Cuchulainn
“A drunken ex-boyfriend of mine, a lapsed and devoted Catholic, was convinced I had angels looking after me.”
It’s not really a surprise that Shane MacGowan has died. It’s a bit of a triumph that he lived so long. My mother flew on the same plane with him decades ago and said she’d never seen anyone who looked so unhealthy.
She loved the Pogues. I introduced her to them, and she was thrilled there was a song about Cuchulainn, the wild Irish hero.
The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn. I’ve sat by a lot of sick beds lately and always thought of that song.
Michael would have loved going out that way, decking Blackshirts and spewing up in churches. One last glorious bender.
Aunt Joan not so much, though she was raging at the end. She certainly wanted to deck someone. God in His heaven for not answering her prayers to stay here on earth. Her pastor had brokered a ceasefire by the end.
The ghosts are rattling at the door.
A drunken ex-boyfriend of mine, a lapsed and devoted Catholic, was convinced I had angels looking after me. One night I’d collapsed drunk in Hell’s Kitchen outside my front door, the friction of the sidewalk hiking up my skirt. My stiffed cab driver had scribbled his address out on an envelope in the hopes of later payment and let me out to keep me from puking on his back seat. He’d left before I didn’t make it to my stoop.
Lying there, I wondered if perhaps I’d made some poor choices. I’d gone out with a co-worker, a fellow receptionist, and ended up puking in a planter outside a Soho bar. She’d never come out to check on me, a major violation of Girl Code. I’d sat on the pavement propped again a wall, then leapt into the open door of a cab that appeared in front of me.
Then there I was, cement against my bare legs, head pointing towards the river, rats scuffling in the trash cans by my side.
Above me, two strangers appeared, their heads haloed by the streetlights. A wholesome young couple, inexplicably out walking after midnight. “Do you need some help up?” I did.
They got me to my front door. I lived to tell the tale, as they say.
I helped a man up off the sidewalk the other day. He’d had one too many and forgotten that his knees weren’t what they’d once been. I called a Lyft and the driver and I got him up and into the back. He looked like Sinatra when he was on his feet. He’d given me his wife’s number and I texted her he was on his way.
Then I headed to Paddy’s to tell his buddies not to let him walk home again. The bartender gave me a free beer and the man’s buddies flirted with me, telling me drunken stories of their past glories.
As another Irishman said, we’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. We fall down, we get up, usually with some help. Until we don’t get up. Then we’re taken from this dump we’re in and shoved in the ground.
Angels are at our heads, devils on each side of us. Shane MacGowen dies the same day as Kissinger. Can you hear the rattling death trains, the banshees howling?
I want to grab my Mom out of her madhouse tonight and take her on a bender. Kick windows out. Punch Nazis. Howl and rage and scream.
I’ll bring her Christmas decorations instead. Things to make her smile. I’ll sit next to her on her bed, answer the same question over and over, hug her and say goodbye.
They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains
So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again
At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer
And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair