Happy St Patrick's Day Oliver

by Livia Ellis

  I wander around my bedroom opening drawers and looking in the closets. It’s been five years, but everything is just as I left it. The books are on the shelves, the cd’s are in the boxes, the clothes are in the closets.

  I discover a pair of shoes I spent far too much time looking for back in England.

  There are two drawers filled with Renata’s shit.

  Pictures of us are painful to look at. Not because I miss her, but because I’m angry with myself. I lost four years of my life that could have been better spent living trying to make her love me. I’m an idiot. Life is too short to let people feed on your soul.

  For a brief moment I consider packing it all up and shipping it back to her. But I have no idea where she is living and if she’d even want it all back anyhow. In the end I decide it’s not worth the effort to do anything with it at that moment. It’s sat there for five years. It can sit there for another five years.

  The closet is revealing. I can say without any hesitation that my fashion sense has not changed one bit in five years. I’ve dressed like a boring old man since my grandmother put me in that first pair of short pants. I am what I am and that will never be at the cutting edge of fashion no matter how much Olga wants to make me her live doll.

  I dress in wool lined trousers I haven’t worn in five years. They still fit. Actually they’re a bit loose. Maybe I was a little tubby in college. Renata certainly used to tell me I had a gut. Maybe it’s just that since my body has become a tool for my trade I’ve toned. I was never fat. I wasn’t even tubby. Renata was just mean and liked to undermine my confidence.

  Tell someone that is perfectly healthy they’re fat and that they’re lucky to be loved is the best way to guarantee they will never stray.

  Evil bitch.

  I leave a note in the kitchen. Gone walking. Text me when you’re up.

  It’s still dark outside, but the sky to the east is lightening. The air is bitter cold and a rain cloud recently passed.

  I don’t know where I’m going. I just walk. My feet take me in the direction of Trinity.

  I pass the high fences of St. Stephen’s Green then turn down Grafton Street. The death of the Celtic Tiger has ravaged the place. I’m happy I lived in a booming Dublin and left before I had to see it brought to its knees by the greed of idiots.

  The sun rises when I reach the front gates of Trinity. It’s gray and cold even in the light. There are swags of green and white balloons hanging in front of pubs. I’m not alone on the streets. The tourists have begun to emerge from their hotels. They think they’re Irish, but they’re not. Most of them are too soft and too kind to be Irish. The Irish are tough. Probably like their grandparents were. These older Americans have come to find an Ireland that doesn’t exist. Or, more accurately, only exists in their imaginations.

  Maybe I’m just as bad as they are. I don’t know what I’m looking for as I wander, but I still search none the less.

  I walk up O’Connell Street to the Spire. I giant middle finger pointed to the sky. A monument to excess that brought a country financially to its knees.

  Giving credit where credit is due, the Irish have survived worse than EU imposed austerity. They’ve managed Vikings, Christianity, famine, and English landlords. Eventually Ireland will bounce back.

  At the Spire I turn back. What I’m looking for isn’t this far north of the Liffey.

  Elon calls as I walk past the bundles of people wrapped in their sleeping bags seeking shelter around the massive columns of the Bank of Ireland.

  Where am I?

  Lost.

  How can I be lost?

  Metaphorically. I’m emotionally lost. I think I’m having an existential crisis.

  That is self-evident. Where am I physically?

  O’Connell Bridge.

  Do I want to meet him for breakfast? Just the two of us? Marcus is still asleep. Avan found the weights. His father is loudly fucking the blond. It’s disconcerting.

  Yes.

  Usual place?

  Yes.

  Full Irish

  I go to O’Neills. I find a table in a round corner. I’m first so I get the bench. I know what to order.

  Tea. Glorious tea. There is something about the Irish water that makes the best tea. I think I drink a pot on my own before Elon arrives.

  He knew I’d take the bench. I’m that much of a little bitch. Did I order?

  I ordered.

  Tell him about my existential crisis.

  How does he remember the time we spent in Dublin?

  In a haze of alcohol fumes.

  Seriously.

  We’re being serious. Fair enough. He learned who he was during those years. He became an entity separate from his parents. He grew up.

  I think I missed a lot of that. I think I’m just doing these things now.

  Do I want his observation?

  Yes.

  Renata fucked me up. When I should have been focusing on myself I was twisting myself into a pretzel trying to make her happy. Instead of figuring out who Oliver was beyond what my grandparents and my parents wanted me to be I was trying to figure out who I should be to make Renata happy. I am right. I’m having an existential crisis. About fucking time too. Do I want his advice?

  Yes.

  Figure it out on my own. Stop relying on other people to tell me who I am and allowing them to define me. For the first time in my life I am free of the expectations of others. Stop focusing on the negative of the past and instead concentrate on the sort of future I want to have. Use the past negatives and turn them into positives. What is one thing that is bothering me?

  Renata. It pisses me off I wasted four years of my life on her. How do I turn that negative into a positive?

  Renata may need a different approach. He recommends doing what he has done.

  Which is impregnating her? He does realize her due date is about two weeks away, right?

  Renata does not exist for him. He has blanked her. When he thinks of her he thinks of something else.

  How is that working for him?

  Amazingly well. What else is bothering me?

  My poverty.

  Have I learned nothing from my experiment as a rent boy?

  Sometimes I wonder.

  I’m capable. Despite what my grandparents tried to convince me of, I’m capable. I can take care of myself. I have value.

  Avan said something that kind of pissed me off.

  Avan is a little spooky. Do I think Avan is a little spooky? Either the guy has absolutely no personality at all, or he is a master of internalizing and compartmentalizing.

  Does he want to know what Avan said that pissed me off?

  What did Avan say?

  He said that I’m good at convincing people I’m as dumb as I am pretty.

  He’s right. I am a lot smarter and more capable than you want anyone to know. He doesn’t know why I do that, but I do. He thinks it has something to do with my grandparents consistently undermining my own decision making process. I need to stop hiding my light under a basket.

  How do I do that?

  How about by not asking someone else how to live my life for once and figuring it out on my own? Look inside for the answers to the big questions. Am I interested in an observation?

  Sure.

  The reason I like Olga as much as I do is the same reason I liked my former fiancée as much as I did. Neither of them let me make a decision without having some kind of input. Here’s the real cracker – both of them are exactly like my grandmother. A trio of ballbusters. Interested in a second observation?

  Sure.

  I’ve never not been in a relationship. I’ve never been single. At least not for a prolonged period of time.

  I have so.

  Not really. Not long enough to enjoy being single. Never long enough to get to the point that I was okay being single and over the pain of being alone. I’m terrified of being alone.

  He has a point.

  Of course he does. Do I think he
doesn’t know me?

  What do I do now?

  Figure it out on my own and stop asking other people to figure it out for me.

  Otherworld

  After lunch we drive to Galway. But not quite Galway. We end up in some valley on the edge of a lake surrounded by those sheep dotted rolling hills so typical of western Ireland. The GPS stops working at some point and there is no signal for the mobiles. We are left with luck and a map. One man may not ask for directions. Four men together become quickly convinced they have the skills of homing birds and have the blood of Native American trackers running through their veins.

  We were hopelessly lost. Just hopelessly lost. Not that any of us would admit it.

  In truth, Ireland isn’t all that large. It’s an island. And a small island at that. We drove in circles for longer than it would take to drive the length and breadth of the country.

  By the time we make it to “civilization” in the form of a small village that time forgot we accept the fact we have lost our way. Not that any one of the four of us admits it out loud.

  Here is the first of several slightly insane and inexplicable things that will mark the course of the next forty-eight hours.

  Elon is driving. I am in the passenger seat. Marcus finds driving on the “wrong” side of the road unnerving and prefers to sit in the back with his eyes averted out the window. Avan reads in the back.

  The car comes to a halt in front of a pub. Signs all in Irish. Not English. We are truly strangers in a strange land.

  Who walks right in front of the car?

  The Doctor.

  I stare at him for a good long moment before I realize the man in the wide brim hat and well waxed Barbour field jacket is the Doctor himself.

  We are not lost.

  I scramble out of the car.

  The Doctor stops at the sound of his name. I’m given a hearty hello there my good fellow what are you doing so far from the house he’s only just come to town on a whim to see if anyone has seen hide or hair of us and here we are.

  Here we are indeed! I’ve never been so happy to see someone before in my life.

  Introductions are made. I get in the Land Rover he drove to town as Avan, Marcus and Elon follow behind.

  We make it to the manor house on the edge of the lake just as the sun begins to slip beneath the lip of the hills.

  Our host for the weekend greets us.

  He knows me through my connection with my grandfather. He’s so pleased to have me join their little group.

  Drinks are pressed into our hands. There is polite conversation that is cut short due to the lateness of the hour. We will be shown to our rooms and told we are to dress for dinner.

  This causes some sturm und drang with Marcus. No one told him he’d have to dress up.

  Elon can deal with this. This is not my problem.

  Marcus and Elon are ushered away by a servant.

  The Doctor is left in charge of me and Avan.

  We three will be sharing a pair of rooms. The set-up is a bit bijou, but it’s comfortable and the attached bath is worth many sacrifices. He hopes we don’t mind too terribly. Space is at a premium.

  Avan doesn’t mind.

  I don’t mind in the slightest. In fact I’m rather pleased to have the Doctor as my human shield. I’ve now been to a couple of these parties. Pushing off an unwanted paramour can get tricky. I need a convenient excuse to hide behind. Since Olga is back in London pacing the floors and sticking pins into a voodoo doll she has no doubt fashioned to resemble me, I’m left with the Doctor.

  Bijou is an apt description of the pair of rooms which probably once served as a caretakers office and lodging. There is a small bed set up in the sitting room. In the bedroom is a larger, but still compact bed. There is a curtain separating the two spaces.

  Avan and I will share the larger bed. The Doctor will take the smaller bed. We are to dress for dinner. He enjoys his privacy. When the curtain is closed, consider it like a door and do knock before passing through. It’s a small space. A bit of civility and common courtesy costs us nothing.

  The curtain is snapped shut behind us when we are on the other side of the divide. Avan and I share a look. Both of us possess enough strength not to laugh. We are fond of the Doctor, eccentricities and all.

  The Company of Men

  At the appointed time, we go with the Doctor to a cocktail reception happening in the main hall. Once again, there is not a woman to be found. The serving staff is all male and universally handsome. We might all be dressed in our best as we sip our martinis, but I know the elements of a sex party when I see one. What I don’t know is at what moment does all of this civility get set to the side and the true purpose of this gathering emerge.

  If I were a worker at the party, I would probably know more about what was to transpire. But I am a guest at the party. A friend of the Doctor. There is a collegial spirit to this portion of the evening. The Doctor enjoys dropping hints of what is to come. A potential initiate to this small coterie of crazy wealthy older men that have nothing better to do with their time than play at secret society. I really was born in the wrong era.

  I spot Marcus and Elon across the room. I leave Avan who is quizzing the Doctor about the guests to join them.

  Elon looks handsome and polished. He was born to wear evening clothes.

  Marcus is just desirable. I’ll admit it. I find him attractive in a very inappropriate way. Not that I would go there. At least I don’t think I would go there. I might go there under the right circumstance. Best not to contemplate these things.

  They have been told they are welcome to join us for dinner, but only initiated members of the club may participate in the rights.

  Rights?

  Yes. Rights.

  Marcus thinks it’s an orgy.

  Elon thinks they’re going to sacrifice a virgin. But only in a purely symbolic way.

  Marcus would volunteer to be the virgin, but that ship sailed long ago.

  Elon wants to be very bad and gate crash the rights.

  Marcus thinks it’s going to be Eyes Wide Shut and wants to gate crash the rights too.

  Please do not gate crash the rights. Please. I know too many people in this room to alienate them.

  Marcus wants to know the truth – was my grandfather an undercover freak?

  Elon answers for me. He was a total undercover freak. He lived a double live with his friend Lionel and my grandmother. The man had it all.

  He is talking about my grandfather.

  Grow up. I know as well as he does that my grandfather and Lionel were not just good friends. We went on how many summer holidays to Greece with the two of them?

  A few.

  Yes.

  Do I really think they shared a room to economize?

  I’m not discussing this with him.

  Fine. Be a little bitch. Go ask Lionel himself.

  No thanks. I haven’t spoken to Lionel since before my grandfather’s funeral.

  I am an asshole. My grandfather loved Lionel and Lionel loved my grandfather and I haven’t even spoken to the man?

  I haven’t had an opportunity.

  Now is my chance. Elon points with his nose. My eyes follow right to where Lionel is standing with another friend of my grandfather.

  I’m more than a bit disconcerted to see granddad’s “friend” Lionel.

  My eyes scan the crowd for Uncle Albert. Thank god he’s not around.

  Dinner is just what I imagined it would be. Perfectly formal. I enjoyed it completely. Evelyn Waugh couldn’t have written it better. All us gentlemen in our finery slurping our soup and laughing politely.

  I know several of the men other than Lionel. Some were at the Doctor’s birthday party. Others drifted in and out of my life through knowing my grandparents. I’d be hard pressed to recall any of their names.

  Then I get it. They are all gay. Maybe not publicly, but privately in the quiet of their minds, they’re gay. And they believe me to be one of them.
After all I am my grandfather’s grandson.

  I pluck up the courage to speak with Lionel during the brandy and cigars portion of the evening. More than embarrassed at running into him, I’m ashamed I haven’t contacted him since my grandfather’s death. Elon was right about that. I know they were close. I know they were very close. I can’t imagine how difficult my grandfather’s passing was for him and truthfully I don’t want to know. But I’m not a child and I refuse to run from these things anymore. Like it or not, I will be an adult. So I approach Lionel.

  His face is open and welcoming. He hopes this isn’t all very awkward for me. He knows that I know that he and my grandfather were very much in love. I must know. Do I remember when I was younger and we three used to have those wonderful excursions together to Greece and Turkey?

  I remember.

  He spoke with Elon earlier. How good to see him. What a handsome young man he’s become. He hopes this isn’t too awkward for me. Running into him like this.

  I’m trying not to feel weird about this.

  I shouldn’t feel weird. If it helps, he’ll be tottering off for the evening long before things get raucous. His days of participating in the rights are long past. Wouldn’t be the same without my grandfather anyhow. So not to worry.

  That actually does help.

  Good. He’d like us to be friends.

  I don’t have to commit one way or the other. At what turns out to not be midnight, but rather some minutes before, a gong is struck somewhere in the house. Time for those not participating in the rights to depart.

  Bonfire

  Servants circle with spindly wooden carts containing small glasses filled with slimy brilliant green liquid. I’m offered one after it is diluted with water and sugar. Absinthe. Something new for me. I propel it down my throat. Anise. Bleck. This is what I get for leaping before I sniff and sip. If nothing else the evening will be interesting.

  The master of ceremonies, a man I was introduced to earlier in the evening who I know from lunching with the Doctor at his club and through me just being me, invites us all to proceed outside.

  Servants wait with robes.