Galway Girl

As I headed home, the kit bag slung over my shoulder, the hurley sticking out like a very bad idea,

I was a maelstrom of

Rage

Shame

Humiliation.

To be played, and so expertly.

My apartment overlooks Galway Bay. When I walk along the promenade the sight of the ocean usually makes me yearn.

I stopped, saw two young men in their twenties and, what?

Were they lighting a fire?

Fuck.

No, a makeshift spit and, to my horror, I saw a large bird struggling near their feet. They were hollering and high-fiving.

I eased down onto the sand and approached, asked,

“What’s up, guys?”

Almost friendly.

The first one turned, mocked in a South Carolina accent,

“Gonna make us a little chicken dinnah.”

He was on some dope that made his movements just that little bit delayed, but the second guy,

A whole other country.

Built like the proverbial brick shithouse, he was wearing a muscle shirt, shorts, and, get this, Doc Martens. He was slugging hard from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. His tone was menace in neon. He said,

“Get the fuck off, yah old cunt, or you’ll join this buzzard on the spit.”

The first guy was just your ordinary dumb brain-dead ejit but this number, he was a violence junkie.

I looked at the poor buzzard. It had what looked like a broken wing, and each time it tried to scuttle away the second guy stood on the bird and relished the rush of cruelty.

I dropped the bag, took out the hurley, asked the first guy,

“You’re from Dublin?”

He nodded and got a hard shoulder from the second, who snarled,

“Don’t talk to the bollix.”

I said,

“The reason I ask is Sunday you guys play Tyrone in the All Ireland football final.”

I swung the hurley, dropped the ejit fast.

Continued in a quiet tone,

“See, I prefer the hurling.”

The dangerous one, true to form, produced a Stanley knife, blade of choice for your lower-grade thug, hissed,

“Gonna cut yer fucking bollocks off.”

Lunged at me. I stepped aside and walloped his skull as he went.

That’s all he sang.

I put out the fire, resisted the compulsion to put the psycho on the spit.

Took a long draft of my flask, then gently lifted the wounded bird. It did try to bite me but, then, everything does.

I could tell it was a very frightened creature, and if I had to guess there and then, I would have hazarded a hawk of some kind.

Headed back to my apartment. Apart from cooking the bird, I had very little idea what the hell I was going to do.

I said,

“If you live, I’ll call you Maeve.”

I did remember a line from the movie The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid.

A greenhorn asks a grizzled cowboy,

“What’s the name of your horse?”

The cowboy spits juice, then drawls,

“Don’t name something you might have to eat.”

Argue that.

Got back to my apartment to find Jericho had again been visiting.

Left a note, of course, and a small figurine of Jesus.

The note:

Do you miss that nun? So

So

Bad

It’s so sad, boo-hoo.

(Then an emoji of a crying face.)

I’ll slit your throat while you sleep and then Alice will ride your dead dick.

xxxxx

J.

I tentatively put a hand on the figurine,

And

Jesus danced.