Oh, Play That Thing
—Jimmy Lou-is.
—My name is Henry Smart!
I lay on a rock in the Utah desert, years later – how long, how many? – and I gazed up at the huge black-blue sky, and I found the star. I always found it, I always knew its twinkle and fade – it could never hide or fool me. I’d stare at it, I’d still myself and stare, fix my eyes and refuse to let them stray to any of the other millions of its still and shooting siblings. Siblings, uncles, fathers, sons – all up there, but there was only one that I could ever recognise. I’d stare at that star till I knew I had it. I’d point the leg; I’d stab at it, and yell.
—My name is Henry Smart!
I’d watch it shimmer and fuss.
My voice was hard and triumphant, hard as the rock I was sitting on, cold as the air that was lying on top of me. There was no one else to hear me. My nearest neighbours were as distant as the stars above.
—My name is Henry Smart! The one and only Henry Smart!
I’d watch its gases splutter and die.
—My name is Henry Smart!
I’d yell until I could no longer see its shadow against the blue-ness of the night, until there was nothing out there. I killed my brother every night. I killed the other Henry, the one who’d come before me, who’d taken my name when he died and went to heaven. I killed him, and I watched the space he’d filled. I watched and waited for Rifle. I waited for my little boy to shimmer and fuss; I looked for his rough twinkle.
—Come on!
I watched.
—Come on, Rifle! Come on!
I tried his other names.
—Séamus! Séamus Louis!
I tried them all.
—Rifle! Come on out! Please.
I tried them all.
—I was looking for you! Rifle!
I tried them all. I tried them all.
I tried them all.
His name arrived; we’d heard it spoken.
—Ruzafelt.
We heard relief in the voices, the arguments, and hope. My fellow Americans. But elections didn’t interest me and Miss O’Shea. Nothing changed, unless we did the changing. We kept running. I fell from the train, and the families at the jungle fires still looked lost and hungry by the time I’d mastered the wood enough to go searching for my own family. The kids I saw in the boxcars and in the headlights that punched the trains’ path through the dark, the young lads, the ancient-faced children, theirs were the faces I’d seen all my life, the runaways, the unwanted, damaged and, some of them, dangerous. They’d been riding the rails before Wall Street crashed; no change in the White House was going to mend their lives. The boxcars never emptied; the homeless stayed that way. Boys became sad-faced men as they clung to the roofs and faced west. The wise ones expected nothing.
I was never wise. I kept looking, even when the stories stopped. First Rifle, then Saoirse. She fell out of the stories, no longer rode beside her mammy. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. I listened, I asked – but there was no daughter; there never had been one. Our Lady walked alone.
I held the leg, I held it out before me, but I felt no water. There was none beneath. Roosevelt had done nothing to the dust. I wore the leg and wandered states and waited for the pull. I walked across cracked earth, over fences that divided nothing. I expected, every step. I expected the pain, and needed it. I expected and I prayed. I was Henry Smart and there would be water. I’d find it. I was Henry Smart. I had the power. I was Henry Smart. I leaned out of the racing train, held the leg over the land that blurred and dipped below my face. I waited.
I knew no words, I’d learnt no prayers. But I prayed. There were no corners in the desert but I made them in my head, built corners in my way, and hoped I’d find them when I turned the next one. Please, please, please. I prayed across the United States, and back across, and back; across the Mississippi – I heard the wheels grind against the bridge rails; I saw the sparks in the dark; they were stars that I could touch—
—My name is Henry Smart!
And I crossed the Great Divide. I went over it, first time, like a day out in the Wicklow Mountains, one good leg and all. It was early May, but freezing. And I smiled, that first time; I hummed, I fuckin’ sang. On the rocky road to Dubellin, one two three four five. I knew they’d be smiling, waiting on the other side. Please, please, please, please. I walked through mountains and prairies, closed my eyes, saw palm trees when I opened them. I rode the Empire Builder, and smaller trains, and stopped at every junction. See America First – Travel By Rail. I woke up clinging to the side of a boxcar; beside me, a kid from Warsaw, frozen, stuck solid to the wall, dead. I jumped; I left him there. He travelled on, alone. I went wherever the new work was. I looked for faces; I stayed, I waited.
I crept back into the cities. I crept back into Chicago. I knew she’d never have gone back alone but I thought, by now, our daughter could have dragged her, to gawk, to live it, to brush against the city walls and glass. I went under the Michigan Avenue Bridge; I walked among the thousands of men and families who lay along the pavement, rolled in coats and Tribune blankets. I looked at faces, listened for accents, a cry of recognition. I came and went; I left Chicago twelve or thirteen times.
I stood in Bughouse Square, a week of hot, dry evenings, closed my eyes and waited to hear her shout the truth from a borrowed soapbox. I went out to Oak Park, watched Missis Lowe go, come back, leave the house empty, and fill it, all alone. I watched for attic lights; I gazed in the kitchen window, looked for toys or school books. I saw nothing I wanted, but I thought of Louis Armstrong. Oak Park was surviving the bad times; I saw no men selling apples, and Missis Lowe’s coat wasn’t too bald. But the South Side was dying, already dead. The music had made the whole mess sparkle, but the music couldn’t do that any more – I heard no music. Black business was gone, and it hadn’t gone elsewhere. I waited at the trolley but saw no Dora, no Ethel. I walked whole blocks and heard no music. My leg gave out the only beat.
—My name is Henry Smart!
—My name is Henry Smart!
—My name is Henry Smart!
I lost the time. I baked and froze, stopped understanding. I saw an old man. In a piece of mirror, cracked, made dull by damp, its jagged edge pushed into a trunk, in an abandoned jungle, somewhere. Anywhere. I saw the man. I made him open his mouth. I made him take a closer look. My name is Henry Smart. I looked again. It wasn’t me.
The wandering kids went off to war and died. To Europe, the Pacific, North Africa. I didn’t know there was a war.
I looked again. It wasn’t me.
The hard times turned. The dust stopped messing, became good soil.
I looked again.
It wasn’t me.
Dead blue eyes, white dirty beard, teeth shattered, gone; old wounds come back.
It wasn’t me.
Frayed suspenders, gone to grey. A filthy grey fedora, sweated through, caked in dust.
It wasn’t me.
* * *
—My name is Henry Smart!
I looked again.
A finger rubbed the glass. Breath burst upon it; the finger rubbed again.
Dead eyes. Washed blue, red veins turned to grey. Old man’s bristle; cracked, dry lips – all grey. Dried skin, dirt in the corners of the mouth. I turned away.
He turned away.
—My name is—
He died. He walked into the desert. He walked. He crawled. He lay down in the desert, and he died.
He lay down. He waited. He died.
He waited.
Died.
Warm water. It dried up – warm, old water – evaporated against the inside of my mouth. I felt it, against my mouth, and on my neck. And I could smell it. And I felt the sun, hard on my eyelids, felt it pull my broken skin. My eyes roared where they should have watered; they were dry and baking, white, dead fishes’ eyes. I could taste the water now, my tongue expanding, turning, and I could feel something on my lip, something hot and metal. I could smell.
Sw
eat.
And shadow now, across my eyes. The sun was blocked. I could feel the blade come off my eyelids.
I could smell sweat. A man – people, near me. All around me.
The water was in my throat. I coughed, felt it fight. Felt hands on me, my tongue fill in my mouth. Heard voices. Not words. Mumbling. Men. Their sweat.
I opened my eyes. I tried to. Black shadows – hat brims. Men. Making shade around me. I closed my eyes. Dragged dirt across them as I did.
Metal on my lip again. I closed my mouth – I felt skin break – around the metal. A spout – thicker.
Clean sweat. Clear voices. Polite, patient. Curious.
I coughed.
A hand touched my head.
Soft voices, whispers. Waiting. One big voice. Another. Impressive voices.
My head.
I was alive.
I sucked the water, felt it soak me. Felt the stone beneath me.
I’d died. I knew that. I’d stopped. I knew. There was a point, a time—. I’d stopped. I’d known that I was going. Closing. And I’d stopped knowing.
Now I was alive – burnt, sore, thirsty, hungry. I was alive. I was hungry and fuckin’ thirsty.
I was bleached, alive. I was hard. I felt the stone.
The sweat of men who wore clean clothes, who sweated new each day. Who shaved and washed. And perfume. I could smell. Through dust and dirt and blood that blocked my nostrils, I could smell. The perfume.
I wasn’t dying.
I was being born.
Hands on my body, on my clothes, pulling, lifting.
Pulling, lifting.
I could talk.
—Get your fuckin’ hands off me.
—What did he say?
—Didn’t catch it. What did you say?
Then the big voice.
—Give him more water.
I drank. Cooler water. I opened my eyes. Shadows, fewer of them. Had to close my eyes. Hands under my arms. This time, I let them lift. Someone behind me, holding me up, leaning into my back. I opened my eyes again. The sun was behind. I could see legs, feet. A dress, brown boots.
I couldn’t lift my head.
Brown boots.
I couldn’t lift my head. I wanted to.
A man beside me now. I saw his shirt, heard leather crack. A tall man. I forced my head to see. A new moustache, strong blue eyes.
—What’s your name?
—What’s your own fuckin’ name?
They heard. The man stood. I heard the leather crack again. I heard their laughter.
Another voice, another man.
—Why, that’s Henry Fonda.
—Who the fuck is Henry Fonda?
Another quick explosion, laughter. Civilised men.
I grabbed the canteen; the talk had killed me.
—Let him have it.
The big voice. The boss man.
I shook, I rattled, got water to my mouth. I could pull my head back. I could follow the brown boots as I drank. A red dress – it wasn’t her – a skirt, a bright white, glaring blouse – it wasn’t her – dark and gorgeous skin. It wasn’t her.
—Who are you?
More laughter.
—Tell him.
The big voice again.
—That’s Linda Darnell.
—Howyeh, Linda.
—Hi.
I could feel the sun again. Men were moving, leaving me alone. I watched Linda go; I could move my neck. A town in front of her, some sort of town, a church, not finished yet – a bell. The desert walked right up to the town. Men now too, going back to work.
I was looking at an old guy. He sat down beside me.
—Heat’s a son of a bitch.
The big voice.
—Until you realise there’s nothing else.
He was old, carved. His face was huge, and grey. He’d shaved that day; there was a small cut under his mouth. He pushed his cap back. I saw black glasses, thick lenses. I saw the eye patch. Black too.
—I bet that leg of yours has a story to tell, he said.
I said nothing.
—I bet.
This man was important. The men who lingered told me that. They were there for him, hovering. One of them was frightened; I could see that in his feet.
—I know where you come from.
I said nothing.
—Dublin.
I drank from the empty canteen.
—Right?
I took the canteen from my mouth and stopped looking at the sky.
He took it for a nod.
—Yeah, he said. —I know Dublin.
He stood up.
—What age are you?
I spoke.
—What year is it?
—Tell him.
Another voice.
—Why, it’s 1946.
—I’m forty-five.
—Yeah, he said. —I knew you weren’t as old as you look.
I stopped myself: I didn’t touch my face.
—I’ve been looking for you.
But he wasn’t going to kill me.
—You were there, he said. —You saw it. What’s your name?
I coughed.
—It’ll come back to me.
He wasn’t going to kill me.
—You were there, he said again.
I knew what he was talking about.
—You tell me how you got that leg, I’ll tell you how I got this eye.
—The leg’s recent, I said.
—So’s the eye, he said. —What about the rest of you?
I said nothing.
—Yes, he said. —You were there.
His hand now. He touched a scar on my cheek.
—Moore Street, he said.
A chip from a wall – 1916-as I crawled out of a hail of bullets.
He touched the back of my neck.
—Kilmainham.
He was right.
He touched my forehead, the dents left there by nipples.
—You had a good war.
He was right.
—We’ll talk, he said.
I heard him move. I heard him creak.
—We’ll talk.
—You’ll hear them call me Pappy, Coach. Other things.
He spoke quietly. The place was crowded and frantic. He’d given his orders before he came over. Now others were barking, getting them done.
—You call me Jack.
—No, I said. —I knew a Jack.
—One of the bad guys? he said.
I said nothing. He laughed. The place became more frantic.
—Sean, he said. —See your way to calling me that?
I nodded.
—You’re the real thing.
—I fuckin’ am.
—You fucking are. We’ll talk.
I’d walked and crawled into a desert – I remembered – into the desert, deeper, and hotter. I’d pushed myself to the place where it was whitest. No real place at all, I’d thought. My last thought. An oven. I lay down. I waited to be eaten by the heat.
Two hundred yards from a film set. An actor called Fonda went out for a piss and found me.
I’d chosen the right place. Monument Valley – he told me the name – had no real economy or life. It was one of the cruellest places on the planet.
The desert was real, but the town was cut-out.
They were making a film and now I, the dead man, was in it. I was the local colour, an authentic taste of the west. As chiselled and wind-fucked as the rocks and the valley outside. The makeup department kept its distance.
My Darling Clementine. The gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Fonda was Wyatt Earp, and he was taking a break when he walked into the wilderness.
—Your luck was in, the old man told me: Seán. —The real Earp would’ve shot you. I knew him, you know.
—Who?
—Wyatt Earp.
—Never heard of him.
He looked at me. The patch didn’t fool me: he could see with both eyes.
??
?I believe you, he said. —Remember your name yet?
—No.
—Fine.
He was John Ford.
—I make pictures. I’m from Ireland.
—Never heard of it.
—It’ll come back to you, he said. —Same time as your name.
He held my arm.
—We’re going to work together. Two fucking rebels.
He held my arm. He squeezed.
—In the meantime, here’s what. The limey actor’s on the table.
We were in a brand new saloon. The paint was wet, collecting sand. I could smell the varnish.
—The Clantons, the bad guys, are making him do the Shakespeare stuff. It’s humiliating. The actor doing the Bard in these surroundings. Drunks, whores, Mexicans. Then Henry and Victor walk in—
He caught my look.
—A different Henry, he said. —Fonda.
He let go of my arm.
—A different Victor. Mature. I knew it was you.
—It’s been a long day, he said.
I’d come back from the dead and starred in my first feature film, but I said nothing.
—I like the desert, he said. —But it ain’t home.
I said nothing. We sat in rocking chairs, outside the saloon, under a sign that said The Mansion House.
—Miss it?
—What?
—Home.
—Never had one.
—I hear you, he said.
He took something from a pocket.
—I’m a restless son of a bitch myself.
It was a pipe in his hand. He lit it, took his time. I was cold. I liked it. I could smell the tobacco. I liked it.
—Every cowboy’s a good actor. I was a cowboy. You ever a cowboy?
—I don’t think so.
—Might have been?
I shrugged.
—But we both know what you were. And that’s what our next picture is going to be about.
—What?
—You.
—Just me?
—You.
—There were others, I said.
—Fuck the others. It’s your story. How’d an Irish rebel end up here? That’s the real Irish story. We both know that. And that’s the story we’re going to tell.
He looked across the darkness, straight at me.
—You’re the story.
It had been a long fuckin’ day.
—Henry Smart, I said.
—That’s it, he said.
I looked up at the black-blue sky, at the stars, at all the dead and the wandering.