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are you playing at?”
    Meaning, my abandonment of my tenure at Trinity as part of my scholarship.
    I lied, said,
    â€œJust taking time out to savor the country.”
    Pause, then,
    â€œSavor fast and get your arse back here, you don’t want to lose your place.”
    Lots of replies to this but I went with brown-nosing,
    â€œYes, sir, I’ll be back in a few weeks.”
    Buying time if not affection.
    When I returned to the table, a man was sitting in my chair, leaning across the table, apparently engrossed in conversation. I went,
    â€œWhat the hell . . . ?”
    The man stood up, mega smile, hand out, said,
    â€œBoru, forgive me. I was just keeping your lovely lady company.”
    Something in the way he said “lovely” leaked a creepy familiarity over the word and I realized who he was:
    The professor, de Burgo.
    As I put this in some kind of skewed perspective, he rushed,
    â€œI spotted you earlier and just wanted to pop over, ask if there was a chance you’d guest-lecture for my department.”
    He then literally ushered me into my chair, handed me a business card, said,
    â€œBut let me not spoil your evening. Give me a bell when you get a chance and, truly, we’d be delighted to have you on board.”
    And he was gone.
    He looked old, like a stranger.
    He was someone else, someone whom
    he could easily hate.
    (Tom Pitts, Piggyback )
    Jack seemed to get his rocks off on subtly putting me down.
    Well, maybe not so subtly.
    He’d been telling me of the golden age of TV, when he was a young man, said,
    â€œFuck, we had Barney Miller and the magnificent Rockford Files .”
    I admitted that, no, I didn’t know those shows. He said,
    â€œAnd you’ll look back on what? The Kardashians!”
    I went the wrong tack, tried,
    â€œI don’t really watch a lot of television.”
    And he was off.
    Like this,
    â€œCourse not, you’re too freaking academic to slum, you probably have wet dreams about Kurosawa and Werner Herzog.”
    Jesus!
    I said,
    â€œThat is reverse elitism.”
    He laughed out loud, said,
    â€œBet you’re one of those pricks who say, “I don’t read fiction,” then sneak into the toilet with the National Enquirer.
    The Irish people were going to the polls, a referendum on two points:
    (a) To keep or abolish the senate.
    (b) To set up a new court of appeals.
    A fast track for cases in reality.
    Jack was shucking into his all-weather Garda coat. I asked,
    â€œYou have to be somewhere?”
    He stared at me, said,
    â€œI’m going to vote.”
    I was astounded, said,
    â€œYou . . . you vote?”
    And he looked as if he might deck me, asked,
    â€œYou think alkies don’t have rights, that it?”
    In exasperation, I said,
    â€œThere’s no talking to you.”
    â€œNo, you mean there’s no lecturing me!”
    A day later I was having a drink with Aine. We were in Hosty’s, early in the evening, and a nice air of quiet pervaded. I’d nearly perfected the pronunciation of her name, had it as close to
    â€œYawn-ah.”
    Without the “y,” obviously.
    We were doing well, she was telling me about a beauty course she was close to finishing. Then, she hoped to open a nail salon. I asked,
    â€œThere’s money in nails?”
    And got the look.
    The door behind me banged open but I didn’t turn around. Then a hand grabbed my collar, hauled me off the stool. I crashed to the floor, my pint spilling over a new white shirt I was sporting. Jack stood over me, his fists balled, spit flying from his mouth, he rasped,
    â€œYou tout, you piece of treacherous shit, you ratted me out to the Guards . . .”
    He had to pause for breath, some control, then,
    â€œAnd to Clancy, fucking Clancy of all people!”
    Aine was trying to grab Jack, pull him back, but he effortlessly shrugged her away, said,
    â€œI thought we had some kind of friendship! If you were anybody