Call Me the Breeze (43 page)

Before he left me, he said it was ‘visionary
’.

I can’t believe that things have turned out like this. I have this notion of Scotsfield now as a sort of Athens, a post-conflict type of
golden place that will show everybody else the way. A sort of … what’s the word … I saw the type of thing I mean in a video the other night
(Gladiator,
actually, by Ridley Scott!)
—
Elysian Fields, yeah
!

A long way from the drab old seventies and that’s for fucking sure
, compadre!

Whether it was because of Harvey Weinstein getting my goat up (they eventually told me to stop calling his office — not just ‘told’, in fact, but ‘warned’) or the all-pervasive influence of the reverend MLK’s unshakable self-belief, or whether it was just a hangover from the acid days, even today I’m still not sure. But I had started actually taking photos out at the reservoir, which I was now convinced provided the perfect site. Sending them to the council, along with a recommendation that ‘The Memorial’, as I had taken to calling it, be erected right there or very close by, perhaps in memory of Campbell Morris and others who had died along that stretch of water.

Now that I had become quite buoyed up by the council’s initial enthusiasm, on this particular occasion when I didn’t receive a reply by return, I became quite irritated, which was ridiculous, of course, and began to telephone them regularly, requesting that I be put through to the various departments. ‘I mean, it’s not that difficult!’ I remember saying. ‘It’s not like you’re the Harvey Weinstein Corporation or something! So come on, please. Thank you!’

Maybe if I had showed more understanding I might have succeeded better than I did. I ought to have learnt from my experiences with Principle Management and, indeed, the Harvey Weinstein office. But no, the truth is, I got carried away. I couldn’t stop myself thinking of the temple’s almost shocking polished whiteness, the imperious colonnade as it rose up like magic out of the green-topped trees.

With its triumphant banners and chiselled names — among them my own, of course, I who had committed the most grievous sin of all.

Because, as I explained in some depth to the guy on local radio — the news had begun to get around and they had asked me in for an informal chat — everyone involved would have their contribution acknowledged in this way. At first I had refused to take part in the programme,
mainly because I didn’t have anything concrete as yet. But in the end he got around me, persuading me of its importance and so on and so forth.

It was a wide-ranging interview, covering the various aspects of my life. Before the green light went on, he specifically asked me not to confine myself to the topic of ‘the troubles’ and the proposal to build the temple but to cover as much ground as I possibly could, with particular reference to my movie-making aspirations and the creative work I’d been involved with at the college. I must have been talking for almost fifteen minutes, without a single break, before he said: ‘Right then, that’s it then, Joey!’ and threw the phone lines open.

There was quite a heated debate then, with the listening public breaking down pretty much fifty-fifty into those who had ‘really enjoyed it’ and those who most definitely had not. Including a number of parents and kids from the college who announced, quite aggressively indeed, that in their considered opinion I should never have been permitted to go on the airwaves at all. But the outcome of it was — and, boy, does this seem crazy now, considering what it started — someone, quite flippantly, I think, to begin with, suggesting that instead of running to the council with suggestions — ‘and I think it’s a wonderful suggestion, this memorial’, he’d added — had Joey Tallon not given any thought to actually running for the council himself, to putting his name forward as a candidate in the forthcoming local elections …?

‘Well, no, I haven’t …’ I began.

But the moment the words were uttered it was like some glorious Roman candle going ‘
puf
!’ inside my head.

And all that evening, after I got home to the caravan, I couldn’t bring myself to sit still, picking up a book —
Steppenwolf
, as it happened — and the minute I saw the cover, succumbing to complete hilarity. Before flinging it
smack
! against the wall. What a lot of nonsense and blather those books now seemed to contain! A lot of piffle and fuck!
Zen! The Yogi dyes his garments! The fish in the water is thirsty
! Who gives a fuck about fish! For life, if it’s about anything, is about living and doing, not sitting there cross-legged staring down at your big fat gut! In fact, it’s about running for office!

With, of course, poor old Mangan getting the brunt of it again! ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘tell me honestly right here and now: do you think if I ran I’d have a chance of getting in?’

He stared at me and stammered for a minute, like it was some major oral examination that would end in total disgrace if he flunked it. Then he started picking at his nail and going: ‘How would I know, Joey? Sure I know nothing about councils or politics or the like of that!’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, you must have an opinion!’ I snapped. I could be really ratty with old Mangan at times.

But by the time the light failed, standing there in that rickety old caravan or mobile home or whatever you want to call it, I had made up my mind.
What
? I thought as I looked at the paper — Bono was on the front of it wearing this stupid-looking Fidel Castro jacket and army hat.
So it’s OK for Mr ‘Streets Have No Name’ not only to go over to America blathering shite about Martin Luther King when he’s not even from that country but now start acting like he’s black and knows all about hip-hop music
?

I suppose how I saw it was as another tiny little ‘eureka’.

‘Yes!’ I went as I fiddled with my mobile phone. ‘It’s OK for him to go off doing things like that, but when the ordinary Joe from Scotsfield comes up with a little project of his own, all of a sudden it’s a problem? Well, somehow I don’t think so!’

I don’t fucking think so, Joey Tallon!

Having made the decision, I started work on my campaign in earnest. Now that the word was out!

Except that saying ‘the word was out’ is like saying: ‘That Martin Luther King, he demonstrated some potential as a politician.’

For it had got to the stage now that I couldn’t go up the street without someone calling: ‘I say there, Joey! Good luck now in October!’ and me starting to get like the rest of them in response.

Like the rest of the politicians, I mean, of course! For a start, going straight into the barber’s and getting myself a haircut!

‘No Mohawks this time then, Joey?’ he said, and I wished he hadn’t. Because it reminded me of the bad old days. It brought me back to …

I just wished he hadn’t said it, that’s all.

‘Just cut it short and decent,’ I said as I leafed through a magazine.
Guess who was in it? ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake —
Bono
!’ I said. This time appealing for peace in Northern Ireland.

Although I had to admit it was a very good cause. Who knew? Perhaps I’d meet him if I got elected. Chat about old times and the Breakaway festival.

‘The trouble I had chasing after you, Bono, my man!’ I’d say, and we’d have a laugh and head down to Lillies Bordello for a chat and a coupla shots of Jack Daniels.

But then it would be on to more serious matters. Maybe he could write a song, to be played on the inaugural night. ‘The Temple Song’ maybe, or ‘The Achilles Lament’, after the poem by Michael Long-ley that I had included in my manifesto. Who knew — it was just an idea.

After that, I went from strength to strength, everyone telling me how good they thought I looked with my neatly trimmed hair and, of course, all the weight that I’d lately lost. I had bought a suit — actually, the truth is, the St Vincent de Paul Society had assisted me with its purchase but I didn’t want anyone to hear about that — and once I’d donned it, in its charcoal grey I looked every inch the up and coming politician, even if I say so myself.

The man with his finger on the pulse
!

The caravan was full of newspapers now, and you couldn’t look out your window but there I’d be, chatting away to people as they told me all their problems. I really was beginning to become excited — no, not just excited,
empowered
— by this new-found direction. It seemed so
real
! So practical and of …
value
that I don’t know on how many occasions — after talking to a farmer about, maybe, a sick calf or to a housewife about, say, a housing extension grant — I was on the verge of going — no, not going! —
running! -
back to the caravan and gathering up all my so-called ‘paraphernalia of enlightenment’ —
St John of the Cross
, Rabindranath Tagore, Hermann Hesse and
Siddartha, Abraxas
— …

And making a great big pyre of the whole fucking lot!

Before returning once more to the square, barking through my loud-hailer (which I regularly used to assist me with my speeches, whether in the square or anywhere else): ‘
No! Living is not about thinking! It’s about engaging for the good of others! About grabbing life by the hasp of the arse and going: Yes! Yes, I say! Let’s … do! Not
think,
my friends, but
do!’

I spoke every Saturday and, bit by bit, the crowds began to get bigger. What was gradually becoming plainer to me was that I had stumbled by accident upon my destiny. It was the most beautiful, rewarding feeling, particularly because of the way it had happened —with a simple, unassuming letter to Scotsfield Urban Council.

‘Yes!’ I said one day in Doc Oc’s. ‘All your life you think you’re one thing! And then you discover …!’

What did I mean by that
? I reflected. Then I slapped the counter, saying (privately, however, not to the patrons!): ‘I mean that, all along, I have seen myself as being
outside
the establishment! Which is really a load of delusional nonsense! For I belong
inside
! And that realization is my “coming home”! The rebirth that I’ve been awaiting all along!’

I literally beamed at my reflection in the mirror as I adjusted the thin knot of my spotted grey tie.

I walked home that night. I had cut down dramatically on my drinking; all of that belonged in the past, and as for spliffs? Marijuana —nothing more than the crutch of a sad, Charles Manson-type jailbird who’d been looking in all the wrong places for ‘the answer’. ‘If only Eamon Byrne could see me now,’ I mused as I stepped along the road. ‘He really would have himself a laugh!’

The great thing was that now I slept like a top. The old days when I’d been unnerved through thinking about Boyle — they might as well have belonged to another age.

I looked out the window to see a great big sun like a slice of blood orange coming peeping over the hill, and it really did feel like the new beginning to end them all.

I just could not wait to get into those chambers, take my seat on the council and get down to the nitty-gritty of helping ordinary Scotsfield citizens with the management of their day-to-day lives. Which I made sure to make clear in the
Scotsfield Standard
. I couldn’t believe it when they called me up and asked me. They had got my number from LLR. ‘Would you be prepared to do an interview for us,’ they said, ‘dealing with your policies and your attitudes to living in Scotsfield town generally?’

Nervous as I was, I was happy with the way that it went. I reckoned I looked pretty snazzy, smiling out from the very front page in my executive suit with, very much to the fore, the words ‘New Spring Manifesto’ clearly visible on the the poster.

I don’t know how many times I read the interview while sipping coffee at the bar in Doc Oc’s, having decided now to turn my back on alcohol, this time for good. Definitely. With not even so much as an alcopop passing my lips. Absolutely nothing. Come hell or high water, I was going to stick to that.

The number of people who clapped me on the back as they came and went was absolutely unreal! All I kept thinking as I sat there reading was:
Boy! Wouldn’t they all be proud of me now
! (I could see me telling Bono how like his song ‘
Pride [In the Name of Love]
’ it all seemed. Because that’s what they all said to me: ‘We’re proud of you, Joey, because of what you’re doing —
in love’s name
!’)

Meaning my love for Mona, of course, and my mother and father, as well as those old pals The Seeker and Bennett, all of whom I saw in my dreams that night. Again I had slept like a lamb, and I can’t tell you how good it felt to be experiencing that at last! ‘A noise outside? Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ I’d say. ‘Those “noise-imagining” days are gone forever!’

As my eyes closed over and I stood with those old pals in the hush of a sylvan glade. With the temple already built — even more imposing than I ever had imagined — my father Jamesy beside my mother, bawling through the loudhailer: ‘
Come on up here, Joey! Come on up here to the temple and talk to your old friends and us — the lovebirds
!’ Beaming as he squeezed his beloved wife’s hand.

The massive oaken door creaking open as one by one they started appearing in the Great Hall — not only my friends, but also many others who had lived in the town at one time or another. But every one, without exception — it was
wonderful
! — all looking fresh as daisies!

‘Yes! It’s him we have to thank for building our house!’ barked Jamesy. ‘This Temple of the Living that commemorates the dead!’ as this great big smile cracked from ear to ear.

It was going absolutely fantastic. I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of the salesman flitting about inside and was about to call his name: ‘
Campbell Morris
!’

But then something happened and I …

I was so disappointed when I woke up and found myself covered from head to toe in that familiar old sweat. Then I heard something moving outside and ran over to the window.