What I Tell My Irish Friend After His Parents Move Home

I have pretty much decided that for my 40th birthday, we are going to head out to the City, go to dinner with friends, and hang out at my friend, Ivan's, bar. It's called The Pepper Canister, named after a church in Ireland, where he's from. I met Ivan almost 20 years ago when he became my roommate at Loyola. It was my sophomore year, and I had a single for most of the semester. My friend, Andy, who was my original roommate, filled a vacant RA position, so I had the room to myself. When I got notice that I was getting a roommate, I was mad. I liked having a single. I declared that I would basically make this Ivan McCullagh's life a living hell, and get him to move out. The day came where he moved in. He walked into the room, introduced himself, and a friendship was born.

Ivan's a generous person. His parents opened their house to me and Cyndi on our 10th anniversary. We flew to Ireland and stayed at their home in Tipperary, and their apartment in Dublin. Ivan gets his generous spirit from his parents.

When I moved to Arizona, I wrote Ivan a poem. I'm not sure how good it is or how it stands up over time, but here it is:



What I Tell My Irish Friend After His Parents Move Home

I say we met two years ago.
I remind him of the Puerto Rican rum he drank
and I cleaned up in the toilet.
I say classes start at 10:00 a.m.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays. I say the plane ride is only eight hours
anyway. Outside my door the oranges are green,
but the grapefruit is ready to extract sweet bitter juice. I say my office
has no windows and when the door is closed
you can hear the piano play, tune after tune.
I tell about making up my mind about women
and how one will tell me she loves me
but I go with her. I say they’ll come back to visit
anyway. I explain how after looking half the morning
for two numbers, one his, one hers, I find them
under the B’s in my book, misfiled like checking accounts.
I say it’s not as bad as driving in a snowstorm
without heat. I mean your hands and feet freeze.
I say walk home. I scrape dry skin off my eyebrows
as indication of the wiping away
of old habits and change. I have one eyebrow
it is not plural. I say I am alone
and miserable. I let the mice scurry
and frolic. I put my hands together like someone asked me to
pray for us sinners.
I have run in 100 degree temperature,
my clothes clinging to my body.
It’s cold in the morning. In Arizona it’s hot
and cold and I can’t plan my wardrobe accordingly,
wearing too much or too little.
I ask what county. I say spell it. I ask, What
are your dwelling plans for the future? Outside my office
the seniors tell their stories describing depression
to those who have been there.
Forever is a very long time, I tell him,
but not as long as forever and a day.
I’m beginning to feel like a cigarette with a body attached to it,
spoke Carver in an interview in California.
He died before his time.
I almost start talking about Ireland.
I say, You should go play basketball or rugby.
I say Mickey Mouse is no longer on TV
and Donahue is a rerun.