Culligan's Wake

By Paul Sullivan

Calligans Wake, which is set in Manhattan in the Seventies, begins by introducing the reader to Byron Culligan and two of his friends, Kevin Cassidy and Bull Finch. We see Culligans creativity at work, unfortunately commingled with his lack of responsibility and excess of carnal appetite. After some misadventures which shed some light on the Culligan character, we meet Janet Culligan, his wife, and learn more about her fathers interest in Byron and Janet. We start to see how Culligans zest for independence (which may have suggested he not marry in the first place) will misinterpret his father-in-laws gestures, lead to rebellion expressed in a number of ways (almost always involving drinking and sex), and finally to really irresponsible behavior that destroys his marriage. Culligan, as we see him, is not a likable man, but one who manages to create and carry off humorous situations and provide laughs. There is, however, a nuance of true humanity and decency in this self-centered rogue.

As the book evolves, we meet Riley, a huge bear of a man who owns a lavish place called The Beatiary in Greenwich Village, a refuge for Culligan from the Upper East Side where he and Janet live. Riley seems to have some source of wealth and is generous in spending it and in providing support in other ways. In short, Riley is the quintessential friend we would all love to have, We also meet Tiffany...a lovely and understanding woman. Culligan starts to find himself attracted to herm and she to him. This is a different relationship and may offer some hope. The tempo picks up as the clock marches towards St. Patricks Day and the inevitable celebrations in New York.

The latter part of the book sees Finch driven from New York and let into a tragic circumstance in Washington, DC--which alerts and alarms Culligan who fears his father-in-law wants him committed so that the Culligan-Janet marriage can be annulled. Other characters, such as Rightous Richard, a semi-sane man with a messiah complex and a seeming mission, and Teddy The Torch Tomlinson, leader of the rock group The Pyromaniacs whose stage antics inevitably involve conflagrations, play larger roles in defining the world that Culligan must deal with if he is to remain free.

Calligans Wake builds to a crescendo with the St. Patricks Day celebration, and then tries to seek solutions as Easter appears on the calendar. Culligan, after a series of misadventures that are laugh producing, begins to realize that freedom may mean more than being licentious and irresponsible: perhaps the price of freedom is making choices and accepting the responsibility for them? The off and laughable happenings at The Plaza, where a clerical luncheon is taken over by Righteous Richard and LSD, leads to intimations of mortality, and Culligans eyes are opened. The book ends with Culligan, one Easter morn, walking along a New York street, into.......?

Calligans Wake is a serious story told with a comedic approach. There is a stream of consciousness that runs through it which seems to be the best way to let the reader get to know Culligan. Readers have said that Culligan comes to life, but whether or not he is someone you might want t know and to socialize with is another matter!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 20, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462823765

Paul Sullivan

Paul Sullivan writes the “Wealth Matters” column for The New York Times and is the author of The Thin Green Line: The Money Secrets of the Super Wealthy and Clutch: Why Some People Excel Under Pressure and Others Don’t. His articles have appeared in Fortune, Conde Nast Portfolio, The International Herald Tribune, Barron’s, The Boston Globe, and Food & Wine. From 2000 to 2006, he was a reporter, editor, and columnist at the Financial Times. A graduate of Trinity College and the University of Chicago, Sullivan lives in Fairfield County, Connecticut.

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Culligan’s Wake

Paul Sullivan

Copyright © 2000 by Paul Sullivan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY ONE

TWENTY TWO

TWENTY THREE

TWENTY FOUR

TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

To Andrew, Sarah, Catherine and Hilary.

wake, noun. . . . (1) the often turbulent path or a track left by a moving body, (2) the custom of observing the dead before burial which, especially among the irish, can become quite festive as a celebration of the passing to a better life. Such celebrations can become boisterous and give a new meaning to wake the dead.

verb. . . . to cause to awaken; to bring to one’s senses.

This work is fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious; any resemblance to real persons is wholly accidental and unintentional. Should there be any living persons with whom the main characters of this book might be confused, may God help them. . . . no one else will!

ONE

The taproom is packed to the teeth with people, many of them women and not a few of which are tasty morsels to behold. God in heaven, what I would not give for a roll around the ground with that one in the blue dress! But there are the social obligations, the amenities, the wife and all. Where is the name of the Almighty did Cassidy go for the brew?

Finally caught the bartender’s eye, Byron. The lean, angular figure of Cassidy weaving its way through the crowd. With overflowing glasses of beer held on high, Cassidy darts between dancing bodies and covers the last few feet to the table. The place is loaded, Byron.

Loaded indeed. Which is how I’d like to be. The only thing to do in the present circumstances.

Drinking won’t solve anything Byron. Why don’t you at least make an attempt at attending classes?

Byron J. Culligan sipping his beer in this dark and noisy place. I can’t think of a worse place to be, Kevin, given the present condition of my existence.

She’ll come back, Byron. I’m sure of it.

Perhaps. But the sad fact is that she has left my bed and board for the present, and this makes the matter of concentration a difficult one. Culligan draining his glass, wiping suds from his upper lip with an experienced flick of the wrist. Another one?

Cassidy pausing. Why not? He drains his glass and rises uncertainly to his feet. Maybe this should be the last one, Byron. I’m starting to feel them and I really should make Bronston’s class.

Cassidy drifting off again into the mob. Culligan resuming his study of the females in the places. The assortment covers a wide range indeed. There are a few with reputations for sundry deeds calculated to make your hair stand on end. As well as other things. Must keep my mind off carnal adventures and concentrate on the present predicament. But a drink will help.

We really ought to cut out after this one Byron. Culligan grabbing the beer and sipping at it. Not I Kevin. No place to go right now.

"What about class? A few more cuts and you’ve had it. Flunk out and there goes your GI Bill money, and then where are you?

And where am I now anyway, Kevin? I’m parked in a bar near the campus whereon I seek my Master’s degree. Right now, of the two places, the bar holds more attraction for me. What with Janet gone, I mean. Is it worth the effort?

It won’t be worth anything if you flunk out. Why not just show up for class? Just sit there for it.

Culligan scanning the room, using the zoom lens of his mind’s eye to cover minute details with the more attractive girls. Concentration, Kevin. I can’t concentrate. With Janet leaving like that. It weighs on my mind.

Cassidy studying his companion in the dim light. I admire the way you’re devoted to your wife, but I’m sure that Janet will come back. Merely a small fight, After short while. . . .

After a short while, I’ll go beserk and attempt to rape a tulip or something equally foul. Devoted, yes. But more than that, Kevin, I’m horny.

Cassidy uncertain. Huh.

I need a piece of ass, damn it, and whatever else her faults, Janet is a choice piece of ass.

Cassidy ponders this. Then why did you drive her out, Byron? Tell me that.

Drive her out! Good God, Kevin! What makes you say that?

Cassidy looking around furtively. Culligan’s voice has risen and drawn a few stares. Culligan now gripping the table edges and looking at Cassidy. Not so loud, Byron.

All right. Quiet it is. Now, what’s this drivel about me driving Janet out? Sweet Jesus, my own wife!

The word’s going around that you and Janet had a battle royal over your losing your job at the public relations firm. And that you got loaded, threw some furniture and she cut out. It may be just rumor, but that’s what’s making the rounds.

Culligan silent, waiting, simmering. He picks up his beer, drinks and puts it down. So that’s the rumor?

It is.

Well it has some truth to it. I can’t deny it all. But, damn it, drive her out? Suffering shit—she left on her own!

Cassidy draws on his beer. Just what did happen, Byron? If you don’t mind telling me, that is.

Why should I mind telling you, Kevin, good friend that you are. Then armed with fact, you can help defend the good name of Byron J. Culligan against vile rumors. The truth shall make us free. Be good practice for you, too. When you finally get that law degree, you’ll be experienced at handling defamation of character cases. But. . . . why not a few more brews before we get into it?

Cassidy resignedly getting up and heading for the bar. Culligan resumes his survey of the shapely clientele of this particular den of iniquity. Dear God, American women can be a song in a man’s testicles. A veritable choir!

Here’s two apiece, Byron. And there goes my making my last class. This better be good.

O, it is, Kevin. It is. Culligan sloshing some beer down his throat and some down the front of his sweater. The bit about losing the job is true. Rather a sad episode. Traumatic, in fact. But true all the same.

What happened? I thought you were set up pretty well there, handling all the public relations work for the department store? A nice bit of loot, I hear.

That it was, Kevin. Helped one hell of a lot. Allowed me to make enough money to get by and still attend classes.. Once I had the Master’s in Business Administration, I was in with the store on a full-time basis. However, the best laid plans of mice and men. Janet had such grand plans for us, too.

Well, what upset all this?

I’m coming to that Kevin. You may recall reading about the sporting goods show the store put on recently. It got a lot of play in the papers.

Right, I remember.

Well, that was my doing. Quite a struggle to get decent coverage in all the New York papers, but I swung it. Of course, they neatly overlooked that aspect of the affair after the swimming pool incident and bounced me right out.

The swimming pool incident?

"Yes, Kevin. As part of the show, we had assembled a rather large plastic pool on the second floor. While there were those in favor of simulating water somehow or other, I convinced them that the real thing was much more effective. So we filled the pool up with water, Thus I look upon my powers of persuasion as being instrumental in my eventual downfall. In any case, the pool was filled with God knows how many gallons of water. Probably thousands. We even floated a large plastic whale on the surface. The whale had a rather pleased grin, too. After everything is set up and the papers carry the stories, we’re ready for business and I’m ready for all sorts of accolades. Half of New York must have made the scene that opening day, Kevin. The joint was, in a word, mobbed.

"The show got rave reviews. It appeared to be the hit of Fifth Avenue. I was elated at the prospect of my genius at last being awarded its due recognition. There were several bottles of cheer floating around the store, and I was fortunate to find one that was attached to Miss Jensen, a statuesque blonde from the lingerie department. For some reason I never bothered going into, Miss Jensen was working in the sporting goods department during the show. We tossed a few down, then feeling the need for peace and quiet, Miss Jensen and I repaired to the camping display and crawled into the tepee set up there. It was cozy, but we soon ran out of liquid refreshment. Miss Jensen said she knew where more was to be had and was off. Sure enough, she returned in a few minutes with a fifth of scotch. In a moment of bravado, I got a hunting knife from the display outside the tepee and cut the seal on the bottle, put the bottle in my mouth, the knife in my belt and drank deeply of the Highland dew. Great stuff, incidentally. So was Miss Jensen. We were both a little giddy when she decided we should try some mouth-to-mouth drinking. Rather like mouth- to-mouth resucitation, only this way one of the two people involved has a mouth full of booze. Considering our coordination at this stage of the game, an orderly transfer of the booze from her mouth to mine was well nigh impossible. It was made more difficult by the orderly transfer of her tongue into my mouth. This caused a certain amount of spillage, most of which landed in my lap. Miss Jensen, good sport that she was, immediately helped to clean it up. Her method was, in a word, unique. She told me not to move, that I was to be the saucer and she the thirsty cat. The aforementioned tongue was now busy elsewhere. I must cautioned you, Kevin, that to have someone like Miss Jensen lapping up your lap can create a considerable amount of activity below the equator. Which was the beginning of the disaster.

When Miss Jensen noticed the disturbance under her saucer, she was all for liberating its cause and seeing what might be done to comfort it. I must admit that I was silently cheering her on. What would normally have followed, as she began toying with my zipper, would, while delinquent as regards my marital status, have been interesting strictly from a clinical point of view. You must understand that I had no desire to do Janet any dirt. It’s just that Miss Jensen had such firm yet pliant lips.

Cassidy knocked over his beer. Jesus! Then what?

At this point, Kevin, I began to realize that I must be operating under a curse. There was a certain amount of clamor coming from nearby, and my name figured prominently in the yelling. Apparently, the store manager needed me right away. I had no desire to blow my job, so I reluctantly got to my feet and left the tepee. My wanderings for the next minute or two were hard to describe and even harder to control. Due to the drinking, I was none too steady on my feet. Due to Miss Jensen’s original way of drinking, I was rather excited and thus walking slightly hunched over, not unlike a mobile tripod. I manoeuvered around the swimming pool to the front, right at the head of the stairs. At this point, the stimulation induced by Miss Jensen’s oral activity had been reduced to nil, and I felt I could straighten up. I did so, and took a deep breath, throwing my shoulders back. In so doing, Kevin, I moved backwards rather suddenly and with some momentum. I thought I was falling, but the pool caught me. In catching me, however, it also caught the camping knife I had so casually tucked my belt. That was the rip heard round the world.

Cassidy was mesmerized. Did it. . . . ?

"It did, Kevin. And how! The pressure of all that water being brought to bear on that rip was too much. The little Dutch boy would have needed a plumber’s friend instead of a finger to plug up this dike. The water began to gush out. Thank God I had enough sense to get my ass out of there in a hurry. I was just off to the side when all that water burst forth and charged down the stairs into the first day mob milling about on the main floor. I felt like Noah when God opened the floodgates. But I knew if I stuck around for any length of time. I’d end up feeling like Goliath just after his title bout with the shepherd boy. I didn’t even bother discussing severance pay. I turned and ran. The last thing I remember seeing was that grinning whale cascading down the stairs. That’s when I noticed it had something written on its side: ‘Welcome to Atlantic City.’

It was a sobering experience, Kevin, so I desperately needed a drink before attempting to face Janet with the late, lamentable happenings. I had a few dollars with me, which were quickly transformed into inner warmth in a nearby tavern. Well, by the time I got back to the apartment, word of what had happened had preceded me and Janet was fit to be tied. God, was she pissed off! You’d think I’d done something reprehensible or something. A simple miscalculation on my part and she was off and running.

What happened at the apartment, Byron?

Culligan draining his glass and belching softly. "Sheer hell, Kevin. After the usual litany of my faults, Janet recounted her hopes for me. When I came out of the Marines, I had high hopes for myself, too. New York was the city of my dreams, a place where fortunes were made, where B. J. Culligan would surely make his. The Master’s degree was needed, and I began pursing it. Then Janet came along and lured me into marriage with those beautiful breasts of hers. Not just beautiful, Kevin, but great to hold on to so as not to fall in. God, what a body! And that body wed me and began to help push me along. Janet’s father, you know, has a bundle. Dear Mr. Tremaine wanted B. J. Culligan to step into the family business in Arizona, but it had the earmarks of slavery on it. So I stayed my ground in New York. Janet was far from elated at my decision, but she decided to help me as best she could. She paid for a lot of furniture and used up her savings while I squeezed my GI Bill money as far as I could. Next came the public relations job, gotten through the intervention of my beloved father-in-law. So when the job literally went down the drain, Janet was doubly pissed. It was embarassing to daddy and it was curtains financially.

That I smelt badly of booze didn’t help the situation, Kevin. That there were some obscure stains identifiable as lipstick on my trouser simply aggravated matters. Words were exchanged and I recall flinging a certain vase against the wall to emphasize a point, and there was an end to it. Janet threw some clothes into a bag and stormed out. I waited a while, and when she didn’t return by mid- afternoon I decided to come down to school. I figured I’d need cabfare, so I took several lamps from the apartment and bargained with Murray for some coin. By the time I got here, I felt I needed a drink before attempting class. That’s when I ran into you Kevin. And that is the God’s honest truth.

I think that calls for more beer, Byron.

That, too, is the God’s honest truth!

Cassidy lurching to his feet, unsteady yet determined. The crowd parts to let the wobbling wayfarer through and Culligan allows his eye to rove again. It is darker in the taproom now, and shapes are less readily distinguished, but Culligan’s trained eye lingers only on those most tempting. There stands a likely lass. Parents should be given some sort of award for quality control. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to do it with her. . . .

Under water, no less! Haa ha ha! Gales of laughter sweeping over Culligan . The crowd breaking before the advance of a beefy man whose face is filled with a grin. :Cully, it must’ve been unreal. I just heard it from Kevin here. Let me congratulate you. Haa ha ha!

Cassidy coming in the wake of the beefy man and setting half a dozen beers on the table. Chairs are scraped along the floor to the table and the three of them sit there swilling beer.

What’s new with you, Finch? Culligan’s eyes are mirthful as he regards the recent arrival. I thought you were in jail these days."

O for while there, I was. But just for a while, Cully. A broad wink from the beefy man. A case of mistaken identity.

Mistaken identity, your ass. The only mistaken identity, as I hear it, is that it was another man’s pocket the law found your hand in. And wrapped around his wallet. For shame, Finch.

Shame it is, Cully. Suffering Christ! The only shame was in being caught. Desperation will drive a man to many things. It was in keeping with a socialist philosophy, anyway. But, I’ve been redeemed. The man failed to press charges! Now drink up, lads. The girl’s on her way over with six more. Haaa ha! With a wild laugh, his beer is downed and another takes its place in his manipulative mitt. Culligan is grinning as he drinks and manages to spill a mouthful over his shoulder. Cassidy smiling and sipping.

Kevin, you can’t always believe our friend here. A certain exaggeration usually evident. Culligan winks and slaps the beefy man affectionately on the back.

Damn it, Cully, my word’s as good as gold, or my name’s not Arthur P. Finch.

Arthur Finch indeed! Culigan laughing loudly, hitting the table with his open palm and sending a plastic ashtray to the floor.

Arthur it was at the baptismal font, but those in the know call you ‘Bull’ Finch. And ‘Bull’ it is, because you’re so full of it.

But a fine man just the same, Cully. You’ve got to admit that.

That I do, Finch. I’ll even swear to it. Culligan about to take a solemn oath, raising his right arm just in time to catch the tray of beers being held above him by the barmaid. The tray ascends with Culligan’s thrust, then tilts toward the table as it starts to fall back down. Culligan looking up, startled. The girl shrieking, the beers sliding off the tray and all over the table and the people. Cassidy leaning back in his chair is suddenly lying on the floor, looking up at a small stream of beer dripping onto his chest from the table’s edge above. Finch rising to his feet, stepping with beer- moistened shoe on the fallen ashtray and sailing backwards into the neighboring table. Fellow patrons upset, as is their table. One man comes over and extends his hand to the stricken Finch. Finch takes the proffered hand, but does not use it to get to his feet. He jerks on it and the man joins him amidst the carnage. Finch laughing uproariously, man glowering, other patrons looking uneasy. Culligan’s keen eye spots the bartender coming over the bar. All hell about to break loose. Culligan turning to warn the others and his face brushes against the barmaid’s breast. It’s up for grabs now anyway. He bites softly. Girl amazed, Culligan pleased, Finch laughing, Cassidy getting to his feet and worrying. Culligan releasing the girl, helping Cassidy to help Finch.

Time for us to leave, Finch, or we’ve had it.

Bartender approaching as the crowd rises up in hostility. The threesome breaks and runs past packed tables to the door, pursued by cries of outrage and one wantonly thrown beer bottle. The door slams behind them and they are in the cold evening air, running like mad down the street, turning the corner, plunging headlong into the crosswalk and causing a cabbie to slam his brakes on. Pedestrians turn to stare at the racing trio as it passes.

Anyone following, Cully?

Let’s slow up and see. They come to a halt in the middle of a block. No one behind us, Finch. Not a soul. Kevin, you look pale!

I feel pale. I think I’m going to. . . .

In the gutter, lad. Come on, Cully, give a hand.

Give a hand, your ass. He’s heaving into the wind.

Goddammit! All over my coat!

I told you, Finch. Feel better, Kevin?

Cassidy gagging, spits and straightens up. A deep breath. A little. Too much beer.

To much running, Kevin. The beer is good for you. But the running is a different story. You need something to wipe your mouth on. Finch, have you got a handkerchief?

Finch rubbing Cassidy’s festooned chin with the sleeve of his coat. That should do it. Looks much better.

Cassidy coughing, Thanks.

Culligan laughing. Dear God! Now I’ve seen it all. Finch playing the Good Samaritan! Since when do you dirty up your threads in acts of charity, Finch?

Finch laughing with Culligan, winking broadly. Well, Cully, the truth of the matter is that this coat belongs to a person known but to God. It was draped over a chair in that tavern we just left. When I came in, I was just staring at it in admiration. I picked it up and went into the men’s room to see how I looked in it in the mirror. When I came out and saw Kevin and heard about your fantastic aquatic exploits, I just forgot to return it. It’s warm, though, and good for wiping one’s mouth.

Finch, you’re incorrigible.

I’m cold. Cassidy shivering in the street.

"Cully, we can’t stand out here with this lad ill and with so much