The Emerald Lie

I dressed as if my life depended on it.

You might term that sarcasm if I had any juice left. I put on my Garda all-weather coat and, underneath, a thick white Aran sweater. I didn’t want to be cold.

Dead is one thing, but cold? No, fuck that. The oft-threatened storm was blowing hard and bitter. The streets would be deserted.

Good.

I put a bottle of Jameson in my right pocket. The gun carefully in my left pocket. It is the attention to the little things that make the scene. I wore my Doc Martens, scuffed and worn like my wasting, withered soul. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, said,

“Dying to meet you.”

I was tempted to wear a snazzy emerald scarf that Emily had left behind. Give me that raffish rakish air. Said,

“Guess that would be like

... An

Emerald

Lie.”

You think?

As I strolled down the quiet streets, the wind howled like embellishment and not a busker to its name. A man emerged from the small alley that runs beside Eason’s bookshop. He was huddling against the storm, stopped, greeted,

“Jack? Jack fucking Taylor?”

I wanted to say,

“As I live and breathe.”

But, you know, too facile.

He asked,

“You going to a funeral?”

Now I laughed, said,

“You are a man of deep discernment.”

He went,

“What?”

I moved past him and he shouted,

“How are you fixed?”

Meaning, have you money to spare, to lend or give?

I handed him my wallet and he went,

“Is this a joke?”

I said,

“With a killer line.”

Nimmo’s pier was at the very end of the Claddagh, overlooking the bay, and not one swan to be seen. During fierce weather, you would see swans huddled against the walls of the dock. Not a one.

Like the monkeys deserting Gibraltar perhaps?

I managed, despite the ferocious wind, to reach the end of the pier and braced myself against the wall. One of the things I have loved about cinema is the long tracking shot. I imagined a lens framing a small figure, stark against the granite...

And then the camera pans away, higher and higher, like desperate hope, showing a futile figure in a futile coat, signifying nothing of note or comment.

It amazes me that suicide has been called a cowardly act. Man, it takes real balls to even walk right to the precipice.

Some lines moved in my mind

Not with a bang

But a whimper.

Shouted,

“I don’t fucking do whimper.”

My words caught on the wind, framed and cast among the rocks that were sentries to the Atlantic Ocean.

I nearly laughed as I realized I’d forgotten to take a drink. I took the gun out of my pocket, let it rest against my leg, thumbed the hammer back, relishing yet again the comforting clunk of the action. Like an apprentice Zippo.

I continued to look toward America and felt the gun tremble a little. Would I sneak up on myself, so to speak, the left hand not knowing what the right planned?

I asked,

“Is that it?”

And

Answered,

“On the other hand...”