Merrick

I don’t remember getting down. Crow had come up, and gone out to get me himself.

I was on the ground, in Crow’s porto-kabin, He’d given me a hot drink, laced with sugar.

Put a blanket round me, then sat opposite. He asked

‘How you doing buddy?’

I’d stopped shivering, said

‘The last thing I remember is smelling Irish stew?’

He stared, asked

‘Food?

‘No, it’s a stress gig.’

I reached for my cigs, got one in my mouth but my hands trembled and took the Zippo,

fired me up, looked at it, said

‘Nice.’

‘It’s yours.’

Indians love gifts, Shona had told me.

I asked

‘What happened to me?’

He asked

‘Were you thinking?’

‘Yes.’

He sat back, said

‘You’re done brother.’

Added

‘You know Ryan, start to think about it, it’s gone.’

I said

‘Aw fook.’

He stood up, said

‘You’re alive bro, a lot of dancers never…………………come down.’

I asked

‘Will I be able to go back, up there, you know, after a time?’

He looked at me, then

‘You have lot’s of work on the ground, I don’t want to lose you. My sister would kill

me.’

All I could hear was Merrick’s voice, when describing The Ranger’s Elite Force and the

one’s who

‘Washed out.’

Crow said

‘As your chief, I’m telling you to take off, have a few days to chill.’

I nodded, said

‘Thanks, a lot.’

He shrugged it off.

Later I would hear that he’d gone out on the girders, took me in. His first time in the sky

for eight years, when his best friend had fallen.

Shona took me to her home. An apartment in The West Village. I was zoning in and out,

as if a high fever was trying to build and break simultaneously. The apartment was

comfort in action. Indian woven throw rugs on the wooden floors. I always loved that,

you could crack the heels of your boots on them, feel as if you were really there. Not

grounding you so much as establishing you.

And sculpture’s, I know shit from shinola about that but these, of wood, of stone, even of

cacti, were haunting. Figures of warriors, Indians on horseback, they seemed to be alive.

I slumped down on the couch, Shona brought me a tall iced glass of water. I was wearing

my Levi white shirt, one that had cost me close to fifty bucks.

An Irish guy will blow fifty on a round of drink, no problem but on a shirt, you kidding?

I’d had this shirt for nigh ten years.

You ask……….what’s in a shirt?

History.

It has been so often in the wash, it was threadbare and all the more assuring for that. I

know, you love a shirt, you are a sad fookin excuse for a life.

I loved the shirt, so shoot me.

Sweat was pouring out of every pore, my hair, was drenched in it. Like I’d just come out

of the shower.

Shona said

‘My love, you are burning up’

Helped me to her bed and that’s all she wrote.

Two days.

The stress in ferocious assault

……………….twisting

………………………..burning

………………………………..lashing

…………………………………………and

…………………………………………………lacerating.

I vaguely remember coming to, Shona feeding me some liquid, then out again, the smell

of Irish stew near suffocating me.

And it broke.

Two and a half days in.

I sat up, felt my hair, dry.

Shona, her face, a portrait of worry, said

‘You’re back.’

I tried to stand, managed it after a few false starts and said

‘You believe it mo croi (my heart), I’m hungry.’

And was.

Starving.

As we sat down over scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, Shona went to the fridge, brought

back a Shiner Bok,………..Texas best, said

‘You’re eating, you’re entitled.’

I said

‘A man could love a woman for that.’

She feigned surprise, asked

‘You mean, you’re not crazy about me already?’

I raised my bottle, said

‘Is tu an cailin is fear.’

……………………………..you are the best woman.’

She asked

‘Who is Eddie?’

Jesus.

I asked

‘What?’

‘ You called his name over and over.’

The fooking subconscious, wreathed in guilt, will rat you out every time, a supergrass of

the damn soul.

I nearly told her.

Nearly.

Bit down.

A history of Irish violence?

No.

She got a playful smile, asked

‘Remember anything?’

I was weak but still clued in enough to say

‘Only that you never left my side.’

Right answer.

She beamed then with eyes dancing in her head, said

‘You proposed.’

Yeah, right.

I could play, took the Irish route, asked

‘And……………..did you accept?’

She laughed, said

‘Oh, you’re back alright.’

And did I love her?

Take a wild Comanche guess.

She stood up, went to the bedroom, came back with a Gap bag, handed it over, said

‘And no, I didn’t leave you, I called Crow, had him go get this.’

I opened the bag, you guessed it

Brand new Levi shirt, white as hope.