Thank God for AJ Feeley

Written By: TMC

Posted on March 4, 2007

Gus pushed through the door to The Lucky Shamrock, and was surprised to see that his old stool was free. In the adjacent stool, a tired woman sat, nursing her drink and wasting the seconds before she had to go home. He’d never seen a lonelier woman in his life, but there was aggressiveness about her loneliness that told him she wouldn’t bother him. It was too dark to tell if she was pretty, but she looking worn-out, and he already could smell her—she smelled like cigarettes and lemons.

As he sat down, he felt a strange warmth envelop him, the kind he’d felt as a child being tucked into bed. Sean stood behind the bar, just like he always had; it was like Gus had never left. The only difference was that Sean was bald now, and his nose looked like it had been dipped in bleach.

“Hey, Gus,” Sean said. “I thought you’d got cleaned up?

“I did.”

“Kitchen’s closed. You want a soda or something?”

“Michelob,” he said, slapping a twenty on the bar. “And a Jameson.”

Sean hesitated, and Gus shoved the bill at him. He shrugged, opened a Michelob, left it on the bar. “They got some kind of deal where you’re allowed to have just a couple?”

“I ain’t stopping,” Gus said. He tilted the bottle against his lips. He’d had one sip, and he would have a thousand more. When he left, he would bring a six-pack with him, and when he woke up he would buy a case. “Where’s that shot?”

Sean poured the shot and Gus threw it back. He motioned for a refill, then threw back the next one. After the next one, he dropped more money on the bar. They moved like an assembly line, with a cold efficiency and an emotionless determination.

Forty bucks later, the woman next to Gus interrupted them. “Think I got time for one more,” she said to Sean, who refilled her rum and coke.

“Look like you got time for ten more,” Gus said, his words sliding out the side of his mouth and colliding with each other before they crashed to the floor. “You got nowhere to go; who the hell you think you’re foolin’?”

She twisted a straw between her fingers and gave him a tired stare. “Oh, and you’re so important?”

“Nope,” he said. “But at least I ain’t a liar.”

The woman stood and Sean leaned on the bar between them. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Nicole,” he said. “Gus is a good guy. Just got some problems is all.”

“Fuckin’ right I got problems,” Gus said between sips of Michelob. “Worst fucking day of my life.”

“You’re getting no sympathy from me. Hell do I care if you had a bad day?” She sat back down and slouched over the bar.

“I don’t need your damn sympathy.”

Over her shoulder, she said, “I hope you have a stroke while you’re taking a shit.”

Gus sucked his bottle dry and Sean replaced it. “Don’t know how you all can be so happy,” he said. “Didn’t you hear? The Eagles lost Garcia.”

A dozen heads turned, and Gus knew he’d always remember this moment; the moment everyone in the Shamrock lost their faith. “Don’t worry about him,” Sean announced. “He’s just drunk is all.” Everyone returned to their conversations, but there was a new urgency about the talk. Sean and Nicole both closed in on Gus. “Where’d he go?”

“Bucs.”

“Fucking Bucs,” Nicole said. She swirled her straw in her drink frantically, as if trying to create a whirlpool. “Jesus. They ruin everything.”

“First Gruden takes the Super Bowl, and now he takes our quarterback,” Sean said. “Now we’re stuck with fatboy McNabb.”

“And his mom.”

“And his stupid smile.”

“And his afro.”

“And his interceptions.”

“And his dirt balls.”

“And his dancing”

“And his pouting.”

“Ten years sober,” Gus said. “Down the drain. I have to drink if I’m stuck with these guys any longer.”

“Hey,” Nicole said. “Lay off Reid. He’s got it rough with those kids.”

“True,” Sean said, and lifted a glass, as if to toast to Reid’s well-being. “Besides, it’s not like it’s his fault Donovan’s a loser.”

“That guy, all he does is throw picks! At least Bobby Hoying protected the ball,” Gus said.

“They try throwing those stats out there to say he doesn’t throw picks, but stats are for losers.”

“Anyone who watches the games knows you can’t trust him,” Nicole said.

“See,” Sean said, “I think the thing is, he just ain’t that smart. You don’t notice it as much when he’s the only one, but then you get a guy like Garcia in—”

“You can see how smart Garcia is. In his face, you know,” Gus said. He shook his empty bottle and handed it to Sean. “McNabb just has that dumb look on his face. Yeah, sure, he’s a great athlete, but that Garcia, he makes better decisions.”

“Always knew he was smarter than McNabb,” Nicole said. “Plus, he doesn’t joke around and dance on the sidelines like some kind of clown. Real hard working guy. You can tell he has heart.”

“Exactly,” Gus said. “They try to act like Donovan has heart just because he threw four touchdowns on a broken leg. But, first of all, that was against the fucking Cardinals, and, besides, it was only a hairline fracture. Not even a real break.”

“They act like he’s so good. When’d he ever play well in a playoff game?”

“4th and 26? That was all Freddie and bad defense. Yeah, he ran for a bunch of yards that game, but now he’s too selfish to even do that”

“And so what if he puts up good numbers? That was mostly TO and Donovan was too much of a baby to play with someone who stole the spotlight,” Sean said.

“And you just know they pass too much ‘cause he bitches to Reid when they run it,” Gus said, tugging on the hair that flopped down onto his forehead. “What’s so special about what he’s done? Yeah, fine, he’s got a bunch of division championships and Pro Bowls—but give me a guy with less talent and some heart every time.”

“They love him just ‘cause he’s not a thug like the rest of those guys. Vick, Iverson, Artest, Pacman Jones. Just ‘cause he’s not some gangbanger, it don’t make him good.” As she finished talking, Nicole stabbed a finger into the bar. She downed the rest of her drink and searched through her purse. “Hey,” she said to Gus, “now that you’ve gone and ruined my day, how ‘bout you pick up my next drink for me?”

Gus slid a five down the bar and Sean poured another drink. “Ruined everyone’s day,” Sean said. “I got Garcia jerseys for all my grandkids, and now they’re worthless. The hell am I gonna do with eleven Garcia jerseys?”

“I’m throwing mine in the box with the Detmers and Hoyings,” Nicole said.

“I’m gonna hang one of mine up,” Gus said. “Wear the other one to the Linc instead of that Kevin Turner jersey I had.”

“Thought you used to wear Andy Harmon?” Sean asked.

“Did, but I duct taped the name and turned it into a Rayburn.” Gus looked over his shoulder, like a teenager about to sneak money from his mother’s purse. “’Course they’re trying to run him out of town too, with that lazy ass gorilla they drafted. What’s his name—Bunkley?”

Nicole and Sean shook their heads. “Guess that’s just the way the game’s going,” Nicole said.
“Not as bad on the line, ‘cause you don’t need to be that smart. But at quarterback?”

“Right,” Sean said. “You can’t trust them with the ball all the time. You just know they’ll do something stupid. Look at Aaron Brooks.”

“Or McNabb. Problem is, he just doesn’t care. He got his money, and it doesn’t matter. A guy like Garcia, he cares. He’s one of us, you know, always working hard, and you could see he loved us and much as we loved him,” Gus said, holding his swollen roofer’s hands up for display. “A real leader. The kind of guy we can identify with.”

“Plus,” Nicole said, “He’s a winner. What’s McNabb won? He’s just an athlete, but Garcia’s a real player.”

“It’s like Utley and Howard,” Sean said. “One got lucky to be so big, and the other one’s gotta work his ass off.”

“Exactly,” Gus said. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.” Nicole extended a bony hand and squeezed his leg just above the knee, and Gus dabbed a finger at the corner of his eye. “They’re never gonna win with this guy. The fucking season’s already shot.”

“Maybe we could trade him for Brady Quinn,” Sean said. “Looks like a smart guy. Hard worker too. Plus, he’s Irish, unlike that faker McNabb. Then at least we’d have a chance to start over.”

“Must be nice to be a Raiders fan; at least they have a chance.”

“Hey,” Nicole said, sliding her hand up his thigh. “Look on the bright side– at least we’ve still got AJ.”

“Thank God. But Donovan’ll probably run him out of town too,” Gus said.

“Think you can spot me another drink?” she asked. He plunged a hand into his pocket, found only a couple of quarters, and shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m on my way then,” she said. In an instant she was gone, and Gus was stumbling after her.

He stepped outside and was slapped in the face by a bitter wind. Tears rolled off his cheeks, and, if he found her, he would blame it on the wind. But she was already out of sight, and he had a long walk home. He ducked and pushed through the darkness, wishing he could have been born in Boston. The sun had set on Philadelphia, and Gus feared that it would never rise again.

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