CHAPTER 6
Every picture tells a story don’t it? – “Every Picture Tells a Story” by Rod Stewart (1971)
I had no idea what to expect at David’s house. He had told Ted and me about his parents several times, and they sounded pretty cool. I wasn’t worried that I would shock them if I showed up unannounced, but I had second thoughts about knocking on their door so early in the morning.
It was still dark out, so I walked down to the end of the street and took a look at Phoenix Park. The air was calm and cold, and the park was quiet. I saw a horse-drawn cart delivering milk to homes on the cobblestone street. I stood there and watched the milkman make a few stops; it was an incredibly quaint thing to see.
I could tell that the driver hadn’t seen me. After he passed by, I had the urge to run up to a house, grab a bottle of milk, and hightail it back to the park. The porch I spotted had four bottles on it, so I didn’t feel too awful when I snatched one of them. I really enjoyed that moment on the grass in Phoenix Park as I drank my stolen milk.
Around 7 a.m. I returned to David’s house. I walked up to the door, knocked on it lightly, and was greeted by his mom, Geraldine O’Connor. She was a sweet, little Irish lady who fit the exact image I had of her.
Mrs. O’Connor’s gray hair was tied up in a bun behind her head, and her soft brown eyes told me that she was pleased to see me. Although the sun had not come up yet, she was already wearing a dress and a necklace of pearls. I thought that she might be going to church.
David’s mom eagerly invited me into the warm, cozy house. She led me into the kitchen to meet her husband, Bill, and he stood up to greet me. He had the air of a serious man but not a mean one. When he looked at me and smiled, he came across as friendly. Standing over six feet tall, he had a mop of snow white hair, used reading glasses, and wore a tweed jacket. I thought that he, too, was ready for church.
Since David was only a year older than I was, I assumed that his parents would be about the same ages as mine. They were older than I had expected but were sharp and both had a good sense of humor. The three of us sat around the table next to a potbelly stove and shared a hearty breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast, marmalade, and endless cups of steaming hot tea. Geraldine told me that David had gone to bed very late, but he shouldn’t be sleeping much longer.
“Back in California, I remembered David saying that I could stay with him, but maybe this was a bad time.”
Bill and Geraldine O’Connor were anxious to learn more about me. We discussed politics, dodging the draft, and my trip. I could tell that David had filled them in on some of my story, and they were interested in what I had to say. The O’Connors also expressed great reverence for President John F. Kennedy, who they were proud to call a fellow Irishman.
During the conversation, I noticed that Geraldine was quite cheery. I would have bet that she was one of those people who was always bright, upbeat, and never in a foul mood. Bill exuded gentleness in a way that I thought was very comforting.
When David finally clomped down the stairs and walked into the kitchen, his appearance startled me. He looked as if he was tremendously hung over. The last time I saw him, David had been fine. I wondered if the warm weather had been good for him.
“Hey, man, how are you?” he managed to say. “Welcome to Dublin.”
David appeared groggy and was slurring his words.
“It’s good to see you,” I said as I hugged him.
“Sorry, man, I’m a bit out of it,” he mumbled. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I took a couple of sedatives; I’ll be all right in a while.”
“Have you checked out the place across the street?” he continued, “There’s a great guest house there. A really cool woman, Mrs. Flanagan, runs it with her daughter. You could stay here, but to be honest, there’s not much room. You’d probably be more comfortable there. The price is reasonable too.”
Back in California, I remembered David saying that I could stay with him, but maybe this was a bad time. The more I thought about it, the better it sounded to have my own private room.
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely,” I replied. “Why don’t I go over there and check in? I could use a couple of hours of sleep. How about I come back later this afternoon?”
“You sure you don’t mind?” David asked.
“No, of course not,” I replied. “Besides I need to stash my stuff somewhere, and I’d die for a hot bath.”
“Mrs. Flanagan will also make you a delicious breakfast any time of day. She doesn’t care how late you stay out, or when you wake up. She’s used to it.”
I collected my bag, walked across the street, and checked in.
The place was an old but immaculate house. Mrs. Flanagan seemed pleased to see an American tourist. My enormous room had a huge four poster bed piled high with comforters, a fireplace in the corner, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The window had thick, heavy curtains which made the room pitch-black and a perfect place to get some rest.
I headed straight for the huge bathtub down the hall where I took an hour-long bath with water as hot as I could stand. I returned to my room, collapsed on the bed, and didn’t wake up until five in the evening. It was already dark outside.
After I got dressed, I went over to see David. To my amazement, I found out that he had gone back to bed and was still asleep. His parents seemed embarrassed by his behavior, but I tried not to make too much of it. A pot of something that looked like stew was cooking on the stove. It smelled amazing.
“His problems were more serious than I had the experience to understand.”
Mrs. O’ Connor dished me up a huge bowl along with fresh warm bread. I stuffed myself, and it felt like heaven. It seemed like a year ago that I had enjoyed a home-cooked meal in Paris. I was working on dessert when David came into the kitchen. He looked a little better, but not much.
“Hey, man, sorry about that, he said. “I’m a mess. Did you get in across the street OK? How is it?”
“Oh, it’s really comfortable, not a problem,” I said with a mouth full of rhubarb pie. “You were right about Mrs. Flanagan, she’s cool. I had a hot bath too.”
“How about going out for a beer?” David suggested.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I answered.
We went up to his bedroom, and he was utterly obsessed about what to wear. David kept trying on shirts, fiddling with his hair in the mirror, and repeatedly asking me, “How’s this look?”
“That’s fine, man,” I told him.
“Hey, I need to talk to you,” he said seriously. “Something very bad has happened. Uhh, I’ll try to tell you what it is.”
I was expecting this, but I had no clue about what the hell he could be referring to. David was clearly bothered, and I was ready to listen and try to help anyway I could.
“You know…my mom and dad,” he began. “I love them.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “They’ve made me feel really welcome.”
“Yeah, they’re great. They have always been great. The thing is, you see, they raised me, and they’ve been everything to me. But I always had this weird feeling something was wrong.”
He gave me a strange look and continued.
“Look, ummm, I don’t know how to say this. I mean, I always sensed it, but now I know the truth. A couple of days ago, they told me that they’re not really my mom and dad. They’re my aunt and uncle.”
I was stunned.
“David, I…”
“I’m sorry. It’s fucked me up, man. I’ve been taking some sedatives. I had to get some sleep, but it’s all so fucked up.
“My dad, my real dad is a fuck up. He’s a drunk, washed-up actor who lives in Hollywood. Back in the day, he got a couple of roles here and there and made a few films. Remember the movie Sahara with Humphrey Bogart? He had a pretty good-sized role and was even in a couple of scenes with Bogey.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “Your dad acted with Bogey?”
Anyone who was friends with David knew that Bogart was one of his heroes.
“Look, the thing is, he left us a long time ago,” he continued. “He walked out on my mom and me. I thought he was my uncle all this time. I thought my mom was my aunt. I didn’t spend any time with them. And my mom is not well. She’s in a mental hospital in Northern Ireland.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he said, “I love Bill and Geraldine, but now I hate them. They fucking lied to me for twenty years.”
“David, look, it’s fucked up all right, but if you can, try not to destroy yourself over it. Bill and Geraldine…they love you. It couldn’t have been easy for them all this time either.”
“Yeah, but did they have to lie to me?” he shouted.
I could tell that David was tormented by the news. As he told me the story, he was crying, wringing his hands, pulling his hair, and chain-smoking cigarettes. I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t think of anything to make him feel better, so I hugged him and patted him on the back. Hopefully, by talking about it with someone he could trust and level with, it helped him. He’d unloaded some heavy, personal stuff on me. I knew it must have been difficult; he looked completely drained.
I began to realize that David had a lot of issues that I had never noticed when he was in California. His problems were more serious than I had the experience to understand. I concluded that he was a just a crazy, charming, fucked-up Irishman.
“Hey, come on David. It’s going to be all right.”
“Look, Gregg, I just wanted you to know what was going on,” he said. “If you want to leave right now, I totally understand. You’re just starting your trip. Or maybe you want to try and live here in Ireland. If you do, I’ll help you in any way I can. My folks, I mean, Bill and Geraldine, they’ll be your sponsors if you want to try to get a job here or apply for citizenship maybe. I’m sorry this happened now when you just got here. I’m really sorry. I mean, it’s fucking Christmas!”
“Look, let’s get out of here,” he continued, his mood suddenly lifting. “Let’s go to this pub I know and see what’s going on. There are a ton of babes in Dublin. I want to show you some action.”
“Yeah, good idea, David, let’s have a couple of beers, relax, have some fun, and try to forget about it for tonight.”
We caught a bus into town from right in front of David’s house, and in about ten minutes we were walking down a wide boulevard in Dublin.
“The most one could hope for was to finish school and relocate to another European country or possibly America.”
Dublin looked historical and magnificent on this evening. The city was filled with the type of architecture you’d put on a postcard but with the extra color of holiday decorations. All that was needed to complete the scene was some snow. It was a freezing, wind-whipped evening in December, and Christmas was in the air.
A few blocks from the bus stop, we ducked down some stairs into a cool little pub underneath an old, historic building. It was warm inside, the place was packed, and the crowd was loud. David and I squeezed up to the bar and ordered a couple of pints of Guinness. We made our way toward the back corner of the room and managed to find two seats along the wall. A group of people spotted David, and a girl called out to him.
“Hey, O’Connor!” she shouted in a cute Irish accent.
We went over to their table, talked with his friends, and laughed over more rounds of Guinness. I was relieved; this was just what David needed.
David was blatantly flirting with a beautiful girl sitting next to him. They both kept looking over at me. I knew he was blurting out my whole life story to her, although I strained to overhear what he was saying. He was explaining to her who I was, how he’d stayed with me in California, and that I was an American dodging the draft.
Everyone wanted to talk to me, the American draft dodger. They expressed their hatred for the Vietnam War and congratulated me for avoiding it. The group was fascinated by everything American and wanted to hear about California, the movies, and the Beach Boys.
David’s friends were curious about the quality of life in America. They were particularly impressed that you could actually get a job, rent an apartment, buy a car, and afford to put gas in it. In Ireland, those things were a luxury, if you could get them at all. Unemployment was high, and everything was expensive. The most one could hope for was to finish school and relocate to another European country or possibly America.
We hung out with his friends far into the night. Then David and I drunkenly wished everybody a Merry Christmas, made our way out to the street, and caught the bus back to his neighborhood.
“We rounded the corner and there was St. Patrick’s Cathedral, an intimidating granite building with sky-high spires that made it look like a castle.”
The next morning my head was pounding. I had a feeling that Mrs. Flanagan could tell exactly how I felt as I slinked down to the dining room sometime after noon. She probably had me pegged to a tee and knew that David and I had been out partying most of the night. I suspect she was aware of what time I’d come in, too. Mrs. Flanagan seemed like a wise woman.
“Good morning, dearie!” she said cheerfully with her Irish brogue in full form. “How about a good breakfast this morning? Have you an appetite?”
“Uhh, well, yeah, if I’m not too late,” I answered sheepishly.
“Oh, you’re not too late, sweetie. It’s never too late for a nourishing breakfast. Don’t you worry. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve! Merry Christmas to you. Now sit down, and we’ll get you some hot tea.”
Wow, I could get used to this. Not even so much as an “Out gallivanting around pretty late last night, were we?”
When I walked over to David’s house after breakfast, I wasn’t surprised to hear that he was still in bed. I sat at the kitchen table next to the warm stove with Bill and Geraldine, and we drank tea. I sensed that they wanted to say something.
Bill blurted out, “I guess David’s told you some of what he’s been going through. This hasn’t been easy on him. It’s good that you’ve come to visit him, Gregg. It means a lot to him, you should know.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling relieved that the subject had finally been brought up. “I’m sure it’s been difficult for you, too. I wish I could do more to make him feel better.”
“You’re kind to look after him, Gregg,” Geraldine said. “He needs a friend right now, and he’s talked a lot about you and Ted and the good times he had in California.”
“David’s going to be all right.” Bill added, “It’s just going to take some time,”
“Yeah, I know,” I answered. “David’s a strong guy. He’s a survivor. He’ll make out.”
I hoped I was right.
David and I spent the rest of the day sitting around the house, relaxing, smoking cigarettes, drinking tea, and talking. I could tell that he was still both depressed and dopey from sedatives.
We reminisced about the days we’d spent just a few months earlier in Pasadena. He and I laughed about the good times, the girls, the parties, and the night we rolled around on the water bed watching Casablanca. I still couldn’t believe that his dad had been in a movie with Bogart!
When we got around to talking about my trip, I told him how I met Jenny in Madrid, and that after I left Dublin, I would be going to the Canary Islands to see her.
“Jenny’s incredible,” I told him. “You’d like her. She’s not only beautiful, she’s smart, sexy, and very independent. Her dad’s a lawyer in Milwaukee. She’s just the kind of girl I’ve been looking for.”
“What about the draft? Did you get in touch with the Selective Service?” he asked.
“Well, I wrote to them for the first time when I was in Paris. I put it off because I didn’t feel like dealing with it.”
“Yeah, don’t let those fuckers catch up with you,” he warned. “That’ll ruin everything. There’s no way you could have put up with that shit, man, especially if it meant going to Vietnam.”
“I’m not sure how long I can put the Selective Service off. But they’ll never make me go to Vietnam, that much I know. Anyway, I feel better now that I’ve sent that first letter.”
Around 7 p.m. on Christmas Eve, we made it out the door for another night of pub hopping. We found a boisterous bar and drank a lot before stumbling out into the street a little before midnight.
A couple of inches of snow had fallen, and the fresh powder covered the entire city. Being from Southern California, I had never experienced this before. To me, the picturesque scene represented what Christmas was supposed to be.
“Let’s go to Midnight Mass,” David announced. “Come on, we’ll head over to St. Patrick’s. It’s just a couple of blocks away.”
He crossed the street before I could make sense out of what he had said.
“Midnight Mass? What’s that?” I asked as I followed behind him.
“Midnight Mass. You know, mass at the Catholic Church. Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. It’s huge. Come on, I really wanna go.”
He had said “it’s huge” with a slur to his words that sounded like “iss schooge.”
“David,” I said as I laughed, “May I remind you that we are fucked up. We are drunk.”
“Fuck that, I know we’re drunk!” David said, and then he began to laugh, too.
For a minute, we both doubled over with laughter at the thought of two drunks like us going to Midnight Mass.
“Hey,” David said, “I guarantee you half the goddamn place’ll be drunk. Don’t worry! It’s an Irish tradition to go to Midnight Mass drunk.”
We rounded the corner and there was St. Patrick’s Cathedral, an intimidating granite building with sky-high spires that made it look like a castle. To me, it was something right out of the movie Frankenstein.
I don’t like churches, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside one, other than the monastery we’d stopped at in Spain. In fact, I’d done everything I could do to avoid religion for as long as I could remember. But I figured if David wanted to go to Midnight Mass, I would do this for him. Besides, if half the people there were drunk, it might be an interesting experience.
“It seemed like every time I hit a pillow, it was only after totally pushing myself to the limit.”
We walked into a packed church. Music was playing, and the mass had already begun. The cathedral’s interior was spectacular with a huge ceiling, stained glass everywhere, and walls lined with religious statues.
I gawked at it all before I leaned over and whispered in David’s ear, “Is everybody in? The ceremony is about to begin,” doing my best Jim Morrison impression. We both started to snicker as we ducked into one of the pews near the back of the church.
A few people gave us a look, but I don’t think anyone paid that much attention to us. I could tell right away that this was not your typical church crowd. Many of the people looked drunk and scraggly, and the worst of us sat in the back.
After about a half hour, I started getting uncomfortable. It was some somber religious stuff, which I hated, and I could only make out a few words of what was being said. David closed his eyes, prayed, and crossed himself a few times. I sat there and pretended to pay attention.
When the mass was over, we spilled out of the church with the rest of the crowd.
“Thanks for going,” David said. “I needed to do that.”
“Sure, no problem,” I answered. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It was pretty impressive.”
“You have to realize that the Irish and the Church, the Irish and drinking, the Irish and mental illness, the Irish and religious guilt, it’s all part of our fucked-up culture,” he explained.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s a fucked-up place, man. I mean, it’s a beautiful country, and I think the women are the sexiest in the world. Didn’t you love that group of Irish girls we were with? Did you see that one I was talking to?”
“Did I see her? Are you kidding? I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I noticed you couldn’t either. It looks like she really digs you.”
“Nah, she’s out of my league. You know who she is?”
“No. Who is she, the president’s granddaughter or something? A princess?”
“Close. She’s related to the famous actor Walter Pidgeon. Her name is Philomena Pidgeon. Can you believe that, PHILOMENA PIDGEON!”
David announced the name loudly like I would fall over with amazement.
“Really? Philomena Pidgeon?” I started to laugh a little, and then I just exploded in uncontrollable fits of laughter. “Her name is Philomena?”
“Yeah, that’s right, her name is Philomena. I think she’s so sexy!” David said, and he wasn’t laughing.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. She’s sexy! It’s just that name, Philomena!”
I got control of myself, and then David realized that it was pretty funny too.
“So, we call her Phil,” he said. “Besides, I don’t give a damn what her name is. I just want her, you know what I mean?”
David made a hilarious, crude motion like he was having sex with her from behind. We both started to laugh so hard that we had to sit down on the curb. It was several minutes before we were able to get up and continue walking.
One thing was clear. David felt a lot better after we spent a couple of days together, got drunk, flirted with some cute women, and attended Midnight Mass.
We grabbed the bus back to North Circular Road. Before I headed over to the guest house, I hugged David tightly on the sidewalk in front of his house.
“Hey, man,” I said. “Merry fucking Christmas. I’m really glad I came here to see you.”
“Thanks, Gregg. I’m sorry it’s not as good as it coulda been, but thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”
I went back to Mrs. Flanagan’s and collapsed as soon as I climbed into bed. It seemed like every time I hit a pillow, it was only after totally pushing myself to the limit.
The next afternoon, Geraldine greeted me at the door. Once again, she led me into the kitchen where tea was on the table and a fire was glowing in the potbelly stove.
You would never have known it was Christmas in the O’Connor’s home. There were no decorations in the house and no tree. Geraldine told me that there was a party being planned at their local community center, which was located down the street.
“I’m preparing a few dishes to bring there,” she said. “You’re welcome to join us. “I’m sure everyone would be thrilled to meet you.”
When David was younger, Bill explained, they would have a tree at Christmas. Now it was easier to have one celebration at the center where they could get together with friends and neighbors.
“How are you feeling today?” Bill asked me, as if he already knew the answer.
“Great,” I said unconvincingly.
“Yeah? David’s still sleeping.”
It seemed like there weren’t many secrets around here about what we were up to. His parents understood that young guys like us went out at night, partied late, slept past noon, then went out and did it all over again.
David came shuffling down the stairs about an hour later, looking even worse than the day when I arrived. His face was gaunt, and he had huge black circles around his eyes.
“How you doing,” he mumbled as he dragged himself to the table and slouched down in the chair next to me.
“Well, I’ve felt better, that’s for sure, but I gotta tell you, that place across the street is incredible. I mean, I could get used to being waited on like that and having breakfast ready for me no matter how late I get up,” I said through a yawn and a stretch.
“Yeah, Mrs. Flanagan will take care of you no matter how much of a drunk you are,” David agreed.
Later that afternoon, I phoned home and talked to my mom and dad for the first time since I left. I’d been gone for about two and a half months, but it seemed longer. They were relieved to hear my voice, and we talked for about an hour.
My parents wanted to know everything. Where had I been? What had I seen? What was I eating? Where was I staying? I reassured them my trip was going great, and I was the happiest I had been in my life, which was true. They were pleased to hear about Jenny from Milwaukee, and that I was going to the Canary Islands to meet up with her.
“What about the Selective Service?” my father asked. “Have you written to them yet?”
“Yeah, Dad, I just wrote to them last week, from Paris,” I replied.
“What did you say?”
“I told them that I’m on an extended European trip, and it’s part of some research that I’m doing for school. I gave them the American Express office in Las Palmas as my return address so they’d know where I was. I’ll let you know when they write back and what they have to say.”
It felt strange being so far away from home for the first time on Christmas. I realized that I was growing up quickly and had done a lot of things for the first time. Since I landed in Luxembourg, my trip had been one adventure after another, and I liked it that way.
Something inside me said that I’d done the right thing by visiting David, but I knew that it was time to move on again. There was nothing more for me in Ireland as far as I could tell. The thought of being with Jenny on a sunny beach in the Canary Islands was too much to resist. I bid farewell to the O’Connors.
“Any more time here,” I thought, “and I’ll be as depressed as David.”
