The Momentum Shifts

Mahoney the bartender shared the news our other mate Brendan could not make it. He roared into the phone:

"The old ball and chain put her foot down boys. I can't escape tonight but the first $100 of drinks is on me."

Brendan put $100 on our tab, making us promise to make good use of it. For the next two hours,  Mahoney fed us Guinness and Jägermeister shots. My claim to discipline drowned in the good cheer and flowing drinks. I took a seat on the bar learning the words to songs that told “the Brits to stick their decommissioning up their arse” and promised to fulfill “the sniper’s promise.”[1]

As a make-shift rebel band assembled to play more songs, another friend Michael stood up and challenged Paddy a contest. I watched on a they traded blows to each other’s rib cages. It was a spontaneous bare knuckle punching match. I aspired to be sober and at the top of my game when I threw punches. I wanted no part of their bravado contest. The band of brothers bruised one another’s ribs for the fun of it. This was truly an Irish pastime.   Mooch pushed another pint my way, yelling over the music

“What are these tinkers up to? These gypsies don’t know how to act do they.”[2]

Hardened Hearts

I looked over at another middle-aged associate of Mooch who they called Meatsy. He too carried his fair share of colonial scars. War-torn and bitter, Meatsy took his wounds out on the night, talking to himself and punching the bar. Mooch fills me in:

“They stew up like a kettle at the bar do they. All these emotions are pouring out. Ya don’t know what they been through. Torture, home invasion, the families interrogated, water boarded, seen his best man get his brains blown out in front of him.”

The images took me back to Managua where veteran Sandinista leaders who had survived an American holocaust also drowned their battle fatigue in drink. Too many of yesterday’s war heroes are today’s alcoholics. The war is over but victory is still distant; the anger burn in the heart’s memory.

Bredan Hughes

Brendan Hughes, “The Dark” legendary IRA commander of West Belfast

Never Drink on an Empty Stomach

The hours passed; I was in an altered state of consciousness. I walked out of the pub for fresh air. When I stumbled outside, a young woman made her way down the block, smoking a cigarette. I faintly remember she had piercings and short hair with some green streaks through it. It was impeccable timing because there was not another human soul for miles in those icy, unsympathetic streets. I saw the smoke ascend from her lips in the punishing, acrimonious winds.

What happened next is a blur. I asked the stranger if she could drive me home. I forked over the keys to her and sat in the passenger’s seat of my Jeep Cherokee. As she pulled off, it occurred to me that I had no idea where we were going, why I had left my compatriots and who was driving my car? I asked if she could kindly park to our right. We had only driven a few blocks. Fortunately, she obliged. I didn’t comprehend what was transpiring. I was a prisoner to her intentions but fortunately she was as much of a free spirit as I was. She handed me my keys.  I asked her if she wanted to join us inside the pub for some Irish music. Paddy was chuckling outside smoking a fag. As we walk back in I whispered to him “Weren’t you going to intervene ya bastard?” Smiling he replies: “Nah yas were having the time of your life. Too many cooks spoil the broth.” I walked back in accompanied now by the young woman who appeared to be Puerto Rican or Latina. She was now apart of our festival of Irish liberation.

My head was spinning. Mahoney had a half slice of pizza left over. I gobbled it down. Paddy wanted to keep drinking and singing but I begged for mercy. By now, Mooch had adopted the girl from outside into our circle. Her name was Stephanie; she was fascinated by the singing in Gaelic. She asked me if I could teach her the Irish language. I could barely stand up much less teach her a language I knew three words in. I yell out “Tiocfadh ár lá!”[3] Paddy intervened and professed to be a master of our ancestral tongue even though he did not have but the same three words under his belt. Wasting no time, the imposter and charlatan rattled off pure jargon: “Ock-er, cloc-ker, fivemiletown mahogany banister.” He then spouted out the names of some other types of wood, some carpentry terms and Irish freedom slogans. Stephanie was duly impressed. She wanted to hear more. What else could our man pull out of his hat?

At some point, Stephanie stood up from the bar stool to use the bathroom. She never came back. She had disappeared as fast as she had arrived. Perhaps the Irish gaiety was more than she had bargained for. I looked over at Paddy “What’s the craic? Where is she?” He shed some homophobic light on the situation. “Ahh she had piercings and short hair. Must have been a dyke.” Even in my inebriated state, I remember being taken aback by his remarks. I look at him as if to say where do you come up with this stuff? Who even uses these terms? But I couldn’t muster up the ideological strength to challenge him beyond that.

The time had come for us to make our exit as well. But not before Mooch, Meatsy, Shank and the crew had unfurled a Union Jack (a British flag) and paraded us outside to set fire to it. How lovely to see the flames ascend over the butcher’s apron! A fitting last gesture on what was a fine night.

There were endless pleas that we stay longer. Two sixty-year-old Republicans —  Squeely and Plug — questioned my manhood and Irishness. I felt so noxious by then that not even James Connolly himself could have kept me in that bar. We said our rounds of goodbyes and headed back out to battle the cold.

An Inglorious Exit

Luckily, Paddy and I were less than fifteen blocks from his basement studio. It was a four or five minute ride. If we had any sense about us, it would have been a ten minute walk. But there was no common sense or clear thinking to be found in the crisp, late winter air. The drink was in and the wits were out.

We were mangled. I handed him the keys and put my seat back to try to sleep off the hideous head-spinning

When I opened my eyes, it was like British flying saucers were headed straight at us in the oncoming traffic. Over the next two hours I would intermittently wake up, ask Paddy to pull over, open the door, throw up half in the street, half in my Jeep, then toss my head back to sleep again. What is remarkable is that I remember doing this some five or six times. And every time I asked the same question “Our fella, how far are we from ya spot?” Every time, Paddy’s answer was the same: “It’s right up here.”

The truth was the bastard had no idea where he was going. We didn’t advance. We were headed back in time. We only got more lost. One drunken sailor was leading another further and further out to sea. The sun was beginning to rise and there was still no sign of his street. I was supposed to be in the classroom at NYU in another four hours to teach Race, Ethnicity, Class and Gender.

After a two and a half hour voyage — through half of Queens and Brooklyn — we made it. Paddy wrestled me out of the car and dragged me into a room he rented with two Indian lads and threw me on an old couch. I wanted relief from one of the worst feelings imaginable. As I drifted to sleep, I wondered if I had undone all of the yoga from the day before? What about my cleanse? I set my alarm. It was 6 a.m. and I had to lecture at 9:30 a.m. in the Manhattan.

The Drums Weighs Heavy the Day After

When the alarm sounded, I struggled towards the shower. I was a mess but had to somehow facilitate my class. I saw Brendan’s texts: “How she cuttin’ ye big cunt? How was last night?” I wrote back “ya evil bastard you I never felt so hung over in my life. I’m going to kill you.” Brendy’s next text said “Well as long as no one is dead or in jail sounds like yas had a fine night lol.” That about summed it up. (1.000 apologies to the American reader but the word “cunt” is only 1/800th as offensive in the Irish tongue as it is here in the states. Because everyone is a cunt in Ireland, your mother your father your uncle and everyone else. It’s playfully used among friends.)

After fumbling around the bathroom and splashing cold water in my face,  I wondered how I would find my car? I roamed the streets for over thirty minutes going up and down the parallel and adjacent streets until I found my car parked half on a curb, half blocking someone’s driveway. There was a $135 orange ticket under my windshield wiper for the infraction. Fuckin Paddy! And where was our trustworthy chauffeur? I had no idea where he ended up sleeping.

What a night! How the band of brothers made my pain go away that night. A hangover will definitely distract you from the pain of a break-up. The boys did for me what no amount of yoga or Brazil nut milk could do. The whole thing was cathartic.

I made it to class only a few minutes late. I gave my students some writing prompts and made sure not to make eye contact with anyone. I’m not sure where I was in the kaleidoscope of still piss drunk and hung over. ‘

I looked out at the students. Two big smiles emerged a midst a sea of serious, reflecting writers. Brendan yells out “What about ya lad?” Did I fail to mention Paddy and Brendan were my undergraduate students at NYU? I don’t think they would ever see their professor quite the same again. I wasn’t sure whether I should give them extra credit or fail them after that unforgettable night.

[1] Decommissioning is a reference to Good Friday agreement in which the British government and their colluding paramilitary outfits in the north of Ireland appealed to the “leadership” of the IRA to turn in their arms in return for political recognition and a seat at the table of neoliberalism. The sniper’s promise is a reference to IRA volunteers who –compelled by patriotism- were forced to leave home to defend their land and people against fascist attacks on Catholics.

[2] Reference to Irish traveler families are popularly and disparagingly known as gypsies or tinkers.

[3] Irish saying meaning “Our day will come,” as in Ireland will soon be free.

1 COMMENT

  1. I am very sadden about how families are separated and destroyed for no apparent reason, I can also here a tone of a person who is pissed off and unhappy about the affairs of human beings on this planet. So, that night gave you and your friends the opportunity to bring everything off of your shoulders. May their souls rest in peace whoever died struggling for justice.

  2. “The Band of Brothers” leave us a moral for us to think about. In my point of view we are all human and we all stumble at some point in life for whatever reason. I understand that we all have expectations from our professors as well as our elders. However, I think it is okay to know our professors outside of the classroom. Not in a disrespectful way, but how Prof. Shaw shared with Paddy and Brendan. In my point of view, that only show us professors are similar to us as well. But it can also lead to an unpleasant situation which could change both people expectations, professors of students and vice-versa.

  3. This story is wild but Feviduary’s comment made me think of how I viewed adults when I was younger. When I was a kid, I thought that adults had their whole life together and I thought that adults knew the answer to everything. One day I asked my mother a question and when she told me that she didn’t know the answer, I was beyond shocked. It changed my perception of adulthood. I had a very narrow and black and white view about how adults should act. As I grew older I realized that the world is not as black and white as my imagination led me to believe. With that being said, It sounded like you felt uncomfortable with how your students viewed you following that night. But I’m sure your students are adults and they understand that you are an adult too, and that part of being an adult is simply being human. Which includes being imperfect and having one of those nights. That night was necessary because it clearly taught you something. I hope I have a night that crazy that I can learn from one day too.

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