Brian O’Dowd was born in Dublin. He lives in Toronto. O’Dowd is a Professor at the University of Toronto. His novel ‘A Wicklow Girl’, was published in 2017. Available on Amazon etc. Publisher: Tellwell, Canada. In 2019 he won the prestigious Prix Galien 2019 Canadian Science Award, as reported in the Irish Times. https://www.irishtimes.com/news/health/dubliner-wins-prix-galien-2019-award-for-pharmaceutical-research-1.4093350
‘Fast Lane Life’ Ⓒ
Brian O’Dowd
Highfield road, ‘Brits Out’ wall graffiti reflecting 1972 unrest after Embassy burning in Merrion square. Turned up for pub session after, hang out with college girls! Party time! Appreciated Brits TV, penetrated Ireland’s onerous censorship. Next evening Orwell road long black coat, desert boots, cool shoulder hair, got another DJ Gig. Friends drop like flies acquiring girlfriends, aware my brain lacking certifiable adult updates.
What about me?
Half-hearted puberty supplied.
Such angst!
“Music Mike! Country girl party! Let’s Hucklebuck folks!”
Showband aficionado from summer dances in Courtown’s Ballroom. Dublin rag-tail dominated by ‘Top of the Pops’ and accordions. Blue Nun, Mateus full teapot for pioneers. Tipsy cake, fig roll munchies. Vodka bottles a girls do! Lad’s parties BYO and hide ‘em.
“Folks Jim Reeves, Val Doonican, Bachelors, Dubliners, Joe Dolan, Butch Moore, Dickie Rock, the Creatures, beautiful Eileen Reid and Dana, Brendan with Royal! Line up that beats Mersey side. Stepaside girls might give run around, next Larry Cunningham, Leitrim girl request!”
Flower Power stoners persistent heckle. Cool cats dragged them in, reefers far out for country birds. Oil and water. Stand by hue and cry.
“Jefferson Airplane. Dig it?”
“Velvet Underground man.”
“Grand Funk Railroad, Floyd, Jethro Tull”
All brilliant bands, but needed stick with boss girl’s instructions. That night.
“Groovy man, I’ll mix it up a bit, we’ve got three plus hours man. Dig it!”
Blasted ‘Whiskey in the Jaro’.
‘Musha rain dum a doo, dum a da.’
“Psychedelics! Backroom set up, beany cushions. Bongo drum, tapping on tubular bell chimes, discuss great Bangladesh concert LP. Hare Krishna peace. Go now.”
No stones left undone with hippy pot-heads. Being professional supplied my bonus box of rocking LP’s, including Doors, Hendrix, Grateful Dead, T Rex.
“Petting zoo mattress #3 vacated! Use or lose, fingers crossed. Stay young not time for Killmenow estate yet!”
Hazards of busy DJ trade!
Dad’s scouring dark bedrooms,
when his work was over!
Nature’s time underway!
Girls be with Boys.
Stray lad,
Rugby Jacko on his tod.
Chick magnet,
as hooker in scrums.
Clickedy click!
Always better place to be.
‘Goodnight Charlie boy’.
No touchdown girls!
Nice try.
Females detect ‘desirable’,
spied from early years,
mystical magnetism!
Then lads become ‘boy friends’.
Stepping up.
Hallway rebel gal’s gecko eyes exploring upgrades from one they’re snogging.
Changing horses midstream?
Look dance with ones what brung ye.
No jealous brawls!
On my watch!
Finger shoved in my face, ginger hair, red mini-dress. Sassy swaying package, curves appreciated, legs wrapped in satin. Those eyes!
“I’ve a bone to pick with you Michael! Smarty pants telling on me about bedroom lights!”
In dark, blind feeling the blind!
Not seeing what yokes each got.
Mucho excitement!
“Oh it’s Noreen Daly!” Now her very maggot.
Hauled on carpet, my shoulders pushed against bedsit wallpaper. Random occurrence week prior us lads attracted as hot flames for motts party rumors. Victorian door knocked, only hollow hall sound. Bulb switched off in ‘bedroom’ window. Occupants not home being off in paradise. Fair play. My mouth yapped, Rathgar pints fortified spreading wrong date! Downtown dancing more fruitful, not roaming empty streets. Hot spots Sloopys, Arthurs, Zhivago, Four Provinces.
“Looking to party.” Guilty as sin.
Once never bothered ‘girls’, separate schools each with enough challenges. Berlin wall separation unleashed suddenly mesmerized. By each other.
“Can you now request a dance?”
Her give away stare intended for mischief. Hearing yak-yak from lads with steady motts, boy’s understanding advanced. Testosterone long on standby loitering about as stationary fire engine. Now kicked up, like sliding down that pole. During ‘Sad eyed lady of the Low Land’ seemed she was searching for a missing rib. No dog belly rub. Pulled me closer.
All jacked up,
pumping hormones.
Connect to fit as once
Africa and America.
“Only till midnight like Cinderella.” I says.
Unless Superman rotates us backwards.
“Turn into a pumpkin?”
“Brother warned don’t get some bird’s perfume on his jacket, needs it tomorrow. He’s useful locating mushrooms.”
“You’ve other jackets?”
“Nothing fits now with muscles.”
“From Dublin bay, yummy tummy!”
Given her plumage this mocking bird knocking socks off lads. With vodka gollops I went brassy too soon!
“What did boarding school girls do for showers?”
“Goodness need that to know!”
Knee jerk gave jolts to me gadgets.
“We’d umbrellas. Now happy laddy?”
Tread lightly!
Dummy.
Avoid red card, not mattress hoping or hopping. Respect her lay on that landing.
“Michael put on Leonard Cohen’s LP, sit together.”
Hard yards working,
get acquainted.
Invest time,
for tomorrows.
Need rainbow’s end.
On couch cushions, turntable with ‘Bird on a Wire’.
“Can I say something?” She whispered.
We kissed!
Rattled me as
Quasimodo’s belfry.
Karen Carpenter ‘Solitaire’ last dance, with moon beams.
“Come back tomorrow.”
“Yeah pick up the gear.”
“Michael for me.”
“Oh sure!”
That two.
Not alone,
everything changed,
kissed by front door,
key to seal our deal.
Doing a line!
Grand master
speed ahead.
Mind and body.
On board.
“Sorry again I’ve big mouth.”
Although ‘twas rabble rousing got me here.
“Do you know what gets big in my mouth?” She says.
“Teeth.”
“Bubblegum.”
Red ribbon gifted from her hair tied on my thumb.
“Remember me tomorrow.”
Stone-step tripping more than hippies. Country girls seeing stallions and bulls, knew more than city lads. She opened my eyes.
2
Sunday morning parents at church, feeling anxiety slugging Ma’s sherry. Peeling spuds, boiling sprouts, whipping cream, finger burned flipping chicken.
Then she called.
“Michael! Where are you? Can you come? Now!”
Heaven’s sake. Time and place? Planted on my plate. Lucky raining no need to shower. Hot oven off, emotions baked raw. I left a note.
‘Selected to play ball!’
Spearmints from corner shop, ran Roger Bannister mile, steps to door.
Got my shoe in,
Rathgar’s worm caught a bird.
3
Arm in arm over Orwell bridge, girlfriend feeling. Way behind being chaste as virgin pina colada at last birthday.
Doing a line.
An item.
Tigum!
Thrilled!
Dodder riverbank kids fishing. TK/crisps from bridge kiosk, wandered through playing fields. Sporty lads orange juice/biscuit break. Wondering from what earthly bits I’d gathered for bait.
“Gorgeous come, play?”
Brazen goalie. Scoundrel! Newsflash lads motts don’t grow on trees. Sometime Nature throws lads a bone.
“Sinbinned, last night mortalers all the way.” Says I.
“Has me tired. Sorry boys.” Licked salty lips. “Legs still wobbly. Know how it is!”
Display for bowsers. Goalie’s giant gloves, knowing with that mug never felt nothing. French kissed by Dartry waterfall, seeing eye to eye. Feeling that tongue, barely kept hands to myself.
“Fancy chicken.” Says she.
Fingers tingled, feeling addicted.
Dodder pub ex-school lads on high stools. Never bothered with me, now having eyes agog. Roundwood babe on display.
Top of the world.
How is your life?
In your face losers!
I’d not turn my wrist
give ‘em no time of day.
Table river view, great grub.
“Michael tell me about you.”
“Not so much.” Notes if you fancy. “I do like ‘Letter from America’ with Alistar Cooke.”
“What?”
“I’m also very active!”
But less said the better.
“Sure that Waterford music festival, hitched with sleeping bag and tent. Rain from heavens after the concert, had to get back over the bridge to camp site. Pub man supplied a fertilizer bag cut for arms and head, grand style over long bridge. Tent a wash out, lucky farmer’s shed stacked with fire wood. Got a fire going. Well needed.
“With friends?”
Nothing on tip of my tongue.
Walk most planks alone!
One Achilles heel.
Anonymous.
“Loads, jarred singing that night! Great craic! Love Donovan, Lindisfarne, Pentangle, Incredible String band, Fairport Convention. Need knowing for the Gigs. Versatile! Sure now it’s all College lads hanging out with. That’s how it be.”
Out of the blue heard her softly sing. Like Marianne Faithful.
“Wow you should be in a band.”
“Oh I’m that shy. Let me tell you! Since school times our choir gets together at the church. Favorite times! I’m lead singer! Even have boys join these days. You must come hear us!”
That had me in tears of joy!
“Michael where did you go to school?”
“Christian Brothers big in sports almost got to Lansdowne.”
Eyes flickered, scanned my slim self.
“You played rugby?”
“I meant getting tickets for Ireland games. Got cut at 14.”
“Were you upset not to play?”
“With recuperations had to be careful, lost my spot.”
“What you talking about?”
“Circumcised. Family doctor insisted, should have done earlier.”
“My lord never heard anything like that.”
“School yard yobs calling me Mister Shorty.”
“Goodness so cruel, circumcision?”
“No! Slow puberty, last summer got regular.”
Arms-length crush watching on Courtown’s beach bikini Barbara.
Rings on her fingers
bells on her toes,
where ever she goes.
Boy to man now that’s a trip facing head winds and turbulence! Electric razor at 16, thanks Dad! Only ever used to trim the cat.
“Here’s a good joke!” Tells her.
“Armstrong and Legge made first ha’penny.
Cost Arm and a Leg.
See!
Lass confused glancing about, better I’d shut it.
“We’d teacher Mister Bates got such ribbing! Imagine! Girl bullies!”
Gulped beer, wrong way down.
“Desert?”
“Love sweeties but Dad’s picking me up for dinner.”
Return to placid Glen da Loch.
See!
———————————————————————
“Now who’s this lovey dovey!” Busybody Ma owed sweet tidings. “God love her are you keen or what? Not for her I’d not know if your Dad paid phone bills! Bring her so we can proper meet, sounds lovely. Don’t be having her hanging, well look you’ve world’s to choose!”
“Noreen works Tourist agency on Saint Anne street. Don’t see her much, away home every weekend.” Driven me nuts round the bend.
Whole world!
Ma wise up.
Her son?
Who she kidding,
no other’s dialing.
Does she know me
at all?
Noreen’s playground with Bray, Greystones, Brittas, Arklow. Hayfields and shifting sands. Fit lads abound galore never lonely one.
Fair play.
Whatever this deal.
Entitled.
Fly off the handle?
Not me.
She was something else.
Take what I can.
So valued my days.
Couch kissed, often flat mates impeded. Discovered why man of the world Columbus gambled that likely Earth was not flat. Anxieties having Science exams hovering, as Georgie Best more than one goal. Now between several bales of straw. Early giant shoulders lower and lucky. First telescope, new moons! First microscope, tiny bugs! Navigation! Bump into enormous Australia filled with koalas! How to miss them? What’s left? Quarky quirky world, now you see now you don’t. How study them wee articles?
Under duress,
under stress,
Her red dress
haunting me mind.
No less.
Exams had me out of commission. Damper on those couch ways. Gratifications so long delayed. So what’s new with that?
If still in hot woods, playing with fire?
While Nature abhors a vacuum.
6
“Take the bus on next Saturday, parents away at a wedding in Clare. I know what you’ve waited for. Well so have I!” Noreen’s invitation was clear. In that Valley we’ll make out like bandits!
7
‘Cead mile failte’!
Glen Da Loch bus, seats for Celts filled up by tea time banana. Now hauling ample bum tourist, given my bumpy half seat ride!
“Check ruins!” String bean yelled!
Neck on that one! Our sacred Celtic places?
“Where hermit Kevin throw wayward girl in lake.” Tourist request lake-side performance.
‘Sure Ireland don’t have them kind of thing.” Driver explained.
Handed a few bob, got his tired ‘slainte’. Tread boreens to Daly’s, lads lashing sliotars. Bit nervous having fig leaves fall, getting deflowered!
Note on bungalow door.
“Michael problem! Go across to Paddy Flynn’s for night? Spare bed. Explain after. Leave few bob for Paddy? See you! Back in Dublin!”
From over road flat cap neighbour slouches in wellies.
“Mick is it? Howya I’m Paddy. Are you right? Missus says Noreen’s down Rosslare waiting on the ferry.”
“Why?” Puzzled I am.
Recognized bleeding obvious shrug. Sheep dogs obey cock of head, whistle or pointed finger. Now like chicken talk to duck with me.
“Young one!”
Understand? Life on farms? Free spirit, heard ‘cousin exact same only worse’. Say no more. Feeling as loaf tossed off their Sugar hill.
Where that yoke sprout up from?
Wifey dig in his ribs.
“Jainey-mack, Mick don’t mind him. Spare bed if stuck, share room with Luke young fella. Lays off tea time eggs be fine.” Says she.
“Snores to wake ancient monks!” Says Paddy. “Odd yokes pass stormy nights, Vikings still roaming! Sure enough.”
Buy that man pint day or night for such tales.
“Fiver for night. Rashers, toast, pot of tea.” She says.
Paying me the fiver?
Jeez Louise.
In which ‘Da-loch’ to leap and drown?
6
Needed a quick getaway. Thumbed a lorry, suffering bends like underwater aquanauts. Cliff walk pub beneath Bray head. Desperate feelings. Glass of porter, whiskey chaser.
Trips to Bray for rides.
Beach trains, peddle boats, chair to Eagle nest see Aunt’s Howth house.
Mother’s time bathing for ailments, lumbago, gout, pleurisy.
Never no broken heart.
High on the sauce in deep cups tell soused rotund fella.
“Bird blew my mind, now vanished.”
“Chin up old man, never for granite. Still fish in Seven seas. Wish to be young on the town! Never dancing night fantastic under ballroom lights. After school hooked right out of the gate. Briquette bales traveled more with hotter times.”
Drained his pint.
“Cod and chips for missus, otherwise dog housed. Too-dal-oo.”
Man with missus, no one missing me.
Lakes don’t have tides, never be raising any boats.
Trust in her.
Hay roll!
Sky in the pie.
Only cold turkey
as Ma’s Christmas.
Ha!
Seaside hut crashed sheets to the wind, nowt blowing my sails.
Slip in water or stepping stone.
No warning of calamity Jane’s.
Messing up my soul.
Thunder storm, furry yokes sniffed, petrified me as auld bench itself.
Red sun peaked again.
No gra gal mo croi.
I ‘heard’.
Young whippersnapper!
More days in store.
No show Noreen, I dreamt of Lisdoonvarna. Holyhead ferry behind Dalkey Island, short leap to Davy Jones locker.
Knowing what’s missing,
snuggle and kiss.
On my horizon
future at Camden dances.
Being busy tumbling off the rails, on that Dublin train trailing more negatives than paparazzi.
No blinkered short-sighted eye of mine ever again set foot near that wench,
left with feral dogs sniffing.
Came close, not as wanted.
Like Sweepstakes.
End of my rope fretting.
Felt ‘outa here’.
What time Saint Peter’s gate open?
Maybe best to wait.
7
Rathgar chastened by burdens.
Nobody wanted me.
First love over,
Tossed sudden as
barrel over Niagara.
“Back soon! How was Wicklow and Noreen?”
Mother in the kitchen, wishing celebrate something for her life. Reward labors vicariously from slim pickings. To meet girl has son in a tizzy. Justify for her decades of devotion.
“Bit of rain, nothing else.” Pathetic pillock.
For her soul reported yesterday’s weather.
“Good enough.”
Mother’s intuition’ created from love and God’s grace, knew don’t poke. Another weak ending, given previous failed times.
Son’s mental catastrophe bar none.
“Darned brother’s jersey, fit for you.”
Nowt phone messages.
“Had grand time across in Howth. Aunt sent a fiver, that disappointed. Send the postcard. But all happy hearing visiting your Wicklow girl! Filling us with suspense.”
Lost half a tenner, usual expected for visiting.
“Slice of Howth ham and pineapple for sandwich.”
“Thanks.”
“Grated cheese for baked spud. Play your cards you’d be on for Howth. Butter her up. Spot over the bay! She’s on Retreat next month.”
All went south when I wandered outside the pale.
Sand grains down plug-hole marking time left in my direland. Facing cattle boat haul to Blighty.
Life bare as shadow of an Autumn tree.
Just twigs.
Nicked mother’s helper pills. Dialed a ‘girl friend’ seeking understanding. Empathies you’d anticipate.
“What you deserve.”
Off the bat. Need empties stick with milkman.
Ever-after
avoided Wicklow memories,
all lakes and mountains,
sting worse than fish hook.
8
Bell chimed, Una by that door step. Swear hashish odor still detectable.
“Flower how are ye! She’s gone on by Dolphin’s barn.”
“Where?”
“Aye Donal boyfriend, once a right Romeo and Juliet. Now look I know she herself was that surprised. Working in Wales the year or so, mad daft for him, had grand van for boxes galore!”
Eyeing ‘that window’ might fling a brick.
“Once before he was always here, gobbled everything not slice or cornflake left. Them two yokes yakking all night, I’d ear plugs. Size of him eating us out of house and home. Not a bean or salmon tins? With skinny you we’d grand sleeps.”
No bit of paper available, wonky biro pen sausage fingers, scribbled numbers on my arm.
“Oops that’s six not a one. You’d be calling some other one!”
Rubbed it off with that licking finger.
So shoot me now.
“I’m that stuck on her.”
“Right love. Girls call him Ducker Donal. Showed up loaded to gills I tell you, with cash from construction! Did very well over there! Told me herself he’d be getting nothing till promises made. Of course with you in her back pocket I believe that, only for Lent. Obviously.”
Noreen’s head on her shoulders.
“Sent postcard saying I’d be in Wicklow. Did she leave nothing?”
“Ach she did now. Upset if I didn’t give it to you.”
“Right.”
Five minutes shuffling, box of records plonked on step.
“Do you have a car …. now?”
“Bike.”
“She knows where to call, still parents … down the road?”
“Off to Congo with U.N., call Kinshasa barracks collect.” With that babbling I was.
Giving me one wonky eye.
“One more thing they’re to be married.”
Rub it in doncha.
“Bridesmaid! So starving now! Gorgeous fella having looks to spare.”
Bilge hastened disgruntled departure. Needed pub time desperate, not where we’d spent evenings. Substitute drafted to play, I’m truly a decrepit man. Rebel fluttered her plumage, now nested in posher place.
Wicklow windy hills, take her in my arms,
feel breath against my cheek, tell her I love her.
All never did.
Only messing on Rathgar’s couch.
Push and shove musical chairs
winner and whiner.
Cut off at the knees.
Spent those weeks with Mike Heron songs. Better if I’d never seen her at all? No, no, not that! Overall lesson learned, on a bender leave one beer in fridge, morning happy showing iron-will control.
They forever meeting by waters,
I sat by Dodder alone.
9
Childhood sweethearts married, niece played violin. Baby girl out on time.
La de dah.
Kept going on various trails. Years later outside that church. Poor box notes deposit, down that aisle, usurped those years ago. Imagined packed pews, rafter pipe organ playing.
Suit pressed lit few candles,
No priest, or proud parents,
nuptials or celestial celebrations,
Only that travesty day.
No organ playing or plaintive fiddles
only one shawlie witness.
My folks had passed, not down this aisle. No ‘Wicklow Day’ they’d anticipated, only wood creaking, missed ailing father’s cough. Feeling woe-be-gone but got up fancy. Banns never read for such a winter’s day, walked alone. Shawlie took shaky photo, turned out clear as I was shaking. Spied bold as brass plaque on the pew, ‘Noreen and Donal were wed’.
No organ play for me that night.
Of a mind linger longer, with Stations of the Cross. Church bell toiling, traveler lady accosted me.
“Change for my diabetes, dear sir. Few young ones needing corn flakes and the milk.”
Handed a tenner.
“You’re a sad lad.” Still. “Priest here Saturday for confession. Do you have sins with you?”
“I was okay with marrying.”
Bit banjaxed since, trip a stepping stone or walk on by. So I used to love her. What good is that?
“of all words of tongue and pen, saddest are ‘It might have been’.”
By instinct migrating birds leave
make new again some other place.
Knowing lots about some things.
Twigs, dawn and come November.
Why keep returning like bad penny?
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