Prince Of Whales

It's funny, any time you go on a trip your friends and family all tell you how life changing it's going to be. One phrase that comes to my mind as I sit on a bar stool in merry old England is what my mother said to me the last time I saw her. It was at her house during dinner last Sunday. One of those dinners mothers have so they can stay connected to their middle aged little boys. "Oh, your eyes will open up wide and you'll love the world! She had said to me over mouthfuls of liver and garlic mashed potatoes.

I can't leave her alone anymore. Even in my late thirties she still needs me. It's not like I have a busy schedule. All I had was working as gate security at a parking garage, and now I don't even have that.

It was just as you would imagine it to be; a monotonous, useless, low paying job. I had already been in a bad mood when she said this. A car accident had happened at work. A rich girl in her Mercedes was pulling up, complaining on a five hundred dollar cell phone to her mother that daddy wasn't letting her go to spring break in the Hamptons. She wasn't paying attention and slammed right into my little wooden booth, and rolled over the tire spikes during her side swipe. I came out with just a few scratches, but her nice little black Mercedes was in bad shape. She huffed at me, she puffed for her father, he called my boss, and he blew me a pink slip.

Even in my bad mood I gave what my mother said a good hard turn in my mind, and came to one conclusion. No matter where in the hell you go, there is always a bad part of town. Try loving a slum. I didn't really say that to her. I thought it mentally, you know, inner monologue. At this moment I'm not loving the world. After a day like today all I want is a god damn drink. All I want is some shining amber liquid on the rocks in a cool glass. I'm still waiting for that damned drink too.

Getting redirected to Philly from New York should have been a hint at what kind of trip this was going to be. I want to leave from my home town, not get redirected to some other podunk U.S. city. That's right I said podunk. Any other city to me is rural compared to New York. It's my hometown and you can't beat it, not in a million years. It has more class then Chicago and Los Angeles can shake a stick at. I don't care if you think you're big and mean in Detroit. I don't care if you think Vietnam was worse with Charlie breathing down your neck.

The entire city of New York is a hot bed of guerrilla warfare. Drive by's, crack dealers, Italian fathers, Irish mothers. You name it we've got it. At every single corner on every single street you'll find a new and interesting way to die. Before I left on this farce vacation I went to visit my old man at a nice little place. I don't like to say mental institution, but that's technically what it is. Think retirement home for people who are more then just senile. He had a motorcycle accident, and of course in his Pennsylvanian wisdom he was proud to exercise his right not to wear a helmet.

That's one reason I'm proud to have been raised as a New Yorker. After coming home from the hospital it didn't take my mother and I long to find out he wasn't all there; he thinks he's a captain of a whaling ship. I know this because on his first night back he suddenly shouted from the kitchen table "Hoy there, a great white whale! at my mother as she was coming down the steps. He then threw a three foot piece of sharpened rebar at the wall. He said he was better after a week of two, but then he started checking to see if they had enough whale blubber before they returned to port. My mother called me that weekend to have me take him into that nice little place.

I always try to have a serious conversation with my father, to kind of bring him back to reality. He seems like his old self again, until he starts talking about how he served with Lord Nelson. Before I leave he always talks about going back to sea and he asks me what I think of it. I always reply "Just call me Ishmael, and leave while he laughs and entertains that thought in his senile mind.

I boarded my plane at LaGuardia but got off one in exchange for another at god damn Philadelphia international. There is nothing like wasting five hours of your day at two different airports trying to get somewhere and not even leaving the continent. What a beautiful freaking system. I love bailing out the airline companies with my tax dollars just so they can royally screw me. Now I can get royally screwed twice in the same day thanks to random checks. I had to wait two freaking hours again to get on.

Before that I had a few problems with security. I am rubbing my forehead with my hand as I'm saying this, eyes closed too. I open one bleary eye and peek down at my bare ankles. Yeah, that's right. Go ahead. Laugh at me. The idiots forgot to give me my socks back. I have no clue why they needed my socks, so don't ask. I picked a great day to wear low tops.

When everyone decided to send me on this so called vacation they gave me a little nugget of an objective. I should try to get that spring back in my step. Here's an interesting question, when did I ever have a spring in my step? Why in the hell would I want a spring in my step? So I can look like those over obsessive church wives who always have a smile on their face? As soon as they see you an invisible stamp with permanent ink marks sinner on the photo of you in their memory. Even then they still smile. Even when you can hear the metallic sound of their mental stamp hit so hard it makes you jump they are still smiling. I apologize for this sudden stint, but try going to Catholic school.

They gave me a book to read on my vacation. It was a guide that's supposed to help you redirect your life and find a new career. It's all about the big three, according to the book. It asks you to write down your abilities, your interests, and your goals. I tossed the book in a trash can before boarding United Airlines with answers in the margin that went as follows; droning on monotonously, drinking myself into a dark oblivion, and money for my kids' college. If it had all worked out right they both would already have their money.

I have two kids, Karen and Jason. Jason is twelve years old and likes to put sprinkles in his peanut butter and jelly. He takes after my diet I guess. Karen is sixteen years old and blossoming into a beautiful and intelligent young woman. Karen and I have our differences over the usual. A bastard boyfriend, a good for nothing best friend, and of course the whole sex, drugs, school, life thing. That pretty much encompasses the usual differences.

Teenagers always like to have their differences. They always want to be uniquely them, and want to fight anyone who thinks differently then they do. I see her in a few years getting out of college and hating my guts for abuses that her mother will slowly fill her head with. Doesn't matter, she'll always be my little girl. Sending an Irishman to England was a great idea. It's not like I'd enjoy Dublin or anything. Not even Scotland. Never mind, forget Scotland. No kilts please, thank you anyway. I don't enjoy having the opportunity to have another guy check me out.

They picked it because my ex-wife's sister Ilene is there, and she still thinks I'm alright. Ilene helped pay for the trip because she wanted to take away my one excuse for not going. I'm glad she went with budget everything. Coach is so choice. Never, in your entire existence, sit in seat 15D on a 737. That's the one in the center, right near the bathrooms, with a giant wall of multi-colored carpet that could give an epileptic a seizure. Plan on getting no leg room, trying to "rest your eyes between two strangers, and hearing weird sounds from the bathroom.

Get rid of this seat right away. Especially if you just so happen to get stuck in between two twins from California who are trying to experience the world while wearing matching blue sweaters and gray sweatpants with elastic waistlines. Those twins just so happen to not only be apart of the sixty percent of obese adolescents, hey also happen to equal the mass of sixty percent of the United States.

I made the grave mistake of waiting to go to the bathroom. My two pals got there first. Oh sweet shitty joy. There's nothing quite like sitting on top of the crusty defecation of two Californian twin sumo imposters. Just because you can afford a gourmet meal doesn't mean that you're going to have a gourmet stool. I held it for eight hours. Eight hours of being squished like a stress ball between two overbearing self absorbed little punks. Wait did I say little? I got there at around ten o'clock. That meant it was two o'clock at home. I had been up for more then a day and my eyes were probably pink with exhaustion. I got to Heathrow and you I thought I'd get some relief.

I walked off the plane and into an airport that was like its own little city. There were duty free signs everywhere. You can buy a billion things that can be tax exempt when you claim it. I saw the giant section of alcohol, so I immediately went to change two-hundred dollars. The guy hands me eighty five pounds, and of course I did what anyone would do in a highly secure airport where any kind of aggression could be considered a terroristic threat. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him face to face with me and threatened to bash his crooked snobby British nose in. He spoke to me in a snide voice as if I was just a frustrated tourist, all the while explaining the current exchange rate and the fee.

I released him gently and went and bought a bottle of scotch. I went to the baggage claim, taking little sips on my way there. I picked up four different bags before I realized I was at the wrong baggage belt.

Outside was chaos and I didn't have the slightest clue as to where to go. I wasn't surprised that no one was picking me up. I'm a big boy I had explained to Ilene when she suggested she could pick me up. Right then outside the airport I was a big boy with a quarter bottle of scotch in my stomach, but a big boy nonetheless. Buses went by; signs for trains were up everywhere. I hobbled into a cab and handed him a shred of paper from a legal pad where I had scribbled Ilene's address. I don't know how much time passed, but I have a feeling he took me for a ride around a few extra blocks so he'd get a better fare. My watch said 5 o'clock when I hobbled out of the cab. I didn't bother doing the math.

I walked a little bit, looking at the signs and laughing at any traffic that went by. All these tiny little cars going the wrong way would have made any partially drunk person laugh. Well at least I would anyway and at that moment I was the only partially drunk person to be seen. After crossing a few roads I realized that I was going the wrong way. So I came from where I just was (trying to look right, left, right all the while) and found the steps up to Ilene's house.

Before I was even half way up the steps the slightly plump but energetic Spanish figure of Ilene burst through the black wooden doors. She was hugging me before I even realized she had come down the steps. "How are you Danny? You're probably fine, you're here aren't you. Did the flight go well? Of course it did, you wouldn't be standing here if it didn't. She kept asking and then answering her own questions for a little while until her husband Charles interrupted her before her next round of questions.

"Come in already Danny, before she confuses herself! yelled Charles. I have to admit, Charles is an okay guy. He's a doctor and everything, but something about him always makes me want to scream, "Pansy! I don't know why, he's a completely respectable guy.

"Have a seat won't you, Danny? asks Ilene, a smile on her face, motioning me to the couch across from hers. Her Spanish accent clashes with the English décor. The place was nice, and as I was trying to point to an especially nice grandfather clock I realized I was still grasping my bottle of scotch. I lowered the bottle out of slight embarrassment. She saw where I was gesturing anyway. "Yeah, clocks are Charles kind of thing. You know, I deal with it. Before I knew it, I was whispering into my bottle of scotch, "Yeah, but how do you deal with him being a complete pansy? She tilted her head, not quite catching my last comment. "Sorry Danny, what was that? I shook my head and waved my hand passively in the air as I took another swig.

Ilene stood up and took the bottle away from me gently and sat it down on the coffee table between us. As she sat down, I tried to put on my best sober look, but it might have just looked like a vacant stare. "Danny, we wanted you to take this trip because you need to take a break. I know times must be hard for you. All this stuff with your job, Rose, and your kids. she sighed and placed her hand on mine. "You probably don't want to deal with this right now, but sometimes it's better to clear these things up. I started to resent the course of this conversation, so I did what anyone would do in the face of such kindness and hospitality.

"You're damn right I don't want to deal with it and I don't see how it's any of your fucking business. I had said that with a direct and stern expression, but I wasn't yelling. I was just, you know, resentful. What's a vacation if you're going to deal with all the crap you left for a reason? I could tell she was taken back a bit. "Look, Ilene, just listen to me for a second. I want to relax. I want to try my hardest to¦ at that point a wave of drunken stupor had hit me and I lost my train of thought. Ilene opened her mouth to say something, but I held up a finger and looked to the ground to try to find my lost train of thought. "Wait, just a second. I told her. Then I remembered, and with a slight slurring I stated it. "I want to try my hardest to forget it all, and then be aware of it as the bigger picture. I want to see the whole problem! When I said problem, I waved my arm across the table and knocked the scotch bottle over and it shattered on the hard wood floor.

Ilene stood up quick and went to get something to clean it up. I apologized profusely and was about to clean the mess up myself by getting on my hands and knees and using my sleeve when Charles came. He pulled me by the elbow, not forcefully though, and took me into the kitchen. "Come, Danny, Ilene can clean that up. Let us men talk, eh? he said, a grin on his face. I thought to myself, you're not a man you're a pansy. I parked my drunken Irish rear on one of the chairs by the island in the kitchen and he got me a cup of coffee. Can't get a cup of tea in England can I? We sat drinking our coffee for a few minutes in silence. He picked up a spoon and stirred his coffee a little. He glanced from his cup of coffee to me. He probably didn't have the guts to speak first, that pansy. "Danny, I want to read to you a poem I wrote.

This was too much for me and I groaned in frustration and rolled my eyes. Charles looked a little hurt, but I wasn't surprised. I am told often that I act like I wasn't hugged enough as a child. Charles is what I think of when I wonder the results of being hugged too much.

He's a nice guy though; he didn't deserve this treatment from me. Neither did Ilene deserve me ruining her house and insulting her pansy. I mean her husband. "Here's what I'm going to do Charlie. I'm going to say I'm sorry. Charles looked to me, the hurt look gone but then the moment turned awkward. I leaned slowly over the counter and looked around the room a moment until I remembered what I was doing. "I'm sorry. After I said that Charles sat back and looked a little satisfied, then the pansy waited for me to speak again.

We sat there a few seconds in silence, and I again searched for what I was going to do. "Now I'm going to take a nap, if that's alright with you. I feel like a prick right now, you guys are being so damn nice and all I can do is act like a drunken buffoon. Charlie smiled, and nodded. "Sure, Danny boy, your room is upstairs at the end of the hall. Hope you feel better afterwards. I went to pat him on the shoulder and missed. I found the spiral staircase, and got horribly confused by them on the way up. I hobbled to one end of the hallway towards a door. I knew I went to the wrong end when I entered. It was Roses guest room.

I can tell that Ilene hadn't changed anything about it since we came to visit
last time. Rose and I were still married when she last came here. There were rows of pictures of Ilene and I together. I tried to muffle an intoxicated laugh. In one picture I had a slight tan, making a high contrast to my blond hair. That had to be from our fishing trip out on the Keys. She had her orange one piece on, and her dark hair had been blowing in the wind. Always wearing her sunglasses she was. I was wearing mine to in the photo, but I had my head tilted down and was peering into the lens of the camera when the picture was taken. That had been a nice day - caught some pretty big fish too. Not me, Rose did. I left her room with a smile on my face at the thought of that happy day.

I was about to walk into the room Ilene and Charles had made up for me when I realized something about Roses room. I turned around and went back. In the row of frames there was one lying face down. I lifted it up and looked at it. It was Rose, wearing a black dress holding on to a guy that probably could have been an underwear model. I didn't recognize the gathering they were at, and I didn't particularly like the fact that the snapshot was taken while they were having a passionate kiss.

I was too tired to deal with this now so I took the picture and trudged to my room. It was the same English décor and the twin bed looked very good at that moment. I jumped into bed and put the picture frame under my pillow and nodded off immediately. I had the strangest dreams. The one I remembered the most was the one where I was driving a double-decker bus with my kids playing in it. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw my wife dancing by herself. A few seconds later this handsome dude shows up and starts doing some exotic dance, the tango or something. I am about to get up and show the guy Irish justice when my wife opens up the doors and kicks me out. She drives off and I'm just sitting there on the street. I see a pub, and I want to go in. Before I go in, my wife runs me over with the freaking bus. The only time I ever had stranger dreams was that time my brother put acid into my guinness. I won't get into that right now, but let's just say I now know the inner philosophies of kool-aid and lemon drops.

I had awoken slowly and groggy even though my face was pressed against a piece of glass and it was pinching my cheek. As my eyes focused I reacted to the picture as if it was the first time I had seen it. Always remember kids, memories are a bit hazy when you're drunk or hung over. I was pissed then, and I went to cut through the proverbial crap. I came down the spiral staircase with purpose; my stride was confident and calm. I came upon them in the kitchen. Of course they brewed up a pot of tea while I was sleeping. As I approached them, they each greeted me warmly, and their friendly smiles started to calm my once angry demeanor.

I continued anyway, but not with the vigor that I would have. Instead of my initial plan of smashing the frame against the counter between them and picking up the picture from the broken glass and referring to it, I just held the damn thing up. "When was this taken, where, and who in the hell is that! It's all about gentle finessing.
Ilene turned away from the frame and looked down guiltily. Charlie took it and furrowed his brow, and looked at it as if he never knew it had existed. The ninny can't even lie right. Charlie was the first to speak, which came as a big surprise to me. Maybe pansies can grow a spine. "I don't know Danny, but I'm afraid that this might have been while you two were married. There was no other opportunity for her to bring this picture. Thank god that Charlie is such an ignoramus in terms of his wife's bodily expressions. All the while Ilene had been giving the physical language that says universally and I quote, "Shut up you twit, or something along those lines.

After all, Ilene is Rose's sister. She may like me, but Rose is flesh and blood. I'm not even that angry about her cheating on me. All right, maybe just a smidgen. In all seriousness I must admit that the thing that angers me most is how she went about all this. There is an appropriate way to divorce and there is a cold, merciless way to do it. Rose had taken the latter mentioned path. She has taken my kids, my money, and my house.

Maybe the guy in the picture took them. Not directly, but maybe he pushed her over the edge. Maybe he gave her that nudge to leave. "My sister isn't a bad person! Ilene blurted out, bursting my homewrecker bubble. She breathed heavily, and she looked frustrated and desperate. I almost pity her, trying to justify a whoring gold miner must cause a hell of a lot of internal conflict, especially when that gold miner is related to you. I tried to take control of the situation. My demeanor was a calm one. The words, unfortunately, were a bit insensitive. I

I pulled over the tea pot and poured a cup, and made my simple argument before I drank. "Ilene, you're not like your sister. Your sister likes to make babies to take them, get drunk for a few years straight, and then leave men without their wallets and reasons for living. She's a great bang; I'll give you that though. I raised my cup in an affirming gesture and then slowly downed it. I eyed Ilene's incredulous look over my tea cup. She looked to Charlie, who in turn did what I expected, absolutely nothing. I would like to reiterate the point that I have made many times before this. Charlie is a Pansy.

I looked outside the window and noticed it was dark already. I must have been out for a while. I looked out the window and the street lamps were on. I poured myself another cup of tea. The only thing piercing the silence in that kitchen was me sipping my tea loudly. So, I thought maybe the drastic mixed with the inevitable would suffice. "You're biased, Ilene. Mister tea and scones over here hasn't the man power, if you know what I mean, to tell me anything. So I think I'll go and look for my answers. I turned and opened the black wooden doors when Ilene yelled. "Yeah, and where do you expect to find your answers, on a fucking bar stool? A small quaint little smile crosses my face as I responded "...and at the bottom of a bottle of Roses favorite drink.

As I walked out I saw the sign for londons underground transit. I didn't want to try the London Underground. I've only known one subway system, and that was back across the Atlantic. I flagged down a cab and told the guy to take me to an exchange and then to the best bars in his educated opinion. He took me to what looked like an ATM and I took out my one and only visa card. I pressed buttons so fast I have no clue what I took out. All I know is I had a pocketful of pounds and I was ready for a rush.

The man took me from pub to pub, but I am a bit selective when it comes to where I go to drink. I'd tell the guy to wait outside, and then I'd sit at the counter to get the feel of it, and ask for a drink. From all this I used a complex set of equations that only a connoisseur of fine upstanding establishments can know, so I won't bother explaining. There was such a variety, but none of them had the feel I was looking for. Having one drink at each bar and then signaling the no go about five times didn't help matters. Soon all I was seeing were blurry street signs, lights, and the occasional mug of beer.

Old street, Hoxton Square, Kingsland road, Rivington street, they all passed me by. I was scrutinized by London's eye. The river Thames was shimmering black glass as I passed it on Waterloo road. The two piers, Savoy on the west bank and Festival on the east, looked lonely at this time of night. I thought of Rose and my kids across the pond, and started crying right there in the cab.

The cabby finally got sick of me and left me at this dump. Where I am still waiting for my god damned drink. There's a good amount of people here, all from various backgrounds. Photos and weird collectibles are everywhere, and there's a giant freaking moose head on the wall. Or is that a buffalo? Doesn't matter, I'm not a zoologist.

I want to tell this whole mess to the young brunette next to me, but I haven't gotten the courage. She's cute, down to her long brown hair and blue eyes. British women intimidate me, almost as bad as women like Rose. Guess that's my type. The woman who can bite your head off in two seconds is the kind of girl I'm looking for. It must be a chemical attraction.

There is some average wiener trying to pick her up. He doesn't even have pick up lines, he just walks up and acts like he's on a date. "Bugger off lanky streak of piss! she yells at him, and then turns back to her drink. The guy moves away for a second, but then moves in again. I can't watch this; it's unsettling my alcohol filled stomach.
I say gruffly, "Listen dude. She isn't buying what you're selling. If you know what's best for you, you'll get outta here. It probably came out as one big slurred belch, but he understood the nature of it. He didn't take it lightly; he isn't a pansy like Charlie. Poor Charlie and Ilene, I shouldn't have run out on them.

I have more pressing matters at hand at the moment now, because super slick generic Londoner guy wants to take this outside. I'm not really paying attention to him, but he's giving me a lot. "You didn't hear me, did you? Bloody Americans, show up someplace and think you own it. Get out of our pub before I lace into your leathered ass! I show him a hand gesture that suggests that I have no idea what he's talking about but I get the general idea. He's walking over and now he has me by the shoulders. He spins me on my stool towards him. My eyes don't catch up with the motion and the rushing colors make me feel just a little bit queasy. I feel just a slight smidgen of sickness. "Oh here it goes." I say as I feel the gag reflex take over my stomach contents.

After I vomit upon him a bottle comes crashing on top of his head. The bar tender had hit him with such ease that is suggested to me that this must be a common occurrence here. Silence passes for a few seconds, and then the bar tender speaks plainly to the brunette over his shoulder while working the taps. "I think this one likes you sis, he prayed to the lanky streak of piss for you. I feel a bit of accomplishment at that remark. Impressing the brunettes' sibling without knowing it is a plus. The moment of opportunity has sobered me up just a little, so I get bold. I turn sluggishly on my bar stool. "Hey, don't give it up for a guy like that, else my hard work will be wasted. I say to the brunette.

She sits her lager down and looks to me, a little quirk of a smile on her face. "Don't have to worry about that love; I would only do that with my husband. That dashes my secret little hope that I could get a little closer to her. It doesn't stop me from trying to make small talk though. "How long have you two been married, if you don't mind me asking? Smooth of me, real smooth. She looks at me with a mouthful of beer, drinks it down, and then lets out a sound that I think is giggling. It's hard to decipher with the accent.

She sits up and proudly states "No love, I'm not married. I'm saving myself until I get married. We stare at each other for a couple seconds until I burst into a fit of laughter. Between fits of laughter and hoarse breathing I call her big bar tender brother over. I put my right hand to my face blocking her view and try to whisper but my concept of volume isn't exactly intact at the moment.

"Did you hear that? She says she's saving herself! I let out a few more muffled coughs of hysteria and keep on my conversation with the bar tender. "How long do you think that will last!? All of Europe is sexually liberal, and she wants to save herself! I don't think she took this quite well because she smacked me across the face. I didn't realize she had hit me until a few seconds later.

I felt bad again, just like I did about Charlie and Ilene. "Look I'm sorry. I shouldn't be saying these things; I don't even know who you are. You're young; I'll forgive you your trespasses. The bar tender and I know what it's about, right sir? I look to the bartender who in turn looks back and forth at us. My eyes egg him on to speak, but he hesitates.

As if he doesn't know what I mean. He's a man. All men are the same and know this little fact of life that women can't seem to grasp. He prepares to prove my point. "I hate to burst your bubble, but I'm gay. If you're still waiting on a tequila I told you once already we don't have any. the bar tender says. I laughed at two things. One, I had no idea he was gay. Two, it's the funniest thing in the world to hear a Brit say tequila.
He takes offense to this to but I catch it first. "Look, I don't mean anything by my laughing. I know as a Catholic I'm supposed to assume, that¦ I'm not sure whether or not to complete this sentence. The bar tender is giving me a hard look. I shift my eyes around to his sister and then back to him and decide, hey, why not, maybe I'll be able to experience London from a hospital. "That you're going to go to hell.

Before he can react I charge in with talk again. "Hey, wait, listen! I'm not supposed to say this, so don't tell the church. I don't care if you are gay, bi, or straight. All I ask is that none of you guys try to go for me, know what I mean? Otherwise, hey, you guys are cool. This seems to satisfy him, as he moves down the counter and starts cleaning it off with a rag. I didn't notice it but our unconscious friend has awakened. He doesn't even look back, he just leaves.

The brunette looks to me again, curiosity written all over her big beautiful blue eyes. "What did you mean when you said forgive my trespasses? The bar tender sighs and slides me a beer, knowing that what is to come next might be a bit brash. I take a light sip and sit back and start out in a philosophical manner. "Life, my dear, is not about love. I thought it was too, but it isn't. It's all about your next¦ I can't quite figure a way to term this, but I try my best without sounding like a pervert or a health class textbook. "¦overnight intimate relationship. It's all about instant gratification, no strings attached. I take a sip of lager as she gives me the best disgusted look she can.

She leans towards me, one arm on the bar the other arm pointing at me. "How can you live like that? How can you not make yourself sick! Everywhere you look- I wouldn't let her finish. She has no idea what she is talking about therefore it's time to put her in her place.

"Wake up and look around, woman! Have you ever noticed what's everywhere! She's a bit shaken by this, and she leans backwards away from me. I've scared her. I move over to the stool next to hers, taking my beer along with me and spilling a little bit along the way. The bar tender slides a shot glass down to me with a little bit of amber-yellow liquid. I take a sip of my beer and then nod my head towards the busy street outside with people moving up and down the sidewalk.

"You see that Muslim guy on the corner arguing with the woman in the burkah? More importantly, do you see that cop staring them down even though they are just arguing? I don't give her time to answer. That was all rhetorical and a Londoner should know that. I motion to the left at the booth in the corner. "See that guy with the shaved head, and that Nazi symbol tattooed on the back of his head? She shakes her head in affirmation, but I don't think she is getting the point.

I am getting frustrated at this. The English are supposed to be civilized worldly people. I hate to have to spell this all out for her. She's such a young girl. "Do you watch the news?! Seen an action movie lately?! These guys have all come to a silent conclusion. Why look for love when hate is so much easier to find! I down a shot of god knows what and slam it down.

I get up from the counter and head for the bar tender at the other end. I can hear the brunette sniffling a little in the background. I have my purpose again. I have my goal again. "You have a payphone around here? I ask him. He shakes his head no but doesn't look up from the glass he's cleaning. I stand there waiting for him to give me some sort of other option. "Well can I use your phone then? I ask quickly. He shakes his head no again. "Nope, no international calls. That glass is clean by now but he's still cleaning it. The international silence meaning, "I want money.

I put a random amount of English currency on the counter and he hands me a cordless phone. I look to the clock but I can't tell exactly where it is. I know it's late, and I feel a tinge of satisfaction that Rose will be getting a late call. Then I start thinking about it and realize with the time difference it won't matter. She picks up and greets me. I panic for a second, and then I regain some composure. "Hello Rose, just checking how my love muffin is doing. I hear an exasperated sigh over the phone. "Danny, where in the hell are you? I just talked to Charlie and Ilene. I get right in and ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. Not from alcohol, but from nerves. "We have a little more to deal with here, honey. I just would like to know who the man in the picture is, that's all. Who is he, dear? Everything I say drips with sarcasm, and has anger and ferocity behind it. She must have been taking a sip of something because it sounded like she spit it out. The cat's got her tongue, or maybe the underwear model has it.

"Danny, I have to admit that I wanted to divorce you for a while. I realized that you didn't have the money to afford a divorce and neither did I. When you're Uncle Henry died I thought that would be a good time. You got a good amount of his money in the will, and it was good for you. I was looking out for you. I stood solid like the moosehead in the bar.I had never heard anything so filthy in my life. I had never experienced anything so rotten or so deceitful. Yep, that's the best excuse to start a scene in a foreign country.

"YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD BE GOOD FOR MY WELL BEING TO DIVORCE ME AFTER ONE OF MY CLOSEST FAMILY MEMBER DIES!! WHERE IN THE HELL DID YOU LEARN COMPASSION!? I'm not kidding about him being close, Henry was. He took me and my dad on fishing trips with him. He helped me get my first job at Howels' construction firm. He helped my old lady out with some of the bills while my dad was in the hospital. Now she's acting like his death was a blessing to me.

She goes on, doing what she always does. Changes the subject. Problem is she changes it to a more recent avenue of conversation. One that I find brings me to the boiling point. "Dan, that man in the picture doesn't matter. I don't even think I am going to see him again. I haven't made up my mind yet. I try to think of what she wants from me. Does she want me to give her relationship advice about the Casanova or does she want me to give her my approval. Either way I won't address either. I just rant like crazy.

"So! When's the break up? Oh come on, with the way you treat anything with a pulse, it's kind of expected. You're just another conquistador, baby. You're definitely of Spanish decent. You've conquered my wallet, claimed my two kids. Where you going with the booty? You've already discovered that man's uncharted waters from that picture I saw. Remember when I proposed to you? I should have said, Rose can I be your designated driver? When I get home, I'm calling a lawyer and- I cut off at the sound of her crying. I don't know how to take this. I feel that horrible feeling again. I know I've gone overboard. "Listen, Rose, I'm sorry. She's still sniffling a little but she has her composure back when she speaks next.

"I'll call you at Ilene's tomorrow morning. I've had enough of you. Then I hear the tone.
I hand the bar tender the phone. I turn around and everyone is looking at me. They won't quit at it either. "Keep it up, I've got friends in the I.R.A. I threaten as I walk towards the door. Going back to Ilene's is going to be like laying inside a used coffin to be buried alive. Never go back to an open argument. It always ends up worse then anyone can imagine. Before I head out of the doorway I feel a hand lightly press on my shoulder. I turn around and it's the brunette chick. She looks so young standing here with eyes full of tears. A whisper comes from her lips, as if she has a sore throat, "My name is Emma.

In my impulsiveness, I hug her. I just plain hold her close. She leans her head on my shoulder and shakes with tears. I massage her head with my hand and wrap my other arm around her waist. I kiss her forehead once or twice, and apologize a few times. I lean my head back and look at her. "There is hope for love in your life Emma. Don't get on a leash too early though. Shop around, but don't sell anything you've got until you're absolutely sure, even if it is when you're married." I can't say whether or not I actually believe what I am saying, but it doesn't matter now anyway. It comforts her. Maybe, if I give this one girl hope I can redeem myself. Right now she's the only friend I've got. We stand with me rambling any advice I can give her. "Alright Emma, lets get you inside." I walk slowly with her, trying to walk soberly to look stronger. Seriously people, would you take advice from someone who looked completely smashed? I hope not for christs sake. "Whats your name?" She asks distantly. "Daniel Bricriu." I said plainly. "Daniel Bricriu, you really are Irish." She says just as distantly. I laugh appreciatively at this and smile at her. I sit her down on a bar stool and nodd at her brother.

I walk slowly out of the pub to catch a cab. I look up and down the street, not seeing one cab in sight. It's strangely calm, and there is no traffic. A dull haze falls over my vision, and beautiful disembodied lights move quickly up and down the street. I look left, right, left and go out onto the street.I feel like I am glowing with light, and I know something ominous is coming. I stand still, and don't turn to face it. I don't have the courage to face it. Probably wouldn't even if it had come later. Before the red blur hits me I think of something odd and a little funny. I'm the pansy after all. I can't even face my own demise. I shut my eyes tight and I can feel the vibrations of the pavement and the rush of air.

But death doesn't come. If that bus had hit me it surely would have been death. If I had just walked out of that bar holding on to the same old grudge I would have flatlined. If I had left that girl without hope, she wouldn't have run out onto the street. The force with which she pulled me by the shoulders surprised me, and then I realized that's because she fell back with me. I sit up to see her on her back breathing hard with a curve in her lips. That's internation body language for "You're lucky I find you attractive you bastard."

For an eternity I just keep on breathing and looking at that slight curve. Then I remember all that talk about her shopping around. I return her phyical communication with a verbal response that puts me out on a ledge. "If you're still shopping this late at night Emma, Danny boy is still on the market." I watch her facial expression with painstaking focus. I got a feeling from this one, but I've obviously been wrong before. I hear the bar tender laugh inside and I look to him in anger. I don't like being laughed at while making a pass. "You sure you want damaged goods Emma?" says the bartender and he laughs again. The prick thinks he's Robin Williams as soon as I almost get hit by a bus. The seeds of grudge against a gay bartender in London dissappear as soon as I hear Emma's response. "I have roving eyes for these damaged goods brother, and it would be best if you weren't a runt about it." Whatever all that slang meant sounded like music to my ears.

Emma stands up and pulls my left arm over her shoulder and helps me up. I look at her and smile like a little kid on the playground with his first crush. If the little kid was drunk anyway. With this turn of events I get cocky. "What you have to know is Daniel Bricriu's goods aren't easy to get to. I happen to have standards, and the buyer-" So the girl shuts me up. There are two things that can shut up a true Irishmen. Alot of alcohol of a fiery woman. With Emma randomly placing her lips upon mine I didn't need another drop of the sauce. Upon release of this simple yet devestatingly alluring affection I stand speechless. My head swivels slowly to look at the bar tender. I smile and say. "Hah, sold!"