Black and Blue

Sarafina clipped the hair around my ear.  "So you think it'll be a good game?"

"I hope so."  I looked at Sarafina's face while she cut the hair around the base of my neck.  I don't know hairstyles so the best I can describe hers is coquettish, with bangs combed down to cover one side of her face, her left eye peering flirtingly through her platinum locks.  "I know the Manning family'll be proud of their son and his team, no matter who wins."

"Oh yes.  Peyton.  He's great.  I bet the halftime show will be okay.  The Who, is it?"

"Or the Rolling Stones?"

"Something like that."

"I'm trying to remember the last band that did the Super Bowl halftime show who I saw in person.  Guess it was Prince...in 1983 or thereabouts."

"Wasn't that show awesome?"

"It was.  I think he toured with Vanity 6 and Time.  There was a boxer who sat near me.  Umm...John Holmes?"

Lucillia looked over at me while thumbing through her tunes on her iPod.  "John Holmes?  You mean Larry Holmes, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, 'cause John Holmes was a porn star."

"Good point."

"Yeah, there's a bit of a difference between the two.  Or I imagine there is."

"Well, I guess you're right.  Having to imagine one of them, huh?"

We all laughed.

Sarafina spun my chair around.  "There you go.  You like it?"

I looked at my trimmed head.  No longer the shaggy dog look and more like the professional amateur professional I am, keeping deals moving smoothly for those who require my services without overtly requesting my services.  "Fantastic, 'fina.  You're grand."

"You know any good Super Bowl parties going on nearby?  I...I mean, I and my boyfriend are looking for one to attend close by, seeing as I don't get off work until five."

"Can't say as I do.  I've got plans myself."

"I see."

= = =

After paying Sarafina, I picked up my wife and stopped by her sister in-law's house for an early St. Valentine's Day Sunday dinner, including roast beef, stewed potatoes, steamed corns and a heart-shaped brownie cake topped with Mayfield vanilla ice cream.  We chatted with the family for a while, catching up on what my nephew, his girlfriend and my niece and her husband have been up to.

Afterward, we swung by the Wagon Wheel liquor store, a hop and a skip from our house, to buy some high gravity brews including a Left Hand Imperial Stout and something else I can't remember but will enjoy soon, I'm sure.  I noticed the fellows hanging out inside, regular blokes, the type one would hope to have sitting on barstools beside you in the pub, chewing the tire flat, shooting the Febreze, and letting the insults fly from one wallflower to one barfly and back to ya, laughter all around.

We wheeled our wagon over to Wal-Mart and ran down the list of groceries necessary for consuming during the American football spectacle about to take place as soon as I finish recording this important conversation.

I'd noticed a fellow sauntering between rows of frozen food and fresh bread.  Upon turning down the facial tissue aisle, he stopped us, taking off his hat (a toboggan) in a gentlemanly manner.

"Is your name O'Leary?"

"O'Leary?"

"Yes."

"No, 'tisn't."

"No?  Well, I know a fellow by the name of O'Leary."

"Not me."

"I see.  You ever been to Coleraine?"

"No."

"No?  How about Portrush?"

"Never heard of it."

"You sure about that?"

"As far as I know."

"I see.  Well, I attended a wedding in those parts back in '76.  Quite a wedding.  Held in what they called a Sheraton because they needed a place big enough to hold 250 people.  At the reception, they use the time-honoured tradition of having the oldest male of each family and generation introduce the bride, and the same for the groom, going all the way up to the grandfathers and great-grandfathers.  All we had to drink was a mixture of Guinness and lemonade or whiskey.  When the introductions were over, I was drunk.  Then they announced the presence of an American, Danny.  That's me.  Well, I being drunk and seeing the sign outside the window of a dead man with the word 'INTERNMENT' on it, designating what the British do to the Irish, I took my turn at the mike and spoke up.

"I looked them all in the eye and I told them that 250 years ago our ancestors, the Scots and the Irish, we took up arms to defend ourselves against the tyranny of the British and we drove them out to sea.  Now, I look at you here and I see men who do the cowardly acts of blowing up women and children when you should be taking up arms to drive the British out of Ireland.  And you can do it, too.  That's what I said to them.  I expected them to throw me out on my ear.  Instead, they all stood and applauded.

"You see, it's the English what's causing all our problems still.  They don't know how to stop expanding and then they don't know how to keep invaders and the indigenous from claiming what's their rights.  I'm a Scot, you know.  Scottish and Irish blood.  We're not the ones who're to blame."

I nodded.  The man was sincere-sounding but the look in his eyes and the near-empty shopping cart told me he'd seen better times.  He followed my eyes and read my looks.

"I've been a labourer my whole life.  Them Irish, they shook my hand and expected me to be a dandy American but were surprised to find my hands calloused like theirs.  See, that's who's really running things, isn't it?"

I smiled.

"I returned in '79 and rode the train.  Second-class, of course.  Two kids, strangers, about twelve years old each, they talked me into joining them in the first-class section.  In the empty seat of the compartment we chose was a hat, a coat and a newspaper.  Eventually, the owner of them things returned and the man told me he'd traveled the whole of the United States, including Alaska and Hawaii.  He knew more about my country than I did.  When I asked him what he did for a living, he told me it wasn't nothing special.  Well, he let me borrow the newspaper, which was folded up, and there on the front page was his picture.  He was the president of the European Common Market!  See, that's how it is in Ireland.  Everyone's the same, the first-class and the second-class are no better than one another except as seen through British eyes."

My wife started walking our cart forward, a hint for us to be moving on.  I slowly walked beside her.  We wanted to finish shopping and then return to our house for the game.

"Oh, I see you folks are busy.  I guess I better be going.  Good talking with you."

I nodded.  "You, too."

He tipped his hat to me and turned away.

When my wife and I saw John at the airport earlier this week he reminded us of the old saying about European stereotypes: "The Irish are all drunk, the English are all assholes and the French run away."

We carry images in our heads of what we think we see around us.  It's best to clear those images out and meet people as they really are and not what we think they represent.  Then, and only then, can we make friends and making lasting impressions on one another.