I carried all the markers including packing a fierce temper, pale freckled skin that easily burned, and I have an unusually high tolerance to pain. The pain threshold is an interesting quirk, I remember coming to during all my operations— when I had my tonsils removed, I remember my doctor’s face with the convex mirror on his forehead. He said it wasn’t possible.
My oral surgery, my first knee operation, I remember them all. During one operation, I was struck with inconsolable grief and began sobbing, my anesthesiologist had to tell me to stop crying for what, I don’t remember. But I bore witness to all my operations, much to the dismay of my anesthesiologists.
I took to warning my doctors that I carried the redhead gene, but they didn’t listen, or didn’t believe me—until after my last knee operation, when I began to recant the playlist, as if it was a profane litany. It surprised me that my knee surgeon, who owned a race horse, was into the Scorpions and Black Sabbath.
The last time I unwittingly listened to Black Sabbath was when my cousin Sinead and I went over to the Rancho Nicasio, and Robbie of S-Car-Go, who raced Porsches, was holding up, or holding down one end of the bar. He plied us with his favorite poison, Jagermeister and beer. The Jagermeister, which tasted like NyQuil, a black nebula pulsing at the bottom of the beer glass racked with sparkling stars—was an acquired taste.
Now, I’m not a huge fan of hard alcohol, or beer. Hard alcohol makes me nauseous or I immediately fall asleep, and beer makes me sneeze uncontrollably. Probably the yeast. But the drinks kept coming, and the camaraderie was good. Robbie was on a roll. Sam, the bartender, slid a long golden train of mugs down the bar with shuffleboard precision. You’d think we were on a cruise ship playing bocce ball or something.
When time was called, we crawled home around the square following the white line of the road, as crossing the baseball diamond on the diagonal was out of the question. We had already gotten tangled up in the bleachers and couldn’t navigate our way out. And I don’t think we could’ve walked in a straight line if our lives depended on it. With our luck we would’ve wound up at the church.
The mist was thick enough to obliterate all the usual landmarks, it frosted our hair, the dampness was like being in Ireland. Not that we needed very much to go by, as the house was right off first base outfield. Luckily only Tom Woods and his wife lived next door, so the collateral damage was minimal, even though we might’ve spent an inordinate amount of time outside his house giggling in the bushes.
We were too drunk to sober up anytime soon and the cats were alarmed by our raucous caterwauling in the kitchen. Soon enough, the porcelain god was invoked and homage duly paid. My body was letting me know in no uncertain to terms that this particular shenanigan was not sanctioned.
A good thing too, because even though I am Irish, I cannot handle much by way of liquor, not like the rest of my family. For that, I am grateful. I’ve witness to far too many family gatherings and brawls gone awry to want to emulate that world of alcohol and pain.
The little orange cat who usually avoided me at all costs, took pity on me. She hunched between my arms and knees next to the toilet, as if to bear witness, knowing I was under the weather. Not a companion I was expecting to find in the bathroom. Not like her brother Cheetos, who adored me and often slept on my head when I stayed over.
Later, on the couch, she stood on my chest and gazed into my eyes, like a lover, or my familiar. That is until Sinead‘s boyfriend, intent on wreaking revenge, blasted the speakers full blast, Black Sabbath rattling the window panes. The little cat leaped up off the couch, and took off to the farthest corners of the house while I tended my cat scratches.
I was still drunk from the night before, and that Sunday morning indeed was a black sabbath. I was also too drunk to care, too drunk to fly into a rage, but I harbored a grudge like a true Irish redhead, and I repeated the favor in kind, later.
I took to warning my doctors that I carried the redhead gene, but they didn’t listen, or didn’t believe me—until after my last knee operation, when I began to recant the playlist, as if it was a profane litany. It surprised me that my knee surgeon, who owned a race horse, was into the Scorpions and Black Sabbath.
The last time I unwittingly listened to Black Sabbath was when my cousin Sinead and I went over to the Rancho Nicasio, and Robbie of S-Car-Go, who raced Porsches, was holding up, or holding down one end of the bar. He plied us with his favorite poison, Jagermeister and beer. The Jagermeister, which tasted like NyQuil, a black nebula pulsing at the bottom of the beer glass racked with sparkling stars—was an acquired taste.
Now, I’m not a huge fan of hard alcohol, or beer. Hard alcohol makes me nauseous or I immediately fall asleep, and beer makes me sneeze uncontrollably. Probably the yeast. But the drinks kept coming, and the camaraderie was good. Robbie was on a roll. Sam, the bartender, slid a long golden train of mugs down the bar with shuffleboard precision. You’d think we were on a cruise ship playing bocce ball or something.
When time was called, we crawled home around the square following the white line of the road, as crossing the baseball diamond on the diagonal was out of the question. We had already gotten tangled up in the bleachers and couldn’t navigate our way out. And I don’t think we could’ve walked in a straight line if our lives depended on it. With our luck we would’ve wound up at the church.
The mist was thick enough to obliterate all the usual landmarks, it frosted our hair, the dampness was like being in Ireland. Not that we needed very much to go by, as the house was right off first base outfield. Luckily only Tom Woods and his wife lived next door, so the collateral damage was minimal, even though we might’ve spent an inordinate amount of time outside his house giggling in the bushes.
We were too drunk to sober up anytime soon and the cats were alarmed by our raucous caterwauling in the kitchen. Soon enough, the porcelain god was invoked and homage duly paid. My body was letting me know in no uncertain to terms that this particular shenanigan was not sanctioned.
A good thing too, because even though I am Irish, I cannot handle much by way of liquor, not like the rest of my family. For that, I am grateful. I’ve witness to far too many family gatherings and brawls gone awry to want to emulate that world of alcohol and pain.
The little orange cat who usually avoided me at all costs, took pity on me. She hunched between my arms and knees next to the toilet, as if to bear witness, knowing I was under the weather. Not a companion I was expecting to find in the bathroom. Not like her brother Cheetos, who adored me and often slept on my head when I stayed over.
Later, on the couch, she stood on my chest and gazed into my eyes, like a lover, or my familiar. That is until Sinead‘s boyfriend, intent on wreaking revenge, blasted the speakers full blast, Black Sabbath rattling the window panes. The little cat leaped up off the couch, and took off to the farthest corners of the house while I tended my cat scratches.
I was still drunk from the night before, and that Sunday morning indeed was a black sabbath. I was also too drunk to care, too drunk to fly into a rage, but I harbored a grudge like a true Irish redhead, and I repeated the favor in kind, later.
3/16 Mill Valley Library non-fiction workshop with Sarah Broderick
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