The
vagabonds of Dublin are a curious lot.
As a whole, the city's dejected multitudes are far from being the sort
of downtrodden to have been conquered easily by vice, as those unfortunates you
might find residing the streets of, say, Amsterdam, nor has their position in
society often been caused by faults of personality or judgment, as best
describes the derelicts of, for instance, Paris. Whereas greed, lust, pride, fear, jealousy, sloth, and
gluttony are all exceedingly popular causes of vagrancy in America, they seldom
apply to those unhoused citizens who roam the streets in Dublin.
On
the contrary, the underclassed citizens of Dublin are, in large, a
good-natured, jovial, and upstanding group of people. They care for and nurture those in need. They gather and eat together, drink
together, and bother to know about one another. They endeavor to preserve and defend the culture and virtue
of the city, their city, and help
maintain the optimism, humor, and humanity that thrive throughout Ireland. Unlike the destitute of other cultures,
these good men and women find themselves without shelter due not to sins of the
flesh or of the conscience, but due merely to misfortune and circumstance.
The
exception to this is Mac Malone.
A
fleet of words shine out and beg to describe Mac Malone, the kind of words that
are often used to describe feculent farm animals or bitterly divorced spouses
or criminals who viciously poke fun at their own Mothers. They are not pleasant words, nor are
most of them spoken in the presence of children or people we respect. These pages and your mind will best
maintain their virginal luster by being sheltered from the adjectives commonly
applied to this man, therefore it is necessary to present Mac to you honestly,
without refinery, and allow your own judgment to find words to illustrate his
character.
On
a foggy and unusually silent night, under a moon whose luminescence could not
penetrate the atmospheric duvet which bundled around it, Mac Malone stood on
the Father Mathew Bridge over the River Liffey, emptying his bladder onto a
drowning man. To his credit, Mac
did not know there was a gentleman flailing directly under the stream of his
urine, nor was he aware that this man was struggling to stay afloat by
frantically scraping his fingers along the side of the bridge, searching for
something steady to grasp. All Mac
knew was that the sounds traditionally associated with tinkling into the Liffey
were not audible tonight; in their stead were noises of intermittent splashing plus
the deep, hollow resonance of an umbrella as rain falls over it or dribbles of
water as they gently soak wet canvas or perhaps even human flesh. In addition to this was what sounded to
be a pair of lustful frogs buggering the wits out of each other.
The
frogs were, in fact, the quietly pleading protestations of Mr. Shea Heaney as
he struggled to maintain a breathable position above water. The matter of how Mr. Heaney ended up in the river, fully clothed and
lacking knowledge of buoyancy, is such a complex and tangential story that even
Mr. Heaney was bewildered by his predicament. Suffice it to say that he was in quite a pickle.
Still,
he did not lack a survival instinct, and as such was able to take in enough air
between submersions to give a bleat powerful enough to be heard by his
assailant. Mac looked down his
torso to see his manhood lined up directly under this quietly floundering man
as a rifle sight lined up under its target, and the steady stream that flowed
out of him hit its mark squarely in the forehead. Startled and confounded, Mac jumped back and snorted and his
water was momentarily ceased by a locking of muscles. A moment of disbelief passed before Mac could look down into
the river again. When he did, he
stared for several moments as the man below bobbed under and over the
waterline, gasping each time his mouth surfaced and choked for air.
Finally,
Mr. Heaney was able to stay afloat long enough to speak. "Help!" he cried.
Mac
was not accustomed to being spoken to by strangers, but when he looked about he
saw no other sign of life. He
looked back to the man and said, "You there! The one in the river!
Is it me you're addressin'?"
Heaney's
awkward gesticulations were momentarily ceased by incredulous disbelief. When again he found enough momentum to
speak, he repeated his cry as before.
"Help!"
"What's
with the flappin' of yer arms there?" Mac asked. "Attemptin' to fly in that water, are ye?"
Heaney
managed to grab a finger hold between several cracks in the stone of the bridge
and held to it with the last of his strength. He coughed water from his lungs and looked beseechingly at
his potential rescuer. "I'm
attemptin' to keep a firm grasp on livin'!" His eyes were swollen with terror. "Won't you help me?"
"Help
you to do wha?"
"Help
me up to the safety of dry land, man!"
"You
want me to help you get out of there, then?"
"Please!"
There
stood between the two men roughly six meters of sheer stone and Mac put his
hands on his hips and said reproachfully, "Well how do you want me to go
about doin' that?"
"I
do 'na know!" Shea Heaney
hawed as he thought of how best to be saved. "Find a rope, sir, and throw it to me!"
Mac
rolled his eyes and shouted down, "Heavenly Christ! Don'tcha know I finished my nightly
feast but moments ago? I cannot go
runnin' for rope or anything else right now, I'm likely to be brought to my
knees with the horrors of twistin' an' crampin' muscles tearin' through my
belly! Besides," he called,
"this fine body of mine, although strong and fit, is suffering from an
interminable exhaustion brought on by said supper and I would not be able to
find it in me to exert my rapidly weakening stamina simply to accommodate you."
He rubbed the belly that spilled over his cardboard belt like an octopus cinched with twine and scratched at his large
buttocks.
A
moment passed during which Mr. Heaney shot an uncomfortable silence in Mac's
direction. Finally, he said,
"Then run – or walk, if you must – to find a cop!"
The
overwhelming gall of the man losing his trembling grasp on the column below was
enough to rile Mac's furor.
"Blasphemous dog! It
is a fact that several precincts of our local Garda have reason to wreak havoc
with my fundamental rights of freedom.
How would that make me look, if I grabbed a copper in order to help you
and the swine wound up locking me away for a few alleged discretions in me past
-- discretions which I vehemently deny!
Eh? A man of my stature and
prominence has no place behind the impenetrable walls of a station
house!" Mac blew his nose
into the torn sleeve of his overcoat and spat on the ground. "In fact, it would not surprise me
in the least to discover that you yerself are working in tandem with the
coppers and that you bein' down there with your arms and legs a-flailin' is all
part of an operation real covert-like to bring me in!"
Mac
spat again and added, "Curses to ye, 'ya stoolie!"
Shea
Heaney lost his grip and slid back into the murky danger threatening his
well-being. His body bobbed in
place to the rhythm of the current and, after a long moment of thrashing and
swinging, he was again able to find a curl in the stone to cling to.
"Please,
good sir!" he wept as his mind searched for a plan, "At the very
least...yes! Yes, there will be a
rubbish bin there on the bridge!
Grab the bag inside and empty it!
Then fill it with air and tie it shut. Throw it down to me so I can at least have something to keep
me afloat! Hurry, man, I implore
you!" Then, to himself,
"God in Heaven, can there be no soul other than this wretch walking the
streets of the city tonight?"
Mac
turned and saw the bin, saw it was overflowing with garbage piled high, a
mountain of filth and sludge and toxins and obscenity. Mac took several steps toward the basket,
wary and unsure, stepping lightly so as not to disturb whatever lay within, and
a trifling breeze caught a ball of crumpled paper and caused it to fall from
the top of the pile and Mac turned and bolted back to the lip of the bridge to
shake his encrusted finger with blackened and horny nails at the stranger
below.
"Send
me to the Gates of Hell, you would!
Want me to venture into the soul of dirt and depravity just to help you
out from your swim, eh? Who knows
what vile creatures lay in wait within that basket to bite and tear at my
flesh! And to demand that I foul
my own fine clothing on top of it all!" He raised two offending fingers at the man below and an
elbow soiled with grime protruded through a frayed hole worn through his
sleeve.
The
silence that surrounded them was broken by leisurely-approaching footsteps and
Mac's attention was pinched from the man in the river by two forms in the
distance. His colorless eyes, set closely together and separated only by a thin
and sharply-pointed nose, saw through the night and knew that one of the shapes
belonged to his darling true, Miss Sweet Emily Moore. She was strolling beside what appeared to be a young man. Mac saw the silhouette of the man and
his mind filled in the patches that were not visible, which was most of
him. The man was young and
handsome and charming and sexually potent and the very pit of Mac's body
instantly churned and burned. His
neck snapped to rapt attention and he promptly forgot about Mr. Shea Heaney
bobbing precariously in the river below.
Several
minutes earlier, Sweet Emily Moore was out walking her nightly beat when she
was joined by old Constable Cooney, who was walking his. They did this on most evenings in order
to maintain familiarity and to while away the evening lulls. Mostly, though, they did this to adhere
to the popular adage, "know thy enemy." Although Sweet Emily Moore and Copper Cooney, as he was known,
were on friendly and familiar terms and certainly meant no harm to one another,
their respective professions historically tangled in conflict and dispute, as
had their ancestry. A long line of
Cooneys had been squabbling with a long line of Moores about ethics and law and
basic human nature, yet, despite generations of hooting and hollering, the sons
and grandsons and great-grandsons of Cooneys were still able to sit down at the
end of a day with the daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters of
Moores and laugh about their differences over a pint.
As
it was still early in the week, Copper Cooney was bored, with little to focus
his professional attention on.
Scrappers, thieves, beaters, looters, gamblers, peepers, and vandals
traditionally did not become riled enough to act until later in the week. Passion was the one crime that enjoyed
no period of rest, a fact which kept Sweet Emily Moore's appointment book quite
full throughout the week and provided her with little respite to ease her
stings and sores. The greatest
furloughs she was likely to find came between The Quick and The Belated, which
afforded her time now to enjoy the company of Copper Cooney, a man who, at the
sprightly age of sixty-two, was the eldest and therefore most experienced of
the beat walkers.
The
Constable was now imparting snippets of wisdom to Sweet Emily Moore. "If I only teach you one thing in
life, lass, let it be this," he routinely repeated this phrase before each
lesson was delivered, "do not allow your passions to overtake your
sensibilities. Follow your heart,
not your urges. Thousands have
passed through the irons of my jail and precious few arrived who were not
motivated by their own wanton desires." He gave her a sanctimonious, sideways glance through the
cheaters on his nose and smiled proudly.
Sweet
Emily Moore blew her nose onto the street. "Bollix!" she cried. "What'ya want me to do, die of boredom?"
She grabbed his bum playfully and squeezed. A startled cry three octaves higher than Cooney's usual tone
pierced the quiet and caused him to blush and be flustered. "Ah, woman!" he whispered
shrilly as he smoothed his trousers.
"Control that ungodly hand and behave! Here comes me pup!"
A
young man had emerged from the fog and was walking briskly toward them. His torso leaned slightly forward and
each of his feet jerked ahead and scraped the sidewalk as though their purpose
was not to advance his motion, but to catch him and prevent him from toppling
to the ground. He gave an awkward
appearance, as a coordinated drunk walking in the face of a fierce wind, and
strangers routinely assumed he was suffering from frayed nerves or shell shock
the way his eyes darted suspiciously about. Regardless, he was built well with squared shoulders and a
chiseled jaw and his peacoat wrapped snugly around his frame and defined a
density of muscle not to be trifled with.
"A
pleasant evening, Officer Bonner!"
Copper Cooney took the young man's hand and tried to prove his virility
by crushing it, but Bonner barely noticed.
"Officer
Cooney," said Bonner hurriedly, "I've just passed a row outside
Dooley's, four blocks that way.
Come with me!" He
headed off, leading the way, until he noticed he marched alone. Cooney stood still with Sweet Emily
Moore, chuckling and sucking his teeth and looking fatherly.
"Where are you going?" asked Cooney sardonically.
Master
Bonner lost the confidence in his voice.
"To break up the fight," he said. Then, with the tone of a scolded child, he added cautiously,
"And. To. Enforce. The law?"
Copper
Cooney stepped forward and draped his arm over Bonner's shoulders. "Enforce the law, eh? Ah, young Bonner! If I only teach you one thing in life,
let it be this: we Irishmen are a hard-workin' people. We are an easy-goin' people, yet we are
very set in our ways. At the end
of a difficult day, we like to join our mates and have a good time. Don't you agree? And sometimes as we are havin' a good
time, we are called upon by some numb-arse to defend our ideals, or perhaps the
ideals of a loved one. Are you
followin' me? Words get heated,
curses are thrown, and before ye know it, the fists come a-flyin'. I tell ye, I meself have been in quite
a few doozies, mostly in me youth, of course." Here he dropped his head and gave his sanctimonious look
over the top of his glasses.
"Does that make me a criminal? Hmmm? You might
say that scrappin' is in the blood of us all. Heredity, it is.
You an' me, we're proud, we're passionate, we'll fight for what we hold
to be true, as will our neighbors.
So tell me, who are we to stifle our brethren simply for bein' honest to
themselves? Who are we to break up
that tussle and, in doin' so, deny our very own of their heritage?"
Bonner
was silent. Cooney's smiling gaze
pierced the young man's eyes and held them, driving his point steadfastly
home. Cooney then raised his arm
in a welcoming gesture and said merrily, "Sweet Emily Moore! May I introduce to you the latest
addition to our streetwalking beat, Constable Peter Bonner!"
Sweet
Emily Moore greeted Bonner the way she greeted all men upon meeting them for
the first time: she took his hand in hers and ran her fingers seductively over
his palm while she cocked her head down and looked up to him with dewy and
lustful eyes. Her mouth parted and
he watched her tongue traipse along the base of her teeth. In a practiced tone adopted to sound
both vulnerable and sensual, she said, "I come to meet you with great
pleasure, Constable." She
lingered on each syllable of the last word, never taking her eyes from his.
A ball of chewing gum fell from Bonner's
mouth. Sweet Emily Moore giggled
like a schoolgirl. Copper Cooney
rolled his eyes.
"Break
your trance, boy!" said Cooney.
"Sweet Emily Moore is a favorite among the locals. Let it be a part of your duty to see
she knows no harm."
Sweet
Emily Moore abandoned her charade and scratched her crotch, saying gruffly,
"So! Bonner. What kind of horrors experienced in yer
youth made you become a copper?"
Her
sudden switch from seductress to vulgarist offset Bonner. "Wha? Oh. No horrors,
ma'am. I enlisted in order to
enforce the law and help maintain the upright morals and standards adhered to
by the citizens of Dublin."
He delivered the sentence as though reading text from a book.
"Followin'
in yer father's footsteps like ol' Cooney here?"
Cooney
slapped Bonner's back and said, "Quite the opposite, actually. The young gentleman comes from a line
of pastors of the Protestant faith--"
"A
hundred an' twelve," Bonner interjected.
"A
hundred and twelve pastors in his family!
Dating back, what was it?"
"Eight
generations."
"Eight
generations! No, the constable
here has taken it upon himself to introduce a new line of work into the
family. Chosen quite well, if you
were to ask me." Cooney
grasped Bonner's arm affectionately.
"An' tonight he continues his training in my company. They told him to learn from the best,
and this evening he shall do just that.
It is my duty to make sure he is fit and ready by the time he dons the
prestigious uniform of An Garda Siochana, hopefully sometime next week."
Sweet
Emily Moore was still unsatisfied.
"Copper Cooney, yer actin' proud about someone you don't know
nothin' about." She turned
her attention back to Bonner.
"You haven't told us yet why you've become a beat cop."
"I
have joined the Garda," Bonner stated, "in order to work with the
community to protect and serve."
"Protect
and serve wha?" Sweet Emily Moore persisted.
"The
people, ye pesky monkey!" Again it was Copper Cooney answering,
weary of her inquisition.
"Now if you'll pardon me, I must find a quiet spot to shake the dew
from me lily. Back in a
moment!" He tipped his hat
for the lady and crept off to find a dark corner somewhere, but not before
turning to impart advice on Bonner.
"Hold yer own against the persistence of this one, Constable!"
Bonner
walked with Sweet Emily Moore but soon wished he were elsewhere, for she was a
persistent pesky monkey indeed, pushing him aggressively for answers to her
queries. She probed his mind and
inquired into his childhood, schooling, his family and friends. He answered diligently, choosing his
words carefully, and remained honest in his responses. Within moments Sweet Emily Moore had
what she was after and was able to draw a very definitive conclusion about
Officer Bonner and his potential relationship to her, and this conclusion
caused her concern.
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