American Skin

Slan go foill.

A common Irish term for “See you later” or... “That’s it.” But there is an undercurrent, depending on the intonation. You hear the old people, at the graveside of a loved one, whisper the words with a sadness beyond articulation. The meaning hangs in the air, dances a little with the sway of the breeze, then is washed away by the rain. A faint echo lingering as the evening falls.

I was standing outside the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art. The showcase was a collection of old masters: Mantegna, Raphael, Titian, Dürer, Rubens, Rembrandt.

Not what you’d expect in Vegas, right?

Why I loved America, the rules only existed to be reinvented and if dollars could buy a dream, then bring it on. In my head was a DVD I’d watched of Bill Hicks... Jesus, his death, what a waste. I’d thought the paintings would part balm my wounded heart. But I’d flitted past them, my awareness of the beauty only intensifying my pain. The very first time, Siobhan, we’d made love, her lying in my arms and she turned her face up to me, asked,

“Will you mind me?”

Siobhan had never, never in her woesome life asked anyone for anything, and careless, without thought, full of afterglow, I said,

“I give you my word.”

She’d said,

“I’m going to keep you to that.”

What had I been thinking?

Siobhan was dead.

Everything pointed to that conclusion. Still, I’d have to go to Tucson lest she was somehow, against all odds, alive.

So I turned away from art, felt the heat from the desert brush my face, uttered,

“Slan go foill.”

An indication of my state of mind, I wanted to be in Brooklyn, to walk Third Avenue, stand on the corner of Fulton and Flatbush, trace the border between downtown and Fort Greene, stroll carefree (as fuckin’ if) on Nassau Street to McCarren Park, heading towards the Russian church, open a savings account at The Williamsburg and, in the evening, sit on the bleachers, pop a Bud, watch the neighbourhood kids play stickball.

I missed Brooklyn, how weird is that?

I come from a country steeped in culture and without a backwards glance, I’d have settled in Park Slope.

Or better, head for the Jersey Shore, my Walkman going, Bruce with “American Skin,” I’d be wearing a Yankees jacket, baseball cap riding low on my eyes, tan chinos and Docksiders on my feet, sifting the sand with my boat shoes, I’d sing along to the chorus, imagine Patti Scialfa giving me the enigmatic smile.

By fluke, I’d caught a classic episode of The Sopranos, when Tony and Christopher set up Adriana to be whacked by Silvio. It was the in-joke that made it so memorable. Silvio is played by Steve Van Zandt, original member of the E Street Band... Silvio is late, and Tony hollers,

“Where da fuck you been?”

Christopher, in a tone dripping with venom, says,