Her Dear Old Donegal

Sleep Tight In New York City
By Larry Kirwan

At 3 a.m., she would invariably materialize by the jukebox, caressing an Amstel and looking like dynamite. Although our relationship was casual, even by the standards of those days, our routine was quite formal. I would send her over a drink and then hover nearby, until she got rid of whatever jerk was trying to pick her up. Then we'd have one last Amaretto and go back to her place.

At best, I was number three in her life but that hardly kept me awake at nights. I had a girlfriend in Manhattan that she either didn't know, or didn't care, about. I knew a lot about her. But then, she was a major topic of conversation on Bainbridge. The Donegal boys didn't like her, but seein' she was from home, they always watched her back. They weren't too keen on me either, but I was a vast improvement on number two.

I only saw Angel once. He was outside the Village Pub, smoking a joint in the bleary blazing dawn, as we emerged arm in arm. Without a word of apology, she jumped in his souped-up Chevy. Anticipating trouble, he gave me one of those long Latin glares. But she squeezed his knee and he peeled out, leaving me standing there like a spare prick at a wedding.

Neither of us mentioned the incident, which seems strange in retrospect, but that's how we were back then. She enjoyed her little mysteries and I only thought of her on weekends. Anyway, in the guilty, Bronx mornings we had little enough to talk about and she was always edgy, if polite and, invariably, accommodating. Still, I could almost hear her sigh of relief when she'd finally close the door behind me. Quite often, I'd hear her phone ringing as I stumbled down the stairs. She never answered it until I had gone and rarely acknowledged its ringing.

Nor, did she mention the fellow she'd left behind in Gweedore. But his picture was all over her apartment. Dark, brooding and handsome, if you like that kind; but probably a real pain in the arse, on a daily basis. In the posed one by the bed, he had his arm around her in that very proprietorial Irish way. I was surprised at how different she looked back then — how much the city had aged her.

She was wearing a short pink summer dress — worlds away from the purples and blacks she favored in the Bronx — and an engagement ring. I noticed the ring because I loved her hands. Though she was a good-looking woman, with long, coarse dark hair and eyes as black as anthracite, it was her hands that did it for me. Long slim fingers, cool as crushed silk with a hint of steel underneath. Her arms were bare, too.

Even in bed, she was never sleeveless in New York.

One morning, I watched her search for cigarettes. She glanced warily at me, but I pretended to be asleep. She threw on some clothes and raced down to the bodega. Sure enough, within seconds, the phone rang. Although, I felt guilty, I still picked it up and listened. He was calling from a pay phone near the pier. I could hear the waves crashing and the cry of the gulls.

Jesus, I could almost smell the curried chips. He must have sensed something unusual but he didn't say anything and I kept my cool.

We listened to each other breathing across the ocean. Then he hung up.

(Larry Kirwan is the principal singer and lyricist with Black 47. The band will be performing at the House of Blues, Thursday, Oct. 25, in Chicago. He is also writing a novelized version of his "Liverpool Fantasy," with possible publication in November.)