Green Hell Read Free

gasped, asked,
    â€œWhy on earth are you telling me?”
    No hesitation.
    â€œBecause you are going to be my witness, my . . . how shall I say . . . last Will and Testament.”
    The Jameson singing in my blood, I near shouted,
    â€œYou gotta be . . . I mean, like, seriously, fucking kidding me.”
    He stood up, stretched, said,
    â€œKid, I never fuck around with murder.”

Lines from Literary Heroine (Anthony de Burgo)
    Everybody’s fuckin dead
    of note
    perhaps . . .
    Later I would learn that Literary Heroine , a prose poem, was de Burgo’s attempt at a “Howl-like” narrative. Jack commented,
    â€œTony likes to play, wordplay is just one facet.”
    Did I believe Jack was seriously going to like . . .
    Um . . .
    kill a professor?
    Shit,
    I mean,
    kill anybody?
    Those first head-rush, adrenalized weeks of his company had me, to paraphrase Jack:
    Be-fuddled,
    Be-wildered,
    Be-fucked.
    As the Irish so delicately phrase it,
    â€œI didn’t know whether I was comin or goin.”
    My proposed treatise on Beckett was put on a haphazard hold as I tried to find a balance in Taylor’s world. A man who was as likely to split a skull with a hurly as hand fifty euros to a homeless person (providing he didn’t have a rabbit, of course).
    A week after this bombshell, Jack invited me to an “Irish breakfast.” We met in the GBC, Jack saying,
    â€œThe chef, Frank, he’ll take care of us.”
    I was about to order coffee when Jack went,
    â€œWhoa, buddy, did I not say Irish breakfast?”
    â€œ. . . Um, yes.”
    â€œRight, so we’re having a fry-up and, fuck me, you cannot desecrate that with coffee, it has to be tea.”
    I tried,
    â€œI’m not real hot on like . . . tea.”
    He mimicked what the Irish think is a passable U.S. accent.
    â€œGet with the program, pal . . .”
    It wasn’t . . . passable. Not even close.
    Heavens to Betsy, the food came.
    Thick toast with a nightmare sledge of butter,
    fried eggs,
    rashers,
    fried tomatoes,
    and, apparently, the favorite of the late pope,
    black pudding.
    No doubt accounting for his demise. Jack explained the cups had to be heated and he stirred the tea with gusto, said,
    â€œThis is yer real hangover antidote.”
    That, I truly had to take on trust. Jack ate with relish, me . . . not so much.
    He asked me,
    â€œKnow the one beautiful sentence?”
    Like . . . do I venture the clichés?
    I love you.
    I forgive you.
    God loves you.
    Et al. He said,
    â€œPeace broke out.”
    WTF?
    He smiled, briefly, said,
    â€œNot that you need to worry, peace for us is as likely as the government cutting the country some slack. You know the latest crack? Fuckin water meters in every house. The bastards think up new ferocious schemes to hammer an already bollixed population.”
    I had to comment, went,
    â€œSome turn of phrase you have there.”
    A shadow, no more than a whisper of rage, danced across his eyes, he asked,
    â€œTurn of phrase? Let me give you a real beauty.”
    Like I had a choice.
    â€œLay it on me.”
    He intoned,
    â€œCatholic ethos is an oily and pompous phrase . . . that sounded like a designer fragrance.”
    Jack reached into his jacket, pulled out a crumpled copy of the Irish Independent (Saturday, August 10, 2013), said,
    â€œHere’s what Liam Fay wrote:
    â€˜ Fr. Kevin Doran is a medical miracle—and indeed, a miraculous medic. He sits on the board of the Mater Hospital’s governing body. Doran extolled the rigorous moral code underlying what he proudly calls the Catholic Ethos. ’”
    Jack had to pause, rein in his rage, continued,
    â€œâ€˜ In adherence to this uniquely righteous philosophy, he insisted the Mater will refuse to comply with the new law that permits abortion when a pregnant woman’s life is at risk. ’”
    I muttered “Jesus!”
    Jack put the paper aside, said,
    â€œWhoever else is