Radio Ireland

By Kevin Mahon

**As featured on NPR's Arts Eclectic with Michael Lee!

After the passing of his father, Brendan decides to leave North America
behind and begin a new life as a rock radio host in his family's ancestral
home of Dublin.
But when Brendan arrives he discovers that Rory, his co-host and
lifelong friend, is missing. In a moment of inspiration, Brendan invents
an unexpected co-host who takes Dublin by storm and invites him to
confront his past.
What results is an emotionally charged and heartfelt tale that
combines laugh-out-loud stories with bittersweet episodes and an
ending you won't soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098305932

Book preview

pen.

Prologue

If the word Ireland in the title of this book grabbed your attention and you picked it up hoping to find the divine wit and brilliant handling of the written word synonymous with the likes of James Joyce and Brendan Behan, you will not find that here, regardless of the fact that " I am a drinker with writing problems" – thank you for that bit of beauty, Mr. Behan.

If you are hoping to find that hilarious Irish sense of humor so many have come to appreciate the world over, may I recommend you put this book back and pick up a copy of The Mammy by Brendan O’Carroll. You’ll thank me for that read.

Now that being said, the following pages contain a work of fiction that is unfortunately far from being fiction. Of course, the names have been changed to protect the identity of the innocent, the guilty, and mainly the name of the individual who shit himself on the plane.

May I suggest you pour yourself a drink? That part of the book does hold true to the Irish stereotype. A whiskey would be preferred but a beer or wine should suffice nicely. Those of you who frequent live music venues would have no doubt encountered a band boasting the more you drink the better we sound. The same would hold true for you, the reader, while taking in the coming chapters. There is nothing quite like a cocktail or two to bring out the natural ambiance of laughs, tears, and the general manner of storytelling.

Now that you have a drink in your hand and are prepared to dive into this little piece of writing of mine, I would like to propose a toast. To those whose sense of humor made us not only laugh, but provided definition to our wonderful life, before passing on far too soon. Slainte!

---

Enjoy,

Kevin

Chapter One

Drinks with Rory

"A h! Jaysus, me fuckin’ head!" Rory winced in pain.

A Grandpa Brew was a notorious little Texas beverage, served at a Mexican bar and grill in Austin called Chuys. It may have been indigenous to Austin, but I’m pretty sure you may have been able to find one in Houston or a few other cities throughout Texas. So, here’s the thing, a Grandpa Brew started out with a short plastic cup filled with frozen margarita, and this margarita blend was pretty strong, no skimping on the tequila, and far too tasty. On its own, this frozen margarita recipe would be enough to curse at the morning after when it resulted in that foul-tasting mouth and atmospheric pressure drop of a hangover headache. However, in all their wisdom, these crafty Mexican bartenders decided to insert a bottle of Corona on an angle into this frozen tequila delight. The beer, upside down at a 30-degree angle, slowly seeps into the mixture with every suck from the straw. Fantastic! But wait. If that were not enough, hanging off the side of the cup was a miniature white replica of a liquor bottle that contains what is known as a floater. Now, in Toronto, as a child, a floater meant something completely different – it was a little piece of nastiness left over in the toilet that did not completely flush. However, in this case, the floater was an extra shot of liqueur that could either be dumped into the frozen concoction, adding to its citrus bite, or could be taken as a shot on its own prior to drinking the margarita/beer concoction. A glorious sensation of liquor-fortified margarita seeped with Mexican beer. What could possibly go wrong after a few of these?

As I mentioned, these extra strong cocktails are served at a Mexican Bar and Grill by the name of Chuys, which at first glance looked like any other typical Mexican restaurant, painted brightly in green and red, Sombreros hanging in corners, and the likes. However, what set Chuys apart from other standard Tex-Mex joints was its allegiance to The King. Yes, the King of Rock n Roll, Elvis Presley portraits were everywhere. His album artwork hung throughout the place and was showcased by the light reflecting off the ceiling that was entirely covered with vintage car hubcaps. If it weren’t for the fact that there were locations all over Austin, I would have said that the place was one of a kind. And it was at this Mexican Bar and Grill, located in the southwest part of Austin, during the summer of 2015, when Rory first placed the idea of moving to Ireland in my head.

Without a second thought about it, Rory was truly my best friend. He had been born and raised in the same part of north Dublin that my Dad had grown up and from what I understood, Rory’s parents both held solid jobs that had earned them both respectable wages. These wages, in conjunction with the fact that Rory was an only child, had enabled his parents to send him to Toronto for six weeks every summer to stay with his grandmother. His grandmother had emigrated to Toronto with his grandfather in the late 60’s, but by 1977 his grandfather had passed away leaving his grandmother on her own in their small three-bedroom townhome in the residential east end of Toronto called Scarborough. Rory’s father had become engaged at the time of his parent’s emigration to his longtime sweetheart, and thus he stayed behind in Ireland, married and began the next chapter in his life far from his parent’s new home. It was during Rory’s first week of the summer of his first trip to Canada that he and I met for the first time in the park at the end of our street. I lived across the road, and seven houses down, from his grandmother’s place. This park at the end of the street was a massive park. It had a soccer pitch, a basketball court, a baseball diamond, and a jungle gym complete with swings and slide. I’m sure if I had the opportunity to go back and visit now, the park wouldn’t be nearly as massive as I remember – but I guess most things appear larger than life when you’re a small child.

Ten-year-old Rory had been sitting on a swing, balancing a soccer ball on the end of his feet, looking bored on that Saturday morning when I first noticed this kid that was about my exact age. I remember Rory being lean and tall for his age, he had thin chestnut brown hair, and freckled cheeks right off the cover of a Visit Ireland Tour Guide. He wore black shorts that morning, a Manchester United jersey, and pair of beat up white Adidas shoes and black socks. His legs, although lean, were muscular, an obvious clue to his enthusiasm and participation in sport. He had narrow eyes that gave the impression that he was suspicious of your intentions. However, as soon as he spoke, his demeanor instantly set you at ease and quickly erased any negativity that his expression may have implied. I sat down next him on the swings, as shy as I was, hoping that he would say something first. He didn’t disappoint.

Don’t suppose you’re up for playing some football?

Oh my God he sounded like my Dad! It took me a moment to get past the shock of hearing a child with that Irish accent. Up until that moment I had only ever heard an Irish accent come from the mouth of adults. I instantly fell in love with the sound of his diction. Trying to act as cool as I could, I responded with a Sure. But you don’t have a football, you only have a soccer ball.

And with that ludicrous exchange, we became lifelong friends. Every summer through elementary school and through high school I could hardly contain my excitement for the arrival of Rory’s annual trip to Toronto. For six weeks every year we were inseparable. A lot of fond memories came from those summers. We went through a lot together, and that bond only strengthened as we aged and matured into men.

We never missed a summer together in Toronto and even after moving to Austin, Rory continued to visit and take part in my Austin summer festivities. By 2015 I had been living in Austin, Texas for the better part of eight years, had achieved my degree from the University of Texas by the skin of my teeth, and my career in sales was quickly going down the tubes.

So? How do you like the Grandpa Brew? I inquired of Rory as he sucked back an alarming amount on his first sip.

Lovely. His eyes squinted, his voice strained, and he lowered his head to the table, in such pain, while the brain freeze, he obviously had not been anticipating took hold of him.

Painful, but tasty. Jaysus! Ah! Jaysus, me fuckin’ head! Rory put his hands to his forehead in an attempt to warm up his skull and chase the brain freeze away. A few of these’ll put y’on yer arse in a hurry, won’t they?

I honestly didn’t mean to laugh at him so condescendingly -- it was just funny to see him wince in pain like that.

Ah, go fuck yerself, Rory laughed after catching my expression. Do I need to remind you that you’re the light-weight out of the two of us?

I didn’t say a thing. Anyway, you think that brain-freeze is bad, just wait for the heartburn to kick in later from all that citrus and sugar.

Ah no. I’m not gonna get sick from this green shite, am I? Who the fuck sticks a beer into a bloody smoothie anyways?

Once you get some fajitas into you, you’ll be alright.

Hmm, it does smell pretty fuckin’ good in here, doesn’t it? Rory admitted and glanced around the restaurant taking in the women making fresh tortillas and servers expediting plates of enchiladas and chips and salsa out to the surrounding tables.

How long will you be over here in the States this time? Not that I’m in a rush for you to go home or anything so I can go back to having some peace and quiet or anything like that, I said with a provoking smirk. My sarcasm was so weak. We both knew how much better I felt having him around.

Rory had arrived in Austin from Dublin via JFK last night. As much as I had wished that he had flown in just to spend some time hanging out with me, the trip had been part business for him as well. Rory had been a morning DJ on Dublin rock radio and had been in town to record segments for the radio station’s Live from Austin City Limits Festival reporting. From time to time Rory would have to travel to various cities throughout Europe and North America in order to discover new music to bring back to his listeners back home. You name the music festival and Rory would probably have had a story to tell about the last time he had attended it. Glastonbury, Lollapalooza, Isle of White, Japan’s Fuji Rock; you name it, he had been there documenting the newest and coolest to report back to his hip Irish audience on their morning drive to work.

Hey. You’re da’s gotten worse, hasn’t he? Rory inquired, changing the fun drinking tone suddenly with a wisp of sincere concern. I remember glancing quickly into his eyes to see a combination of best friend, older brother, guardian, all of which had an air of true concern for what I had been presently enduring.

Na, you know. The thought of explaining that my dad was on his way out, and the lack of dignity one has in their final hours, was more than I was able to conjure at that exact moment in time. Anything more than Na and I would have definitely started to feel myself well up with emotion. I definitely remember feeling that all of that was not something I wanted to have to reveal at that time, and more so, in that place. At that moment, all I really wanted, and all I desperately needed, was some brotherly camaraderie, a cheerful piss-up, and an evening that would take my mind of the troubles I had been experiencing then. Everything from my dad, my dying career, non-existent love life, and everything else that had gone to hell for me. My apologies for pointing out what was probably so painfully obvious, but I was not in a good spot. I had always fought off a type of darkness in the back of my head but as of late things had become worse.

Sorry for your troubles, man. But, you know, I’ve been through it with me mother – so – I’m not pressing you or nothing, but if you want to talk about it. A terribly hard thing to go through at any age, no matter what anyone says. You know? And not to upset you, but with your depression and all – you’re still taking your meds, right? I’ve told you before that there’s no shame in it; it’s just a medical thing. But anyway, where is your da now? Have they moved him from the other hospital?

"He’s back in that hospital up in northwest Austin again. Pretty decent spirits, I guess. Basically, when he’s coherent, he has a very dismissive, what the fuck are you gunna do? kind of attitude, you know? The hospital facility is pretty outstanding though – but… I had to pause to catch a bit of breath as to not allow my voice to crack, even a bit. I would keep my emotions for myself, and when I was alone. But, he’s on his way out, and we’ve both come to terms with that. Not much can be done now, you know? It’s just a matter of time, and not much of it left. And, yes, I’m back on my meds. You don’t have to worry. I’ll