A-Wake

(This is my third draft of the Shankill Butchers monologue. As you can tell, it's quite a bit longer and it now has a scene. I'm not yet sold on 'A-Wake' as the title, although I love the symbolic nature of it.)



“You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve lost a limb,” the Irish cripple tells me with a devious grin as he stuffs his pipe with tobacco, his one good hand nimbly doing the job of two. “At least, that’s what I tell all them feckin’ eejits, carryin’ about with practiced pity…a worthless emotion if you ask me.”

A sudden sense of guilt sweeps over me. My Grandfather died just a week earlier and his wake started this morning. My family has never been to a wake, let alone done one before. We’re used to the typical American funeral at a church. A wake was the only request of my Grandfather before he died. I have been staring at this old crippled man since he first showed up. This man fascinates me.
My Grandfather was a cripple, always had a limp. My Grandfather was also Irish, though I knew nothing of his life there. He never spoke of it and I wonder why. Only now, at his wake, am I interested. Being the awkward fool that I am, I end up embarrassing myself in front of the only Irishman at the wake that knew my Grandfather when he lived in Ireland.

My cheeks turn as red as my hair.

“Forgive me sir,” I manage to squeak out. “I didn’t mean to pity you.”

“I know,” he says as he grabs me by the arm and pulls me close to him. “You have no pity in you. I can tell by da way you’ve been starin’ at me all morning.”
My eyes fall to my feet. I didn’t realize I was making such a fool of myself.

“I’m very sorry,” I whisper, desperately thinking about ways to get out of this situation. If there is ever a time when my mother could yell for me to finish some chore, any chore, I would thank her forever for the chance to escape. However, when I look around for her, I realize she must be inside tending the guests as they enter the house and make their way to the back-yard. My parents researched what a wake was and traditionally the body of the deceased would be placed in the living room, surrounded by beer, whiskey, and tobacco. Since we live in San Diego, we decided to move the wake into the back-yard because our house is too small to hold so many people. My Grandfather knew a lot of people. I’ll admit that it is a bit awkward for me, especially now that I’ve been caught staring at a crippled Irishman.

“Tis nothin’ to be sorry about good lad. Tis those who refuse to look, that pretend I don’t exist…that pity.”

I manage to lift my eyes from my feet and look the old cripple in the face. His face is carved with deep lines running from the corner of his green eyes and down his cheeks. It looks like he’s been crying his entire life, a very sorrowful face. His mouth looks like it has never smiled before but when he does smile, it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

“If only they knew, they wouldn’t have use for pity,” the Irish cripple smiles, patting the area in his right shoulder where his arm should have been. “They’d grab me by da shoulda and offer up da next shout; a hero’s welcome they’d call it. But aye, ‘tis been a long while since these lips have graced the craythur on another’s punt.”

I have no idea what a ‘craythur’ is or what a ‘punt’ is but I don’t care. He sounds like my Grandfather and that is reassuring, comforting. I loved my Grandfather. He would always use words I didn’t understand.

“Instead, I pity them for livin’ like cowards, carryin’ about their days hopin’ for change but not willin’ to shake a limb for it. They will never appreciate life until their eyes witness a piece of their own flesh…” he pauses, taking a deep drag off his pipe, blowing three circular smoke rings into the air. I watch intently as each smoke-ring floats into the solemn air until dissipating into nothing.

“…dead.”

“Dead?” I repeat, perhaps a bit too loudly. My father looks at me with disapproving eyes. He must have heard me. I quickly forget my blunder and my eyes attach to the old crippled man. He is old enough to be my Grandfather but at this moment, his eyes are as young as mine.

“A sacrifice,” he tells me, making the sign of the cross on his chest with the only arm he has left.

“For freedom.”

Freedom? What is this old cripple talking about, freedom from what?

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about sir,” I politely say, loosening the tie around my neck. The old cripple’s tie is loose around his neck too. My mom would probably snap at me for looking so casual at a wake, but I don’t care. I like this old man. Something about his nature makes me want to be like him.

“Well, Ireland of course,” he laughs, puffing on his pipe. “Did ol’ Mick here not tell ya?” He motions towards my dead Grandfathers corpse with another circle of smoke, his body surrounded by tobacco, whiskey, and beer. “That’d be ol’ Mick. A mystery he was.”

“How do you know my Grandfather anyway?” I ask. He stares down at his old leather penny loafers and shuffles his feet for a moment.

“We were mates,” he says slowly, “his family lived in da flat next to mine. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know his cheeky grin.” He looks away, trying to hide the tears. “Aye, but we wouldn’t have freedom would we?” His voice perks up, changing the subject, “not yet at least. Not the type of freedom we hoped for, prayed for. The old steel walls back home still cast dark shadows between us Taigs and them Proddies, a reminder of exclusion.” He stares blankly into the sky, puffing away. “Your Grandfather and I grew up near the heart of it all you know, just off Falls Road.”

“The heart of what?”

“The troubles! Haven’t you ever heard of the troubles?” His eyes are anxious with worry.

“I’ve never heard of the troubles. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shrugging my shoulders shyly. I wonder what my Grandfather would say at my ignorance. Would he be upset? Probably not. After all, he never spoke of Ireland. Perhaps it was too difficult for him to talk about. I remember he would always tell me to be proud I was American, that I had freedom. It’s all starting to make sense.

“Aye, ‘the troubles’ is what we call the war in Northern Ireland,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “We were raised to be Fenians you know. Me Da’ was one himself, his Da’ too. It’s in our blood,” he grins, poking me with his pipe, “and it’s in your blood.”

“What’s a fenian?” I ask, watching his eyes dart back and forth.

“A Fenian is a sworn protector of Ireland much like Finn Mac Cool and his band of Fianna protected Ireland in the old stories,” he says with a whisper.

“Finn Mac Cool?”

“You really are quite daft aren’t you?” He teases me, poking me in the ribs again with his pipe. I quickly dust off my shirt, hoping that he didn’t allow any ashes from his pipe to burn my only dress shirt.

“My Grandfather never spoke of Ireland,” I say, embarrassingly looking away from the old crippled man. He shrugs as if to let me know that it’s okay.

“Your Grandfather probably wanted it that way, but he’s dead now. Let me tell you about freedom,” he says, his eyes lighting up like fire. He stands up and begins speaking very loudly, demanding the attention of everyone at the wake. His voice echoes through our backyard and down our southern California Street. “For 900 years the feckin’ English have been treatin’ us like gobshites. Illegal occupiers I tell you!” He wags his finger high in the air, “Illegal! They hate us, always have. They tried killin’ us all with Cromwell. Then they let us starve to death durin’ the famine. I joined the Provo’s, eager to add my name among the ranks of I.R.A. folklore, to have mates cheers me up and down ol’ Falls road. AND I’ve NEVER been ashamed of it,” he pounds his chest, ashes splash out of his pipe with each pounce. “I signed up the day after da Bloody Sunday incident in Derry! Bloody mess that was! Thousands of lads like meself, barely able to swallow a pint, signed up after that day.”

The wake is silent, everyone’s eyes now watching the old crippled man.
“We didn’t hate da prods for their religion like da way they hated us. We hated ‘em for da oppression, for da fact they control everythin’: da police, da government, where we live, where we work…where we don’t work. We hated ‘em most for parading through our neighborhoods every July with their orange sashes and their blaring drums shaking our windows to rubble.
“That’s why for ten years, ol’ Mick here and I fought da Shankill Road prods. We hijacked buses and taxis and drove ‘em past da great steel gates to use as roadblocks. It became our obsession, our sport. We had no shame,” he yells, “We had no pity.”

His voice grows louder, almost taking on a life of its own. He grabs me by the arm and walks me over to where my Grandfather’s body is lying. My Grandfather’s body seems to almost smile, his spirit somehow peaking through to his old friends words.

“I lost me arm in ’81, the same time Ol’ Mick here found his limp, a bloody horrible week to be Irish. Twas a week after Bobby Sands died in da H-block prison of a hunger strike,” he laughs, “Ya’ll know who Bobby Sands was, don’t ye?!” I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was mocking us. He knew we didn’t know. “He was a man just like Mick! Just like me! A man who thought it worthwhile to die so his children could laugh and play without fear. He was the first of ten whom the Queen let shrivel to their graves!”

Everyone at the wake slowly moves closer to the old cripple, listening to what this old Irishman has to say to me. Ten minutes ago I would have been embarrassed if he had grabbed me by the shoulder and started speaking loudly, but now I am proud. I feel like he chose me even though his words are for everyone else. I am the one here without pity.

“That same week, a notorious gang of feckin’ UVF members known as da Shankill butchers…” His voice was full of nothing but the darkest type of hate. He continues, sobbing confidently, “…kidnapped and killed me brothers; hung ‘em by their heels, slit their throats, carved ‘papist devil’ on their chests,” he makes a carving motion into his chest and across his neck, “…let ‘em bleed to death. Mick and I planted a bomb in their local pub on Shankill road, succeeded in killin’ two of ‘em in the blast. Sacrificed me arm in da process,” he kneels beside my Grandfathers body, holding his cold hand. “I left it lying in pieces along with the rubble as I walked away, the pain screaming towards freedom…or some aspect of it, whatever that means. I’m not sure I know anymore.”

Tears are streaming down his cheeks and I understand why those lines are so deep. After all these years, there still isn’t freedom. At least not the type of freedom he hoped for. It’s quiet as everyone stares at each other and then back at the old crippled man holding my Grandfathers lifeless hand.

“So pity,” he says, staring at everyone at the wake, “pity is a worthless emotion.”