This was initially a stand-alone short story, but it turned out to be the impetus for the novel I'm working on now. It was to be the first chapter of the book, but I had to chuck it since it doesn't fit in with the new structure of the novel. Also, I changed the writing style and the character of Mac has now evolved into something else. But here it is in its initial form:
Mac Malone was moving his bowels with considerable difficulty when he realized it was over. A great sense of despair overtook him with such disturbance that he was temporarily distracted from the physical pain caused by mutton sandwiches consumed the previous afternoon. All of the decisions he had made in his life, every action and reaction executed, every opinion cultivated, had been driven by the one motivator which commonly tripped men into their graves. He was awed by the discovery. He had achieved his current status as the most learned and vocal and corpulently opinionated of all those he knew as a result of his pursuit of the Almighty, that cursed strand which manipulated his body and mind to drink from the pool of excess. Fear, the ruling power in the kingdom of man, was a lesser spur in his belly than this wretched obsession that impelled his every move. With optimistic despondency, he concluded that only one drastic action could relieve him of the terrible weight crippling his soul.
His emotional burden must be destroyed.
He had to throw it away.
His life must end.
Mac finished his business briskly, yanked his trousers to his waist, and ran out of the alley toward the Eden Quay.
Kooky Cullen met him as he turned the corner onto the sidewalk and nearly knocked him to the concrete. “Whoa there, me boy!” he exclaimed as his arms grabbed Mac’s shoulders and interrupted his movement. “Now what’s got into you? Looks like you’re on the lam or somethin’! Cops after ye?”
Mac’s patience had gone to tea, yet he did his best to maintain the image of calm and confidence which draped men of his stature. “For your knowledge and only yours, Kook, I am on a mission! No time to explain now, for duty calls! But rest assured; you shall know what I have done when every man under the fair city’s moonlight stops to speak of it tonight. Now unhand me, old friend, for I have a fire burning within me and it begs to be given water!” He quietly attempted to escape Kooky’s grasp and continue his final journey, but old Kooky Cullen had been a professional boxer in his prime and age had done little to diminish his scrapper’s strength. He tightened his grasp on Mac’s shoulders and inquired further.
“What do you speak of, lad?” he asked, breathing heavy whiskey into Mac’s face. “You got the skitters again, is that it? Why don’t you go back in the alley there and finish it off?”
Mac’s desire to flee was overcome by his need to set his history right. “It’s not my movements I’m talking about, man! It’s something bigger than that!”
“Bigger than your movements? God a-Mighty!” Kooky’s eyes swelled with visions and his grip absently kneaded bruises into Mac’s arms.
“Look,” Mac pleaded, “unhand me and I’ll tell you the rest. Please, friend!”
Kooky’s visions melted and sensation returned to his hands. “Oh, dear.” He freed Mac. “Didn’t hurt you there, did I, son?”
“I’ve had a…a revelation, understand? It has hit me something fierce, and I can see no other cure than what I go now to do.”
Kooky’s watery eyes floated over Mac’s features and he said enthusiastically, “Can I help?”
Mac smiled. “You can, dear Kooky Cullen. Do you recall the words you spoke at my poor Father’s wake? I hope you’ll raise your glass tomorrow and drink a toast to both me and my departed spirit with as much aplomb and vigor as you did that dark summer day.”
Slowly, Kooky’s mind performed the math necessary to make head and tail out of what was being presented him. His eyes inflated with understanding. “Me boy, me boy! Your news astounds me! However, I am not fool enough to calm ye with words, for I believe that no words can change a settled mind. What I will do, friend, is shake your hand and wish you success in your endeavor. May your soul be safe in Heaven before the Devil wakes!”
Mac placed his free hand over Kooky’s to calm his crushing handshake. “No need for that, but I will thank you for the sentiment and say cheery-bye! Must run!” With that, he broke free of Kooky’s grasp and continued his jog toward the beckoning waters.
Sweet Emily Moore stood at a different corner each day, selling the basket of vegetables she had nicked the previous night from various local gardens and making reservations for her work in the late evening. Often times she found herself with little rest, as she was a hard-working lass and had never yet turned down a gentleman. After thirty-six years, her face was kept vibrant and beautiful by an ages-old secret known by many yet practiced by few, and it was this beauty which kept her appointment book full, for certainly it was due not to her colorful vocabulary nor her aberrant demeanor.
Mac was jostling his way around the midday crowd when Sweet Emily Moore spotted him and called out. He grinned at her the way a schoolboy grins at his lovely schoolmarm, then waved and continued on until her shout obstructed his path.
“’Ay there, Michael Malone! Don’t you run past here without stopping to greet a lady!”
Feeling obligated and not without a yearning for one farewell kiss, Mac dodged through a swarm of pedestrians and landed at Sweet Emily Moore’s side. She took a close look at him and spoke in a hushed tone. “Great God and Baby Jesus, you look somethin’ awful! You’re sweating like a blasphemous field hand and – for obscenity’s sake – you reek of a copper’s bollix at the end of a hot summer’s day! Get downwind ‘a me, and quick!”
Mac wiped his face on his coatsleeve and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “I’ll not be listenin’ to you if all you got to say is harsh words, Sweet Emily Moore. I have very important business that needs tending and I can’t rightly stand here and accept arrows from the bow of your lips. But sweet lips they are, and I ask if only you grant me one final touch of them before I go to do what I must.” He puckered his own lips and drew near.
Sweet Emily Moore smacked his mouth three times – pack!pack!pack! -- and said, “Get away, heathen! You go to Kate Flanaghan’s bathhouse and clean up, then come and see me! For the sake of the Pope Father’s blessed movement, why can’t you men hold yourselves in reserve around a lady?” She wiped her open hand on her skirt and took a step back. “But tell me, now, what’s this business that’s so important and strips you of your manners?”
Mac straightened his coat proudly and proclaimed his intent. “It is nobility and morality which drives me to fate, my dear. I am off to the Liffey to end my life as we know it. And I’ll thank you very kindly to offer me your salutation and present me with a kiss to help ward off those spirits that wish me harm along my way.” He again offered his warm mouth to be received.
Pack!Pack!Pack!
Mac pulled his head back sharply and rubbed his swelling lips.
Sweet Emily Moore was horrified. “You dirty louse! I cannot believe you’re going to leave me alone in this wretched world to fend for meself! One of my best and most loyal, you are! Haven’t I given you everything you ever asked, within reason? Didn’t I take you into my dwelling when the cold wind blew? Surely you cannot forget how I pinched Constable Dewey’s boots to cover your own filthy toes! Heathen! You will not leave me, you hear? You cannot do this which impels you to your doom! Think of me, you grand fart of a man!” She threw her arms around him and her tears washed a patch of pink into his brown neck.
Mac held her and stroked her hair, then pulled his head back to look in her eyes. Sweet Emily Moore watched him through her tears, then took a breath and kissed his lips. It was a kiss more intimate than would normally be witnessed along Marlborough Street in the afternoon, and one lady passing gasped and shielded the eyes of her child lest he be stricken by lurid thoughts at such a young age, but it made Mac feel warm and good and it made Sweet Emily Moore feel empowered. She finally broke the embrace and replaced the air in her lungs.
“I’ll thank you now, Sweet Emily Moore, for the finest kiss that has ever been laid upon a man by a woman.”
She gazed up at him and whimpered, “Can’t you leave me with a penny or two so’s to help sate my grief, good Master Malone?”
“Ah, I wish I could, fair maiden, however it’s money has caused my pain and money which now pushes me to receive my lot.” He grasped her hand tightly. “I will, however, leave you with my very highest regards, and a wish that I shall one day see you again.” He kissed her hand and withdrew.
Sweet Emily Moore’s eyes dried quickly and she hollered after his retreating image, “Not too soon, you odorous bastard!”
Mac ran and ran, carving his way through the hawkers and browsers and rabble, until he at last stood before his destiny: the O’Connell Street Bridge. He crossed the busy intersection without heeding the pedestrian signals and was honked at by many angry and impatient drivers.
“Oy, you! Get out of the way!”
“If we must play by the rules, than so must you!”
“Hurry yer britches, you horse’s arse!”
Many noontime travelers were made aware of Mac’s crossing, including Dribble O’Doole, who lay against the north end of the bridge and thoughtlessly blew shrill notes from his pennywhistle. Dribble picked himself up with difficulty as Mac approached.
“Why, Mac, you old bear! Haven’t seen you in ages! You’re looking fine, fine indeed! How goes it? How is your fine Mother?”
Mac saw Dribble and wished he hadn’t. “My Mother, God be with her, has been resting in eternal slumber these last seven years, old man. Do I know you?” He walked on with determination.
Dribble followed close behind. “Oh, you strapping lad of wit and wisdom, of course you know me! ‘Tis I, Dribble O’Doole, your Father’s best friend and your very own Godfather! Can’t you say you remember me?” He tugged roughly on Mac’s sleeve until Mac was forced to halt.
Mac sighed heavily and responded, “Yes, I remember, I remember. I cannot stay to talk, though, for I have reached the end of my pilgrimage and my future awaits me over the side of this bridge.” He walked several steps more to the center of the bridge and steadied himself against its guard as he peered over into the river below.
Dribble kept at his ankles and proclaimed, “Saints alive! You can’t mean it! But you’re just a lad of forty-three! Such youth and smarts and respectability, you can’t go through with it!” He stopped talking and thought for a moment. His brow furrowed, his mouth twitched, his eyes looped about in their sockets. Then,
“Why, listen to me blabber about, would you? I’m sayin’ to you what everyone’s always said to me! I can’t believe it! Don’t you listen to me now! Forget what I said! It don’t matter anyway. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll join ye!” With that, Dribble steadied himself on the bridge guard and peered over into the river below.
Mac was stubborn. “Don’t you try to stop me, old man,” he said. “This is an act I must perform to prove to my friends, flock, and brethren – and even mine enemies – that my will shall not be ruled by foreign indulgences nor shall my character be spoilt by sin and vice!” He turned to face the river and bellowed for all to hear, “I am going to hurl my pain and suffering into the depths of this great River Liffey, and no man shall interrupt my destiny!”
Dribble’s mouth watered with pride. “Grand, man, that’s just grand!” Mac started to lift his leg in order to gain higher ground atop the bridge rail, but Dribble clasped his arm and drew him back. “But don’t you think, Mac, that the Ha’penny Bridge might do us a fine job better than this one? It has a passage greater in elevation and might lend us a bit more force when we hit the water. Just a thought.”
Mac stopped to consider. “Indeed, ‘tis a good and kind thought, Dribble, however I believe this bridge will do me fine, for the structure matters not, as long as the water still runs beneath.” He again lifted his leg and in moments stood tall atop the bridge rail, looking triumphantly into the flowing water below. Dribble conquered the climb also, albeit with much greater difficulty, for his leg was short and would not lift high enough to gain stability, and the muscles in his arms suffered from neglect and therefore took some time to lift his posterior to the rail, his feet scraping the concrete madly in search of a foothold. From there, he utilized Mac’s left leg as his crutch and lifted himself up until he stood proudly beside his Godson with saliva flowing and heart pumping. “Shall we give it a count?” he cried out against the rising wind.
Mac lifted a heavy bulk from his coat pocket and said, “No need for that!”
“One…” said Dribble O’Doole with great expectation.
Mac said, “I know the count and it is great!” He raised the bulk in his fist and glared at it. “Fifteen thousand pounds demonizing my soul!”
“Two…” Dribble licked his lips deliciously.
Mac stared into the flowing Liffey and proclaimed, “Mighty River, swallow the death which I hold in my hand and, in doing so, grant me my own rebirth!”
“Three!”
Dribble howled like a wolf and jumped as Mac sent the roll of large notes to find their demise in the water’s darkness. They hit the water simultaneously and Dribble was immediately caught in a rapid current and bobbed his way roughly toward Dublin Bay. The band holding the pound notes together held fast and caused the money to sink to the river’s bottom, where it was quickly consumed by the thick layer of grit and grime which had accumulated atop the riverbed over the centuries.
Mac’s mouth opened to the heavens and gasped like a newborn finding its first breath. His cry was heard round the old city, a wondrous wail of relief and renew. Indeed, it was so great that all the tramps and tarts and vagabonds within three miles of the O’Connell Street Bridge spoke proudly of it around the communal fires as they picked at their evening supper.
Mac hopped down from the bridge rail with the agility of a child. He grinned and slapped his breast and sniffed at the city air as though it were laced with the sweetness and purity of the country breeze. His virgin eyes spied the emerald green door of Casey O’Neill’s pub across the street and he was struck with a glorious plan.
“Come, Dribble! Let us celebrate this awakening with a pint of our country’s finest black ale! I’ll beg you to loan me a few punts, though, as I seem to be a bit short at the moment.” He hiked up his trousers, stuck out his glorious chest, and led his own way across the road to detail his humble story to the friends and strangers who awaited his introduction within the warmth and intoxication of Ireland’s finest comfort.
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