PLASTIC PADDY
by Marc Goldin

The plane�s wheels bumped a bit, causing him to catch his breath as it touched down in the Belfast airport. He reached down for his bag stowed under the seat and sat, fidgeting for a moment, waiting to get off the plane. It had been a fairly boring, uneventful flight. Particularly unsatisfying was the conversation with the young Derry couple on their way back home from Chicago. All they�d fucking babbled about was the dinosaur exhibit, �Sue, the Tyrannosaurus� at the Field Museum, country and western bars, and a side trip to Florida�s DisneyWorld. With the exception of their accents, they may as well have been American tourists.

What did he expect -- talk of local football matches delivered in flowing prose with a twinkling eye and Celtic harp music swelling in the background?

�Jeez, you�re fucked,� he thought to himself � hard to shake those clich� images, �At least the guy coulda had a Pogues story - small pub in �84, Shane MacGowan annointing the crowd with Guinness.�

He sighed, stretched, and stood up, shouldering his bag and making his way down the aisle. He stumbled a bit � must�ve been the earlier beers on the flight. Realizing where he actually was, he felt that he was at some pivotal point in his life -- a growing sense of his own south-side Chicago Irishness and how it fit in the current Ireland landscape.

1962, JFK�s regime in full flower and Daley Sr. in the driver�s seat in Chicago. Standing next to his father on Western Ave., watching the annual St. Pat�s Parade. Everyone knew that the south-side parade was the legit celebration, the downtown one for tourists. Kids� Irish dancing groups high stepping down the wide street, followed by floats of men�s organizations, his dad�s being the Hibernia Club, the pipe bands in Scottish Black Watch kilts and the city�s various politicians making appearances. Where they marched in relation to Daley indicated their standing and power in the city, probably like the Irish clan chieftains of old. The after parade festivities, going to his aunt�s when he was a boy, then hanging out with his buddies as he got older, in one of the many Western Ave bars, so packed that people were spilling out the doors into the street. He was flooded with iconic symbols of a theme park Ireland, from shamrock and Celtic cross to harp logos and Donegal tweed caps.

�Thanks for flying with us,� the Aer Lingus flight attendant smiled, a shaft of sunlight reflecting off her auburn hair and brass colored nameplate that said �Moira.�

As he walked through the airport, his mood began to lift as the gentle lilt of various regional brogues drifted around him.

�James Devlin, would that be yourself, sir?� inquired the pleasant looking customs man checking him through.

�That would indeed,� he replied, in what he felt was a jaunty tone. The man looked over his passport, asked him where he was staying, and finding everything in order, wished him a good holiday.

The cab ride from the airport to Belfast was not long. He amused himself looking out the window and imagining the countryside a hundred years earlier. The driver, while polite, was silent for much of the trip. He saw a billboard sign on the motorway advertising an internet company and anti-British graffiti scrawled in spray paint on abandoned factory walls. As the cab made its way into the city center, he saw cyber cafes and everyone in the street with cell phones.

Drifting in his memories, he thought about relatives coming back from trips to Ireland, loaded down with Waterford crystal and stories of motoring around the countryside. Everyone agreed that they�d like to go back eventually, maybe retire over there. Ironic how much their ancestors had gone through in getting out a mere hundred fifty years earlier during the Great Hunger. He wondered if it was just talk, if these sons and daughters of immigrants could really give up the abundant lifestyle to which they�d become accustomed. Much later, he�d had friends go over, maybe do a year at Trinity or UCD, and come back talking about the Guinness, the music scene, and chips with curry sauce. They too, had had fantasies about returning but ended up in the U.S., getting richer and fatter each year. For some reason, he�d felt this tug recently, this compulsion to visit Ireland and to see things for himself. He�d jumped at the chance when his company sent him to Belfast to work on a computer start-up, Dublin already being somewhat expensive.

�Here you go, sir,� the cabbie softly interrupting his mist shrouded reverie to hand him his bags.

�Thanks, buddy,� Devlin said, handing him the fare plus a rather generous tip. �Have a pint on me,� he added jovially.

�What the fuck?� he thought suddenly, �Why�d I have to go and make some drink related remark?�

The cabbie looked at him confused, and then as if remembering the part he was supposed to play, brightened, affixing a broad smile to his serious features, though not before several centuries� worth of resignation flashed across.

�I�ll �ave one on you, after me shift,� he replied, in his most pumped up brogue.

After checking into his hotel, Devlin decided on a stroll around Belfast streets. A pub sign caught his eye and after looking in the window, he wandered in. It was the middle of the afternoon and his jetlag was beginning to kick in. He thought a few pints and a shot or two would see him through the disorientation.

Inside it was quiet, a tv on in the background with a Sky Sports football game in progress. Arsenal and Chelsea, a couple of English teams. He noticed a jukebox against a wall and a small raised platform in the corner - figured it was too early for the music. There were only a few men in the place quietly talking. The barman was down at the other end, wiping glasses and following the game. One or two people glanced up as he walked in and took a seat on a barstool but no one paid him any mind. It wasn�t til he spoke, ordering a pint and marking himself as an American that a barely discernable barrier came up. It was nothing that obvious; the conversation simply got softer and more inward.

�Shit,� he thought, clearly expecting a friendlier reception. The barman possibly sensing this, paused after setting down the pint glass in front of him.

�Where yiz from then, mate?�

Desperate for any sort of acceptance, Devlin ignored the slight smarm and responded eagerly,

�Chicago,� but noticing that this really meant nothing to the barman, added, �South side of Chicago, south side Irish, ya know?�

The man looked blank and Devlin was about to say something else when a roar went up from the tv. Chelsea�s striker Zola had just scored against top rated Arsenal � a beaut of a header just past Seaman�s outstretched fingers into the corner of the net. The barman moved back down the bar to see the replay, Devlin all but forgotten.

Devlin gulped his first pint, ordered another, and sat nursing it. He was starting to feel at home. �Yeah, back in Ireland,� he thought to himself, perhaps even a bit smugly, for someone who�d never been. Even the Guinness tasted different, somehow better.

�Yeah, back home.�

Three young fellows sat further away, at a table, talking animatedly. They looked to be tradesmen, their clothes spattered with flecks of paint and plaster. Devlin found himself trying to eavesdrop, somewhat obviously, finished his second pint and ordered a third, with a shot of Jameson�s on the side. Trying to catch their attention, it became apparent that any friendly overtures went unnoticed so he decided to move in, ordering a round of whiskey for all of them.

One of them looked up with a slight smirk, raised his shot glass in mock salute, and said, �Hey thanks, mate�. The other two nodded at Devlin, who saw this as an opportunity to join them. Getting off his barstool, he walked over, a bit unsteadily, and joined them at their table. Through a haze, it occurred to him that this was not a particularly welcome setting and he froze, unable to say anything. An uncomfortable moment passed til Devlin turned to the barman and called for a round of beers; lagers for the lads, Guinness for himself - his voice a little loud for the room at that time of day.

�I�m Jim, Jim Devlin,� he said boisterously, turning back to them.

�Liam,� replied the one who�d originally thanked Devlin for the round.

�Joe.�

�Matty,� the third one mumbled.

�You guys getting off work now?�

�Yeah, ye know, me and the lads stoppin off for a few pints after work,� Liam replied, the other two not saying anything but stifling a giggle. Liam continued, �We work for Monaghan Construction - a local outfit. We�re rehabbing a space that�s going to be a new office complex for some big time American computer company.�

�Sure, the money they�re spending on doin this place,� Matty interjected, �seems like they got a lot to throw around - should see the stuff we�re puttin in.�

�I�m over here to help set up a computer company, probably not the same one,� Devlin said defensively, �Hyperion�s the name of my group.�

Liam looked startled, �Hey, I think that�s who we�re doin,� he stared hard at Devlin for a moment, �But ahhh, what the fuck - who cares, eh?�

An uncomfortable second or two; Devlin spoke up, glad for the out.

�Yeah, what the fuck.� He turned back to the bar,

�Hey, yo buddy,� to the barman, � nother round here,� - louder than before, getting drunker. This went on for a couple more rounds, Guinness and jetlag double-teaming Devlin, beginning to put him on the ropes. He�d always considered himself a fairly stalwart drinker, brawny Irish-American lad and all � hadn�t reckoned on how lack of sleep and local brew would do his head. Even though he was buying, the three soon tired of this � just another workday to them � and started shuffling around, getting ready to leave. Devlin, realizing that his new drinking buddies were about to go opened his bleary eyes wide and bellowed,

�Hey, where the fuck you guys think you�re goin?�

Joe and Matty looked startled and glanced over at Liam, who said,

�Hey look mate, we�re takin� off - some of us gotta work the morrow.�

�We�re just gettin started,� Devlin still not comprehending, �Let�s go somewhere else.�

Matty looked over at Joe, who giggled nervously and started making for the door, followed by the other two.

�See ya, mate, thanks,� called Liam from the door.

They were out in a second, Devlin seeing his evening�s entertainment fading away. Feeling a bond with his new drinking mates, he jumped up noisily, his chair falling back, and ran to the door in pursuit. The barman looked after him and then at the chair on the floor.

�Poxy American cunt,� he muttered.

Meanwhile, the three had gotten about a half a block away when Devlin caught up to them, winded from his sprint.

�Hey, ya can�t call it quits this early,� he gasped hoarsely.

�Ahhh, mate � we�re done the now,� Liam trying to be diplomatic - fatigue, lager, and annoyance starting to show. Devlin, still pushing on unawares, tried again, more aggressively,

�C�mon you pussy motherfuckers, I thought you guys could drink!� putting a hand on Liam�s shoulder.

�Wait a minute ye fookin bastard,� Liam snapped, dropping all pretenses. The other two lads tensed next to him.

�Hey, I was just kiddin, can�t ya take a �..�

Slammed into a wall, Devlin�s head reeled as Liam grabbed him, reeled again as Liam nutted him across the bridge of his nose. Blood started to drip down his shirtfront.

Devlin raised his hands instinctively to fend off any further blows but Matty and Joe moved in, each grabbing an arm and holding it fast. He opened his mouth to protest but Liam stiff-armed him in the stomach and all that came out was air.

Devlin went limp at that point, falling back against the wall as Liam rained a few more into him. Looking at his two mates, he gestured with his head. Both nodded, each letting go of an arm, as Devlin slid down the wall, slumping over.

The three started to leave - Liam hesitated, aiming a kick at Devlin. Joe stepped between them.

�C�mon man, fuck �im. Let�s go.�

Liam looked over at Devlin disgustedly.

�American yuppie cunt,� he spat. They left.

Somewhere rattling round Devlin�s brain was the Clancy Brothers� version of, �Whiskey, you�re the Devil�. It played over and over through his fog.

Getting it together, some hours later, in his hotel room, Devlin can�t quite remember making it back and cleaning up. His body is fairly sore. There are a few flashes of memory � passersby looking at him and moving on, the sight common as dirt. In fact, this is nothing compared to what they�ve seen on the streets of Belfast. Ultimately, one old lady stops and bends over him, asks if he�s alright. Pulling out a hanky, she starts to wipe his blood off � Devlin bitterly waves her away, wonders what her angle is, checks his pockets after she goes.

That evening, as Devlin stumbled out of the hotel, the man at the desk hailed him.

�Evening, sir. How�re we doing tonight? Can I get you a taxi or something?�

Devlin noticed that his nametag said Brendan and that he was about sixty and pleasant looking, with alert blue eyes.

�No, I don�t think so,� he replied sharply. He thought, �Fuck off, what do you want? Probably a tip.� Without another word, Devlin pushed past him, out to the pavement.

Looking after him, Brendan took a moment to reflect on what a curious lot these Irish-Americans sometimes were. He wondered what it was that they were looking for. What did they expect anyway? They seemed to walk around as if in a fantasyland, not quite in sync with the reality here. Watching Devlin�s receding figure, he thought about how different life must be over there and how much they�d lost in the leaving.

� Marc Goldin
Reproduced with permission

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MARC�S MISCELLANEOUS FAVOURITES:

MAIGHREAD MEDBH

"I had several of my book reviews published by a now defunct Irish lit site (local.ie). The lit. editor of the site, Maighread Medbh was kind enough to take my submissions. She is a wonderful poet and writer herself"

Click image to read about Medbh's poetry collection, 'Tenant' on the Salmon Poetry site; to read Medbh's poem, 'The Price that Love Denied' on the Magdalene Story website, click here; to contact Medbh directly on the Mother Millennia site, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here

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THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST

"Both Nikos Kazantzakis� book and Martin Scorsese�s film. A life changing experience."

Click image to read Christine Iannone's article, 'The Last Temptation Reconsidered' on the First Things site; for an extract from Kazantzakis's novel on the Thoughts Worth Thinking site, click here; for Steven D. Greydanus's article on Scorsese's film on the Decent Films website, click here; for David Ng's review of the film on the Images Journal site, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here

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UNDERGROUND COMICS AND GRAPHIC NOVELS

"Of course R. Crumb is the father of them all and whose work made me see things differently. Two newer artists I like: Chris Ware � 'Jimmy Corrigan' series and Daniel Clowes � 'Ghost World' and 'Eightball' series."

ROBERT CRUMB

Click image to visit The Crumb Museum website; for the Official Robert Crumb website, click here; for a biography and selected bibliography of Crumb on the Fantagraphics Books website, click here; for the Looking for Crumb website, click here; for the Robert Crumb unofficial fan site, click here; for a Robert Crumb chronology on the Sony Classics site, click here; for Steve Burgess's profile of Crumb on Salon.com, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here

CHRIS WARE

Click image for biography and selected bibliography of Ware on Fantagraphics website; for a bibliography of Ware's published comics on the Acme Novelty Warehouse site, click here; to visit the Chris Ware Resource site, click here; for a short profile and images by Ware on the Lambiek website, click here; for links related to Ware and the 'Jimmy Corrigan' book on the Random House website, click here; for the From the Mind of Chris Ware website, click here; for Andrew Bird's interview with Ware on the Brave New Waves site, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here

DANIEL CLOWES

Click image for a biography and selected bibliography of Clowes on the Fantagraphics website; for Corina Chocano's interview with Clowes on the Salon.com website, click here; for a biography of Clowers on the X Roads website, click here; for the World of Daniel Clowes website, click here; for Craig Elliot's interview with Clowes on the More Goat Than Goose website, click here; for a selection of images by Clowes on the Lambiek website, click here; for a profile of Clowes and the book, 'David Boring' on the Random House website, click here or for related items on Amazon, click here

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