beneath the shadow of the Riviera and it was cheap. For thirty bucks, I got a huge, old-fashioned room overlooking a garden and pool. A grouchy security guard was patrolling. I said,

“Nice day for it.”

He had his hand on the butt of his revolver, gave me the hard stare, asked,

“Why are you staying here?”

He was gnawing at a toothpick, moving it annoyingly from end to end in his mouth. It made a sucking noise, almost wheezing. I went Irish, hit a question with a question. Irritates the shit out of the Brits which is why we do it.

“You don’t recommend it?”

More sucking, hitched up his belt, then,

“The ground floor.”

“Yeah?”

“Where you got your ice machine, you got your wetbacks.”

I wanted to go,

“Give me your poor, your downtrodden.”

Not lines that had made much impact on him, I took a guess, said,

“They’re in the catering trade.”

He spat, thick phlegm over the balcony, hoping to hit a wetback, no doubt, he said,

“They’re a pain in the ass is what they is.”

I nodded, said,

“Nice talking to you.”

Turned the key in my room, an actual key, not the card gig.

How old is that?

The guard added before I closed the door,

“Not much longer.”

“Excuse me?”

“This joint, they’re gonna knock it.”

I reached for levity, tried,

“Not today, I hope?”

“Not goddamn soon enough, you ask me.”

I got in the room, unpacked, noticed there was no kettle, just the basics, bed and phone. Thomas Merton style. The army had me familiar with that routine. I’d stopped at a liquor store, bought a bottle of Stoli, poured an Irish measure (generous), took a hefty swig. The thirst I’d always controlled was rearing up, refusing to be denied. I don’t know, was it shooting Juan, Tommy’s writing, Vegas, but for once, I said the biker’s version of the Serenity Prayer: Fuck it.

Was going to see where the booze took me. I should have been phoning Siobhan, I should have been covering my ass. Should, should, should.

Poured another.