The drunk leans forward, over the partition between the seats and the entry steps. His eyes, the pale blue of old, clouded mirrors, focus on the skinny blonde boarding the bus. "Are you Irish?" he asks her. His face is broad and bland, deliberately innocent.
She does not answer.
"Sure, you're Irish. Irish or German."
She is pretty with a slight frame and wavy hair that never saw peroxide. Eyes lowered, she moves with the queue to the rear. The next woman does not answer either, and he asks the same question of a slender Filipino with bad teeth, who shakes his head in quick, disconnected movements. "Just kidding," says the drunk, and the man beside him laughs without noise.
The bus backs away from the gate, moving towards the ramp. The drunk turns his bulk slightly, so that his voice will carry better. It reaches the last seat. "Passengers, have no fear, our bus driver is here. He's been driving for sixteen years, he has. What's your name: Harry? George? Francis?"
No answer.
"Are you Irish? He's very experienced, ladies and gentlemen, so have no fear. Harry George Francis is here and we will get where we're going."
There is quiet for a moment. "I lost an Irish Catholic priest," the drunk announces. "Fourteen years sober, and he escaped from AA. How the hell do I find an Irish Catholic priest in New York? Eight million people. He was living with me but he escaped. He's got all the money."
"New York. Best city in the world." He is our raconteur, entertainer and tour director. The tour director has forgotten that the raconteur has already told the story. He begins again. "I lost an Irish Catholic priest. Fourteen years sober, and he left eight days ago. He escaped. I won't see him again. He's on a bat."
The man next to me grins. I smile too, but we face straight ahead, to the partition behind the driver. Our smiles are separate, not exchanged.
"He's got all the money. I got nothing. I can't get to Dumont where I'm going. I have to get off in Weehawken. Two dollars, that's all I got."
Is he asking for money? He'll get nothing from me. Some of my family's Irish; he's doing them no service, offering up a tired, vicious stereotype like this. I do not like sitting next to a drunk. Aggression is always there, below the surface. Now he is singing the national anthem. At the rockets' red glare, he stumbles, but retrieves the words. Nobody joins in. He tells us yet once more about the priest, then sings America.
"Greaaaat country, America. America. Do you know how many soldiers died for this country in World War II? Four hundred thousand. In Vietnam, fifty-eight thousand."
He pauses for effect. When he resumes, his voice is different. Quicker and heavier with ugly words. "I was there. In Vietnam. I was a captain."
That's what I think I heard: 'captain.' Despite the projection of his voice, like an actor's, that word alone is too blurred to understand. "I came back, and I was sick. Not from fighting. I was sick from people hating me when I came back. For what? Protecting them. That's what we were told. S**theads. They lied to us, those f**king s**theads. Johnson and Nixon. Supporting the corrupt South Korean - South Vietnamese, excuse me, regime. F**k them. They lied to us."
"Sixty-fifth Street in Weehawken. That's where I started, that's where I'm getting off. I lost an Irish Catholic priest. They lied to us, those s**theads. I lost buddies there. I lost people there. I know what got to Lieutenant Calley."
Outside the bus, the world is black and gold. Just to our right the empty river flows, and beyond it, the windows of New York glow still, at this late hour, like ranks of candle flames, though here along the Boulevard, the old frame houses with their pointed roofs are dark. Was he really in Vietnam, this drunk, or has this all come from television? At least he doesn't call it 'Nam."
"I know what got to him. Nobody to trust, that's what it was. You couldn't tell soldiers from civilians. A little kid, five years old, there'd be a grenade strapped to him. You try to give him a stick of gum, he'd take out five Americans. F**k them."
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and sticks one in his mouth, but does not light it. He must be preparing for his stop. In fact, the bus is slowing, and the front door opens. "I'm leaving you," the drunk announces. "You can all be happy, I'm getting off. Captain Neill is getting off the bus. I lost an Irish Catholic priest..."
"F**k you, get off the bus already." It is a normal voice, at normal volume, from somewhere near the back.
He does not seem to notice. At the curb, he blows to us a kiss that is not a blessing.
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