John OBrien
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Meeting Julie
It’s Tuesday evening, 11 December 1990, desperately dark, winter dark, easy search and I arrive at 15th Avenue and Irving. This area is what San Franciscans call ‘The Sunset’ or sometimes we say ‘Out in the Avenues’. There it is now – Terry’s Lodge. I’d never paid it a mind before. If you weren’t looking for it you’d never see it. It’s the colors, might as well be camouflaged.
I enter to a full house. A great roar erupts and it’s my Irish guys celebrating a win at the pool table. Tom Graham calls out with yet more celebration, “Here’s O’B now.” And I’m grabbed into the circle of winners. “Wot’ll ye have O’B? ⎯ Ahhh it’ll be a pint of The Guinness, right O’B? MALLOY! Give us a pint of The Guinness for O’B here.”
“I started it when he came in.”
“Geezuz, thanks guys. I’ll get the next. How’re you doing?”
Mick Graham answers, "We're doing great, O'B. We need only the two more wins."
For the first time I look over to the opposing team. There’s grumbling, glowering, tough guys, pool cues in hand. Hmmm. But there’s no indication that a tussle might ensue. This is the semi-final of ‘The Sunset District Pool Championship’. There’s a referee and an official from the league offices. I doubt there’ll be action, maybe some words and a ‘nose-to-nose’. The referee is a lady, Irish-American, Maureen, knows everyone and they know her. She can hold her own as well as these Irish immigrant laborers.
In normal league play you’ll play the full fifteen games in case of tie-breakers. But in the playoffs it's ‘best of fifteen’. Mick continues, "It's six to one. Two more wins and it's over."
“Geez, Mickage, who’s your opponent?”
“Grandma’s bar over on Noriega.”
“I thought they were good.”
Terry’s team roars, “SO DID THEY.”
Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi. I shrink back. Me and my big mouth. Now Grandma’s team glowers.
Two more games and the match is over. The team from Grandma’s wouldn’t mind if anyone started a fight. Referee Maureen comes to Cyril Callaghan, owner of Terry’s Lodge, and suggests that it might be better if we forego any complimentary drinks. “Give them a rain check. Hold your celebration.”
“Right ye are, Maureen.”
Maureen signals to the league vice-president, Marty, and they collar the captain of Grandma’s team. They’re giving him the bum’s rush as they have him sign the results sheet. Now it’s the kiss-off and fuck-off. Maureen droves the herd through the gates and even leaves with them. She'll be back when the danger of fight is gone.
Vice-president Marty Shea, Irish-American, first generation, loves the newly arrived lads, gives the signal. The celebration gets rowdy. Sean Malloy, the bartender, hollers, “House round.”
"Hey O'B, you shoot good, let's play a game." A part of the celebrations, a part of 'The Craic', which roughly translates to ‘camaraderie and song’, involves bringing guests in and treating them as full family. If I win it will be a sign that everyone in the group will have their day.
Maureen returns. Another great roar of ‘Mischief Complete’ erupts.
Tom Graham hollers, “Sean Malloy - Beck’s and Jameson for Maureen.”
Maureen protests, “Right. And I’ll be so drunk I can’t drive.”
“You can stay with Malloy.”
“Sean Malloy? Right! Sean, If I pass out you wouldn’t give me the ride, would you?”
“Absolutely will.”
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
I get the attention of Noal, my opponent, and call my shot. I ‘pot’ a ‘duck’ and begin walking to the obvious next shot. The front door opens. We all turn expecting an intrusion from Grandma's boys. But it’s a lovely blond lady, a bit of weight to her, but everything is good. I look. Everybody looks. We’re not stopping our noise, our Craic. We’re not leaning on this lady. We’re doing our thing. But we all look. She's never been here but she’s well worth the knowing.
She walks the bar and stops at the only empty seat. Mine. She sits, my seat, my drink. Amazing. We continue our merriment and allow this lady to be who she is. Somehow, somehow, it’s all going to be okay.
She's a 'looker', a northern European milk maid, blond, blue-eyed with fair and creamy skin. She is about 5'7'', maybe 145, maybe more, but she has the frame that can carry that and make it look good. She did have to tuck herself into her jeans but that doesn't take away. If she were in Russia she'd be driving a milk truck. If it stalled in morning traffic she'd push it to the side of the road and every man would be making a comment. She'd either lay him down or lay down with him depending on the grace of his style. She's a pink skinned beauty with a frame that can work hard every day and she has my attention.
I heard her ask Sean Malloy, the bartender, about the team from Grandma's. "Oh they've left already. They lost early." He replied.
Too bad, I thought, she's involved with a guy from Grandma's. That's OK, she's too young for me anyway. I missed a shot and walked towards my drink at the bar. I reach across our lovely visitor for my Guinness.
“Did I take your seat?”
"No. Sit. Hello to you. Do you shoot pool?"
"Oh ... yes ... sometimes. I was going to meet someone here. I took a cab, he said to be here by 10 and it's just 10 now."
"It's not even 10, the bar clock's fast. What's his - I mean, what's your name?" Her mouth opens but she's weak or fearful. "I'm sorry. My name is John O'Brien. They call me O'B."
"Hi. My name is Julie… Julie … “ She thinks. She continues, “Just Julie. Okay?"
“Yes. That’s fine. Can I get you a drink?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Sean, can we …”
“I heard. Wot’ll it be good lady?”
“Ohhh … thanks … maybe just water.”
“Don’t worry, Julie. I’ll get you a drink.”
Sean takes over. “No, OB. It’s on the house. This is still the house round.”
Julie speaks timid, “Maybe an Irish coffee?”
“You got it.”
“Ohhh thank you so much.”
She doesn't push me away but doesn't invite me. She's back into herself, deep. Maybe something's wrong. I'm gonna' let her be, like the way you allow a baby or a puppy be near you for a while until they come to you. We both look up to the music from the TV. Malloy has a video tape of an Irish folk music group and the Uillean pipes will take you away if that's what you need. Julie is drinking the music. I'll let Julie and the music be together. The song ends.
I wait even more, then say, "That was nice."
"Yes, it was."
The Uillean pipes. Is that where she's at? There's many times for the pipes. Sometimes there's the need. I walk out of earshot and lean to Malloy’s ear. “Sean, she loves that music. Can you run that tape again?”
“No problem, O’B.” Sean gives the thumbs up.
The Uillean pipes. There's losses in life that you shouldn't 'get over'. Some people say, 'Get over it. Move on.' Maybe so. But some losses have to be carried - forever. Like a soldier who never came home by any count, or someone died young or wrong or is gone out of our care and knowing. Or maybe you hoped someone would come back from drugs and they never did, then died. There's the need to keep these people and their pain, your pain, forever and you'll settle when you're all with God. Don't get over it. Accept it. Carry it all your life. The Uillean pipes bathe them like a grain of sand in an oyster. I won't say it'll be a pearl. But the memory needs keeping. If this is where she's at there's nothing to be said. She'll come back when she's ready.
I ran out the rest of the balls, won the game. Julie was watching me. She applauded each shot and gave a cheer on the win. I was happy to rejoin her at the bar while the next player racked the balls. Terry’s team is applauding any win, any man, have a drink.
I think she's comfortable with me. But what about the guy from 'Grandma's' team, how does he fit here? I’m not going to dance on this all night. I’m done with my mission. I supported my soccer guys. Let's find out what’s happening here. I'll tell her I have to leave and see what she says.
"I bequeath the table to you." I present the pool cue to her in a gesture befitting the ancient sound of the music.
"Really?" She smiles at my theatre and my offer.
"Yes, it's your table. I have to leave soon anyway." I look for any response to the idea of me leaving but nothing's coming back. I'm drawing a blank.
I call out to the guys, "This is Julie. I'm giving up the table."
She hesitates but everyone wants her to play. It might be more correct to say that the celebration needs a woman to play. The team roars in a robust and loving voice "Yes, play." This hearty welcome, this merriment, insists that she join us.
She's been made a member of this celebration. Her face starts to break into an uninvited smile. The roar grows. The smile wins and takes over her face.
She accepts the offer. It's her break because she's me.
SLAMMA-WHAMMA. That's one helluva woman break. Tom Graham shouts, "Ah ga-wann ya good thing, ya." Cyril calls, "Good on ya Joolie." The game is on. Cyril Callaghan is also the pool sponsor. He walks over and explains league rules. "You sank a stripe and a solid. So you can choose whatever. Just call your ball and your pocket."
"Can I call the twelve in the corner?"
Cyril breaks into a grin, bobs his head, "Have away." The guys are 'Happy as Larry', lifting pints to her. She pots it well. Trevor calls out, "Sign her up for the Women's." She ‘pots’ three more then misses one but leaves Trevor with nothing. This is cause for another rousing cheer, "Fayre play ta ya Joolie" with nods and lifted pints all around.
The tide just changed. The recovery of Julie's toddler Jessica has begun. God selected us all.
She rightly wins this game to a great tribal cheer. "Fayre play ta ya Joolie." More joyful because she beat one of the regular guys. Tonight everyone will win as a testimony to our team. Julie is being swept along in this incredibly therapeutic merriment.
She returns to me at the bar and now she is dazed and amazed. She is the unbelieving, cheered and smiling winner. This young woman who has been caught in the gears of social agencies, who has been pleading and losing and placed and controlled. She’s won. This lady for whom no one seems to have the time or inclination to make her case important, to get the needed papers in needed time, doesn't know if it's time or true to smile but she is smiling. It’s a real smile. Not her cracked, broken smile, about to cry. A real smile.
"Thanks" she grins and gives me back the stick.
"No, it's yours. … You won! … You're up again."
She's puzzled, turns, the guys roar approval.
She obliges and she loses but the cheer is that we have yet another winner. She returns to her drink and we're friends. Sean Malloy comes over. Julie asks, "Do you think those guys went back to Grandma's."
"I expect they did."
"I don't have any money. Do you think someone could give me a ride over there?"
"I think any of the boys will give you the ride."
"Thank you all. I’ve never had so much fun."
I offer, "I'm leaving. I'll give you a lift."
Sean gives me the impish grin and the thumbs up. None of us has a clue. This poor lady. This poor lady.
Chapter 4 - Page Copyright John O'Brien 201 Redwood Cir. Petaluma Ca. 94954