Critical Mick

He takes a sip of coffee.

"Gee, but books are expensive these days. Took a paperback to my brother in hospital last week. Eleven dollars. In the Depression they were twenty-five cents. Idea was anybody could have one. Not any more. Same with movies now. Ten dollars for a movie? Jeez! Say, where ya from? I thought so. I took a trip to the British Isles fifteen years ago with that Irish airline, Aer Lingus? Said they've never lost a passenger, so that was good enough for me. Scared a flying, see. Made my life insurance out to my brother. Enjoyed Ireland. Wanted to see the Abbey theatre, though, but didn't get to see it. Didn't get to see the zoo either. I like zoos…."

The place is filling up. A guy orders coffee to go the stares at two exhausted-looking yesterday's doughnuts in the clear plastic case on the counter.

"Are these the only doughnuts you have?"

"Yessir."

He almost leaves but changes his mind.

"Ah, okay, I'll take 'em. And gimme a lo-fat creamer, and some sweetener."

"You gaddit."

He leaves, gets into the van he's parked right outside the window and drives off. Yougaddit waits till he's turned the corner, then reaches under the counter, takes out a pristine box of today's freshly baked doughnuts and lays them out in the plastic case.

The Hunter is just finishing his sandwich. His lower teeth don't fit so well and slurps of mayo keep escaping, but he's managing to clean himself up okay with a napkin. He gets to thinking about air travel again.

"Did ya see that, what was it, Concord? Jesus."

A fifty-year-old woman in last night's make-up and clothes eating a Spanish omelette on the next stool to him takes this as her cue to join in.

"I worked on the Virgin account for a few years. I met Richard Branson once."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh."

She pauses to pursue some diced red pepper.

"People say he's an asshole, but he's not."

It's nice here. Like being in a village. As I get up to leave I say to the Hunter, "Hey," because that's what they all used to say to each other on NYPD Blue when they were entering or leaving a room. "Hey," I say, remembering his threadbare coat, "Better stay warm today."

"Yeah," he says. "Throw another Irishman on the fire."

I smile and slap him on the back, even though I haven't got a clue what he means.

(pages 189-191)