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The First Lesson
"I'll walk in on my feet but
I'll leave there on my back"~ Shane McGowan
He walked out of his bar onto the street and lit up a cigarette. The early March wind blew with teeth coming off of
the harbour and there were snowflakes mixed in that always seemed to find their way into the collars or sleeves of the people
walking down the street, but no one complained. This was the South Boston mentality.
"What is this shit? Force us out onta the cold street like criminals just 'cuz we smoke. It's bullshit."
Those who were already smoking outside groaned in agreement. They quickly finished their cigarettes and filed
back inside. Even though nearly every person out there objected to being lumped into the same category with him and by him,
saying anything about it would risk turning his temper against them.
It's not that he had a short fuse, but one time he broke a woman's teeth for suggesting that the quarterback for
the Colt's, Peyton Manning, was "prettier" than the hometown Pat's quarterback, Tom Brady. Her statement somehow
equated to Manning being a better player and, ipso facto, an insult against his own preferences.
And it wasn't that everybody over at Hughie Muldoon's didn't like him -- they actually just plain hated him.
This was the first lesson learned by a new comer to Hughie's, whether by word of mouth or first-hand experience. If
the other regulars couldn't warn this first-timer first, John, John Connolly (or John the Asshole behind his back), would
stagger over to make friends, buying them drinks on "his tab".
After a few of these drinks and a heightened contact drunk from John's breath, the unfortunate person, depending
on their sex, would begin to see John's misbehavior as he devolved from pathetic drunk to anti-socialite.
If the newcomer was a woman, John began the seduction with rude comments and, with a suaveness that rivaled Don
Juan himself, moved on to letting his hands wander the woman's body like an ape picking lice.
If the newcomer was a man, John would start calling him "shit head," as in "You're alright, shit
head" and "Hey shit head, you're a shit head, do you want another drink, shit head?" If he really liked the
guy, he would start play-slapping him in the face.
If John's new friend had a cool head, they would excuse themselves and take refuge with the rest of the regulars
who were all good and decent people who enjoyed drinks and conversation and despised John Connolly.
If the person actually took offense to John and tried to stand up to him, well, no one had ever succeeded in standing
up to him, man or woman.
The regulars all avoided John Connolly for this one reason: plain and simple, he was a prick of the highest order.
Monday through Friday, John arrived at the bar at 6:20 pm (Saturday and Sunday, he would be there as soon as the
Massachusetts Blue Laws allowed the doors to open). He would get out of work at 5:00 pm, ride the T home for dinner with
his wife and 15-year-old son by 5:45 pm, eat what was waiting for him, be done by 6:05 pm, and then walk three blocks to Hughie
Muldoon's. During dinner, he would alternately yell at his son for his grades and yell at his wife for spending money on
groceries. He spent more money on booze, cigarettes and lottery tickets than anyone. When his wife would bring this up,
he'd snap at her, "I break my ass all day on the docks to provide for this family, I should be able to do what I want
with my money."
Really, though, Mary Connelly didn't mind John being at the bar every night. She was cheating on him anyway.
She knew that as long as she was back in bed by 2:00 am when John was rolling in the door after last call, he would never
catch on. He was so utterly annihilated when he stumbled home that he would never notice she wasn't there.
This cycle of mutual abuses continued until the day John was injured on the job. As usual, John was taking one
of his far too many cigarette breaks, which no one could say anything about (nor about his numerous coffee breaks, habitual
tardiness, sub-par work habits, or on-site drunkenness), because his cousin was the International Longshoremen Association
stevedore, and he was accidentally run down by a forklift. Work site justice comes in official forms sometime but, more often
than not, it comes unofficially.
As a result, John broke two bones in his arm and tore the ACL in his left knee. To list the things he got back
from his union for the injury, he received: a minimum workman's comp. package (his cousin, who pulled strings to ensure the
minimum, didn't like him as much as everyone, including John, had thought), a medical bill for one of his arm surgeries that
his insurance hadn't covered, no physical therapy which is necessary for the ACL recovery, and a "Gee, John. I'm real
sorry" for all his trouble.
His sudden immobility from the knee surgery kept John from the bar for several weeks, forcing him to spend time
at home where he usually just slept. John's sudden lack of finances also transformed him from a two pack-a-day smoking alcoholic
into a zero pack-a-day sober citizen. This wasn't John's idea; it was Mary's. John tried to hit her with his cast after
she had laid down the law but he lost his balance on his bad leg and fell to the floor so hard that senile Mr. Madden from
downstairs came bounding up the steps and pounded on the Connolly's door, shouting about Japs and battle stations.
John's sudden sobriety, and subsequent withdrawal, gave him the DTs to the point where he would periodically spill
his glass of city water all over his pants during the soap operas he watched all day. His quarrels with his wife increased
in frequency and ferocity, mostly over the fact that she refused to buy him any alcohol or tobacco. "Shake it out, you
bastard," she'd say, "It's good for you."
The hem of Mary's secret life was beginning to show, as well. John was now home all day and all night, which
left little time for any sort of rendezvous with her current lover. The only reason Mary didn't buy John two bottles of booze
a day to kill himself with was because she very much enjoyed watching John convulse and make an ass of himself.
She had to be more careful now, so she asked her lover, an EMT/ ambulance driver who only lived a few blocks
over, if they could start meeting during the day, maybe on his break. Of course he agreed; Mary was a very attractive woman
who spent her days raising her son (which was no longer necessary), cooking John's dinner, and working out in her living room
to her Pilates tape. She also hid money from John's paycheck to buy exciting clothing for her numerous affairs over the years,
which this ambulance driver was only the latest.
At home, Mary dressed shrewishly and played mousy Suzy Homemaker so John wouldn't catch on. She figured he wasn't
that smart anyway, but if she split her life cleanly in two, she wouldn't have to think about one when she was acting in the
other. It's the Catholic guilt. Plus, she hoped that maybe if she bored him enough, John might leave her. No such luck
for her though.
Everything came to a head one day during the summer. John never actually did any physical therapy for his knee
and, unbeknownst to him, beneath the brace his doctor had put on his knee (the brace that John had stolen when he realized
he'd have to pay for it), his muscles had atrophied to the point of near uselessness.
So John woke up groggy on his couch groggy, and feeling claustrophobic, fumbled with his brace and took it off
for the first time in six months. He stood up feeling dizzy and took one step on his recovering knee. It buckled and he fell
straight through the pressed wood coffee table.
It should have hurt.
Bad.
His whole body was numb though.
He crawled to the phone not feeling the floor under and took a piece of paper from is wallet -- Mary's cell phone
number. She had just bought the cell phone under the guise of necessity, in case of an emergency with John. This seemed
perfectly reasonable to him, especially now in hindsight. Plus, Mary controlled the bills, so John would never know how much
her lovers called, or how much it cost.
Earlier in the day, Mary had crushed up four Oxycotin and put them in John's sandwich so she could sneak out.
Between the time John finished the sandwich and when Oxy kicked in, she told John she was going out. He agreed and passed
out on the couch.
Mary got the drugs from her son who, with full knowledge on both of his part's part, but no verbalized disagreement,
was a small-time drug dealer with every intention of expanding into the bigger rackets. It brought a little extra money into
the house, plus the benefit of freebies.
When John woke up, he decided the brace had to go and, as a matter of course, dialed Mary's number.
"Mary! Mary! You gotta come home! I fell! I think I'm hurt bad! So bad I can't feel nothin!"
"Stop that, stupid! Hello? Who is this? Hold on a second, I'm on the phone...::giggle::"
"Mary, it's me! You gotta come home!"
"Mmm, wait...Oh shit, John...shh, quiet, it's my husband...::man's voice::...shut up a minute...John, sweetie?"
"What's happenin', Mary? Who's with you?"
::Silence::
"Why are you outta breath? It sounds like you're havin' sex."
::Silence then a dispatch radio in the background::
"You're havin' sex? I'm not there? WHAT THE FUCK MARY?"
"::Sobbing:: John, I love you!"
::Click::
John bellowed from the floor and threw the phone into the wall.
What the fuck is wrong with that woman, he thought. I gave her the best years of my life; I supported her and
loved her. Wasn't she getting everything she needed at home?
John hobbled around in the debris from his fall, doing something that resembled pacing once he got his brace
back on. He hobbled until it started to get dark, working himself into a frenzy once the rest of the Oxy wore off. When
his son walked through the door, John grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and slammed him into the wall.
"Look, you little shit. Gimme a hundred bucks! I know you got it, you crack slingin' little punk!"
John's son pulled out a roll of hundreds in a rubber band, peeled one back and handed it over to his old man with
a little smirk. He knew he could have his father cut down anytime he wanted to, but didn't and probably wouldn't. He knew
about his mother's affairs, so he felt sorry for his old man. Plus, watching him , it was both pathetic and awe-inspiring
that a person could consistently put away as much poison as he did in one sitting and still be alive (John should have gotten
a job with a Haz Mat team as a poison disposal unit). Seeing his father drink and fight, when he happened to stop at the
bar for a drink (yeah, fifteen and that well connected), inspired awe. To his son, John was a barroom hero. A failure as
a father, husband, and last place in voting for Citizen of the Year, but as a drinker, he was tops.
It was dark when John stepped out onto the street. He had money in his pocket and the longer he waited for Mary
to come home, the quicker his anger was turned inwards into self-loathing and depression. John limped the familiar route
to his throne room, Hughie's. Every step felt lighter, despite his walking like a pirate, and when he reached the red brick
facade and touched the big green door with his hand, his only noticeable impediment was the fact his knee didn't bend.
He turned the knob and had a brief vision of his impending welcome. Kinda like Cheers but better.
As he stood in the door, he grinned and looked in and everyone looked back.
Everything stopped as he stood there except for the jukebox. Even the jukebox would have stopped if it could
have. The scene resembled what a painting of a busy bar would look like, or if statues went out to slum it in South Boston.
The bar was packed and everyone was frozen staring at John, the ghost from so many months ago. No one had known
exactly what had happened to him. Half of the customers assumed he was dead. The other half hoped the first half was right.
After disappearing for nearly six months without a trace, here stood John Connelly, back again.
"Hey fuckasses! I'm back! Did ya miss me?"
A general grumble went up from the crowd and they went back to their drinks. A majority of people finished up
and left. Hughie Muldoon's wasn't a very large place, so one huge asshole like John Connelly was enough to keep most patrons.
When word got around that John went missing with no sign he would ever turn up again, no clue, forever even, Hughie Muldoon's
transformed from a local dive dominated by a dickhole blowhard -- only frequented by those who could ignore John, or those
so set in their ways they couldn't change -- into a hip, college bar (discovered by hipster pilot fish) where the Ivies would
come and throw their inhibitions to the wind. When the girls started showing up, it was fine. Girls meant game. When the
guys started showing up, they were a bit obnoxious until they got knocked around a bit and, without any sort of municipal
recourse, they learned their place.
The faithful Hughie Muldooners and the fresh college blood were able to find equilibrium.
Young, affluent crowds spent more money at the bar too. Relatively cheap, local prices meant more money left
in tips. The bar staff was raking it in and The Owner was planning on buying a dump truck for his bank runs, all because
John Connelly was gone.
The biggest coup of all though was the reemergence of a very popular former employee of Hughie's, named Jeremiah
Quigley. He was a full time bartender/part time rescue worker who was forced to become a full time resuce worker after he
was fired under suspect circumstances (which is a story unto itself).
Quigley drank, smoked, and was never alone at last call, whether he was working or just hanging out. Even at
that moment, when John had walked in, Quigley was surrounded by women, but he was attempting to charm a former co-worker with
blonde hair, huge tits, a mixed reputation and a bad fucking temper -- exactly Quigley's type.
John walked up while Jeremiah was pouring attention all over the bartender and she was drinking it all up. John
reached over the bar and slapped the bartender's ass to get her attention.
"Hey sweetass, are you glad to see me?"
"Actually no, you bitch motha fucka. Don't touch me again."
"I love when you play hard to get. Gimme my usual, babe."
"Go fuck ya self."
She poured the whiskey and ginger ale and threw it at John. Half stayed in the cup, the other half he wore.
"You salty cunt. I love it."
"That doesn't make sense, you moron."
Before Connelly could retort, she walked to the other end of the bar where Jeremiah had moved to talk with the
other blonde bartender.
Once word got 'round the bar who was back, everyone more or less cleared out, except for a few trusty regulars
that kept to themselves, Jeremiah, the staff, and John.
O'Brien, the bar manager, had turned down the jukebox in disgust once the crowd level had decreased, and the level
of intoxication for Jeremiah and the two blonde bartenders had risen with the volume of their conversation. It was now at
a point the entire neighbor could join in.
The topic of this conversation, after all of the other "How have you been?" pleasantries had been dispensed
with, turned to where Jeremiah had been since he had last been in Hughie's.
John loved things that didn't concern, him so he paid as close attention as his whisky would let him. As far
as the whisky knew, Jeremiah was blathering on about working nights for awhile and always being busy with car accidents and
occasional gunshot victims. This made John giggle, and Jeremiah shot him a dirty look but continued on about how horrible
the things he had seen were, and how he gets SO sad and how HE doesn't think he's a HERO or anything JUST BECAUSE he saves
lives. It is a PRIVILEGE.
O'Brien was laughing to himself in the background because he knew exactly what Quigley was doing: two ounces of
sympathy, one ounce of understated heroism, shake 'em up, pour into a martini glass, for class, and garnish with modesty.
It's a smooth drink. O'Brien walked back into the kitchen to do some paperwork, hoping that Jeremiah would be banging both
of the bartenders on top of the bar when he came back out.
John made some boo/hiss noises and gave the thumbs down. Everyone turned in his direction and, with all the venom
in their glares, he should have fallen off of his bar stool, dead.
Jeremiah continued anyway, louder now and looking in John's direction, "I've also been seein' this lady at
night since I switched over to days. A real hot number, too. A Mary somethin'. She's cheatin' on her impotent, alcoholic,
no class, dumb-fuck of a husband. I wonder if anyone around here knows her? Hey John, you know a Mary?"
John was sweating toxins like a poison frog and staring blankly at Jeremiah. "My wife's name's Mary. Why?"
Jeremiah and the bartenders started laughing.
"Hey assholes! You think my wife's name is funny?" John stood up and wiped his face; from across
the bar, they could smell him. He smelled like the inside of a sweaty elbow if it was in a whisky barrel.
Jeremiah stood up too. In comparison, John stood a good six inches taller but Jeremiah was built like a bulldog
with fists like meat hammers.
"JOHN! YOU STUPID FUCK! I'm fucking your wife! I was fucking her this afternoon when you called. She
hung up the phone laughing and then I stuck it in her ass!"
John Connolly began to tremble and shake his head, "Shut up, asshole. That's not true. I'm warnin' you,
don't say another thing."
The two blonde bartenders couldn't stop laughing.
Jeremiah smiled at the bartenders but he didn't need any encouragement from them. Jeremiah was doing this for
himself. One night, over a year and half ago, when he was still at Hughie's, John sucker punched him over the bar, thoroughly
embarrassing him. Jeremiah had been waiting for this for a while.
No one holds a grudge like the Irish.
"Hey John! You ever put it in your wife's ass?"
The bartenders were gasping for breath and one of them even fell on the ground.
John quick grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it on the bar in an attempt to make a weapon. He only succeeded
in cutting his hand up bad.
The other bartender fell down laughing too. Jeremiah smiled the smile John hated and envied. It was that smile
that made him take a swing at Jeremiah over the bar one time. It burned him deep down.
He descended on Jeremiah like a hooker on a peg leg, raising his dirty, calloused fist to land a haymaker. He
had a brief vision of the beating he was going to throw Quigley and of slapping the bartenders around before he took them
home to show Mary what she was missing out on. All the way home they would be laughing at that asshole and...
Jeremiah dodged John's fist with a slight side step and landed three quick, straight jabs at the base of John's
throat and then bowled him over with an open palm into his solar plexis. John was out cold until Jeremiah bounced a bar stool
off of John's bad knee.
O'Brien came running from the back to the sound of the huge crash and delighted scream of the bartending duo.
John was pretty worked over by the time O'Brien could pull Quigley off. Re-broken arm and leg, broken nose and
eye socket, and partially collapsed trachea and lung.
O'Brien dialed 911.
When the police arrived and had questioned everyone, strangely enough, nobody had seen anything. Most said something
like, "That asshole was a filthy drunk and probably fell off his barstool. Definitely had it coming to him."
The police got nowhere with the patrons and staff and, seeing as how there were no security cameras, they gave
up and left. Sometimes people fall, that's all there was to it.
Written by Joe Whalen 2007.
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