Luck and the Irishmen

A bumbling young fool. Pa always called me that. As I made my way through the bustling Dublin traffic on my way to work, I thought of all things past and how they made up the present. I lived on Bride street and no matter how much Dublin had progressed with its government aided public transport, I loved the walk I had made for thirty seven years. Open my wooden door on Bride Street and breathe in the sausages and the Irish coffee. Walk down to Patrick St. and offer my head and knee to the Lord. St.Patrick's Cathedral. The birthplace of worship in all of Ireland. Strolling by would be a mother pushing a baby carriage, oblivious of all salient beings except her little daughter. Hand in hand would a couple walk, eager to break away on their own paths after a frilly night of incessant argument. An old tramp serves pigeons their daily bread, the same loaf that was given to him in evening past. All at St. Patricks. All creations of God.

A sharp left at High Street and as my fellow walkers and I stroll pass Meath Street, High bequeaths Thomas. A finger touches my head, chests and heart before it meets my cracked blue lips. The father. The son. The holy spirit. This was a ritual I particularly enjoyed. As a street changed its name by the mere crossing of another, so could God change your soul through the interference of one another blessed servant. Pa had left us when we were seven and Ma was thirty four. Brian, my twin brother, had left us soon after. Cancer they called it. Ma, in all her desperation, never forgot her will to serve all life. My brother would go but Ma would want another to live. So would I.

I passed Tommy drinking coffee at the McFadden Tea Stall on the right. As always, as was customary, Tommy waved and smiled like a thousand flashlights. He and I did not know each other but ever since he joined the Guinness workforce, he has always smiled loudly for twenty years past. Tommy was an awkward kid. Not many liked him for he never hung out with the rest of us when we went to McGuillens on Friday nights. He was a slow, sombre soul and did not show any emotion except when waving and smiling at me. I tried to approach him and talk to him on occasions but he never did respond verbally. He only nodded his head left and right, up and down. And smiled. That deep beautiful smile.

I was always an angry kid. Angry at my father for attacking my helpless mother on first instinct. Angry at my brother for being sickly and a permanent inhabitant of the deathly hallows. Angry at my mother for taking my father's abuse without so much as a little whimper. Angry at God for making us all wretched and poor. I would show my anger at none of them however. I took it all out on the rest of Dublin. Immigrant children would be beaten with my favorite log of wood and thrown into dumpsters. Bread and eggs would be stolen from the neighborhood grocer and tossed into the River Liffey. A waste, considering my family went hungry on many nights. When Brian died, Pa had already left us. With no source of income and no hope left, Ma turned to a poster. And a boy in Vietnam.

Thang Nguyen wanted to live. The Humanity Council on Arbour Hill promised redemption for all problems past and hope and love for all events in the future. As Ma had dialed the number on the poster, she whispered a silent prayer for Pa and Brian. She loved them and never did think about the sorrows of her past. The Council told her to come in for a meeting and look through brochures of people who were in a worse state than her around the world. She took me along because she did not trust me to take care of the house. Little did I know that Thang would change my life forever. Sophia, the sister in charge of the Humanity Council, told us that Thang would need a kidney to survive and they were looking for compatible donors in the first world. A sample of tests later, I was convinced with very little prodding that saving another body could save my own soul.

The operation was a resounding success. I was a perfect match and that was disturbingly surprising, considering all that led to it was a single, solitary poster. In a matter of minutes and bloody instruments, my body lost a kidney and Thang was brought back into life. A Red Cross airplane transported the organ packed deep into a milky ice pack. It flew magically into Cao Bang province, a vast expanse of land bordering the great Chinese empire. On the banks of the Bang Giang river, white faces and silver knives plunged deeped into Thang and after a bloody mess of bile and purple veins, he smiled for the first time in eleven years. Thang closed his eyes and thought of his faceless savior. A multiple hundred miles west, I felt my heart beat easier and felt the golden warmth of the sun and the stars take over my body.

Ah! Reminiscing the past always brings you closer to the present. It was twenty minutes past eight now and I was well in time for work. I crossed Rainford St. and as I entered the barracks of the Guinness Storehouse, my employer for the last thirty seven, I waved to Tommy. He was at his customary spot, loading barrells into the trucks. I worked in packaging, ensuring the barrells were full and that the quality was up to snuff. Every time I turned around bored, Tommy always had an eye on me and I never knew why. Sometimes it would become a game - I whipped my head around quick just to see if he was looking. He always was. Creepy in an odd sense. He was like my watchdog. It was the same today. As I marked the barrells and lifted them from the belt, Tommy kept peeking in. All I did as I always did was wave.

Should have listened to Ma. The sweater was cursed, she had always said that. A few minutes past nine and I could hear screams and moans. The blood was pouring on to my face now as my right hand, fingers already severed, was being dragged into the very conveyor it had worked on for ages infinitum. My hand was still attached to my body and I could sense the end was near. Soon I would be dragged into the infamous Dubliner Fermenter, a monster with four massive blades that churned the beer day and night, fall and spring. Thank you Ma for all the love and I forgive you Pa for all the hate. Brian, I shall see you soon, my love.

Tommy pulled me out. Tommy risked an arm and a leg to save me. As I was being carted in to the ambulance, he whispered the Holy Novena and told me everything would be alright. I pulled through and gave Tommy a smile as a symbol of holy gratitude. There was nobody but Tommy in the hospital. He held my arm as I rummaged through pain. He wiped away tears as I thought of family past. He fed me my porridge when the nurses were not concerned. He was an angel in disguise and a lot more in heart. On a Saturday morning posing as a cold wintry day is when it all made sense. Tommy showed me pictures. Of the rain trees in Cao Bang. Swimming in the Bang Giang. His mother proudly showing him off to their neighbors.

Tommy was Thang. Thang was Tommy. He had smuggled his way into the Irish wetlands and in the fashion of Celtic gratitude and redemption, wanted to serve me life just as I had done. I got better and Tommy felt the same sunlight seep into his heart. He needed that feeling and it had finally come.

We would be soul mates forever.

In colour's hieroglyphs of mystic sense,
It wrote the lines of a significant myth
Telling of a greatness of spiritual dawns,
A brilliant code penned with the sky for page. -

Karmoyogin. Canto One: The symbol of dawn.

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