By the time I got down at Tara station in the center of Dublin, it was well after midnight. Brian was probably still awake, but I thought it might be rude to ring up so late.
Instead, I wandered out into the cold night air. Dublin was a graveyard at this time of night, but being near Trinity College, I was sure I could find some life. And I did, in the form of an all-night chipper next door to what looked to be a fairly lively hostel.
I bought a large order of fish and chips - extra vinegar - and ate like a ravenous dog. It had been a full day since I had eaten or slept and my mind was still reeling from the ocean voyage.
When I had finished my meal, the lack of sleep hit me like a freight train. I stumbled next door, got a bunk in the dorm, since that was all that was available, dragged myself upstairs and feel into bed
I awoke at noon the next day, feeling quite a bit more energetic. In the breakfast room, I made a hasty sandwich and went in search of a phone. After several rings, Brian picked up, sounding as if he had just woke up himself.
"Brian, it's Rex. I got in last night and I'm down in city center. When can we meet up?"
"Oh hey, man. Uh, yeah, come on over," he was still a bit groggy. "I'll just put on some tea."
"Right, see you in a bit, then," I rang off and grabbed my gear.
I had to hike up to St. Stephen's Green to catch the bus, and got down at my stop just before 2pm.
It was a short walk up the road to Brian's house. He lived with his parents and sister in an upscale neighborhood. His father was a wealthy Hong Kong trader, but they had lived in Dublin for so long that Brian spoke with a heavy Dublin accent. The house was on a corner lot setting well above street level. Cutting into the hill at street level was the former driveway and garage, which had been converted into a game room, which basically was Brian's apartment. I never saw his parents come down there, and only occasionally did his sister or the maid come in.
I tapped on the window next to the door, which was kind of a signal that it was someone he knew. There was some noise from inside - he had so much stuff that he often had to move things to get to other things. Eventually, the lock clicked and the door swung open.
Brian stood there in his underwear, his hair looking like he had stuck his finger in a light socket. He was slim and short, even by Asian standards, and quite clearly Chinese, but when he spoke, he sounded like a native Dubliner.
"Hey man, come on in," he mumbled. "Sorry, I just woke up. Do you want some tea?"
"No thanks," I gestured. "Just ate breakfast myself."
"OK, have a seat and I'll just pop up to the kitchen. Be right back."
I cleared some space on the couch. I gladly dropped my pack in the corner and dropped down on the over-stuffed leather couch.
Brian returned after a minute with a cup of tea in one hand and a kettle in the other. He shoved some things aside on the table and put his load down.
"So where are you coming from," he asked.
"I just left Morocco. Went to the Bob Marley concert there..." Brian cut me off.
"Holy shit! I heard about that. How was it?' He seemed quite a bit more awake now. Brian was very tight with a couple of the biggest promoters in town, but his relationship with them was always a bit mysterious. I figured he invested in various shows, but in any case, he was a good source of work and knew pretty much every event going on anywhere in Europe.
"It was incredible," I started. "Zappa was there, and I saw the front man from that band you've been pushing. I met this Danish chick - hot as burning coal - and we hooked up for a few days. It was pretty amazing...except..." I trailed off.
"Yeah? So what happened?" Brian prompted.
"Well, on the way out, I got robbed - me and this German guy - by two Moroccans. They took most of my work clothes and a bunch of my good gear..." I trailed off again.
"Whoa, that's a drag, man," Brian sounds less than empathetic. He was a child of wealth and losing things meant little to him. "So...?"
"Well, it was very strange. Even though they robbed me, they gave me a kilo of Zero-Zero, and..."
"What?! What did you do with it?" Brian was now fully awake. I nodded to my pack. "You got it here? Holy shit, man, let's take a look!"
I set about unrolling my tent and taking out the poles.
"I gotta sell this stuff," I said, worried. "They got most of my money and I need to replace my gear."
"No worries about that," Brian already calculating his profit. "Oh my god! That's brilliant!"
He saw my packing job. I used my pen knife to cut out the wax and toilet paper, and dumped the logs out on the table. When I had opened both poles, there were four logs of hash sitting there, and for the first time I was aware of the odor. At no point in my journey had I considered that.
"I was to sell 900 grams. I'll keep a bit for myself. It's pretty good stuff," I said, somewhat distracted.
Brian was already preparing to roll a cigarette. He had taken a pinch from one of the logs, glued several papers together, torn open a Marlboro, and was assembling the pieces into a rather large and expertly rolled spleef.
While we smoked, I told him the entire story, from Madrid to his doorstep. He was duly shocked, amazed and entertained.
"Dude, it's amazing you survived," he said at last.
"Yeah, I know," I said musing on all the events.
"It's really good stuff, too," Brian added. "That's strange they would rob you and then give you a kilo of hash."
"I know, I thought is was strange, too," I said. "I figure it was to keep me from going to the police, since they would probably arrest me and never bother the locals."
"Right," Brian said distantly.
"In any case, I could never have found their flat again. It looked like every other building for as far as I could see. Besides, Klaus was in real trouble and I had to get him back to Spain."
"Right," agreed Brian.
"So, anyway, I figure I can sell it off and gear up again, and with the gig in Wicklow, I'll have enough to get back on the road."
"Tell you what," Brian started. "I'll give you a thousand quid for the lot - less your hold, of course."
I thought for a moment. I could probably get three times that selling it myself, but that involved a good bit of risk.
"OK, I can handle that," I agreed.
To my surprise, Brian jumped up, went over to the bookshelf and returned with ten one-hundred pound notes. He broke off what looked like about 100 grams and put it in a plastic bag that was lying among all the stuff on the table and handed both to me.
We spent a few minutes securing our treasures and chatted a bit longer. Brian said it was no problem for me to crash on his couch for a couple of days before I left for Wicklow and the folk festival gig.
We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out, then around 5pm, we headed to the local to meet up with other members of the old gang.
The next morning, I headed out early to do my shopping. There was no way I could replace my jeans - they were like gold in Europe - but I found a good pair of work pants, a new polo shirt, and a pack of three t-shirts at a decent price. By the time I was finished, it was lunchtime and I had a taste for a good hamburger, so I headed up O'Connell street to my favorite Captain America's.
Later, I stopped by the Gate Theatre and met up with a couple of workmates. We chatted about upcoming gigs the going day rates for various positions. I wasn't in the union, so I could ask for a bit less to ensure I got jobs.
I jumped the bus about 8pm. I never got used to sunrise and sunset in Dublin. In the summer, like now, it didn't get dark until after 9 at night, but in the winter, it was full on night at 5pm. It was still dusk when the bus tuned onto my street, but as we approached my stop, I could see a large group of people standing on the corner and flashing blue lights.
I assumed there had been another car accident. That particular section of road was notorious for them. By the time I got down from the bus, I could see that all the activity was centered around Brian's house and my stomach sank. I feared the worst as I came up to the rear of the crowd and craned to see what was going on.
There were two police officers at the front door talking to Brian's mother. Three police cars were parked blocking the street. I noticed a former neighbor and asked her what was going on.
"Ah! You're back are ya? Seems Brian was seen talkin' to a known associate of the IRA. It looks like they're takin' him down for questioning," she reported. I was amazed at how much information folks could get so quickly whenever anything out of the ordinary happened.
"He's keepin' the wrong company, if ya ask me," volunteered a man standing near by. He'll come to no good hangin' with the likes of the IRA," he opined.
Eventually, the police cars took off and the crowd broke up. A couple of the neighborhood wags stayed on for a minute to make sure everyone had gotten the full story, then they wandered off.
I was standing there with my shopping bags as the famous Irish mist set in, making me damp and cold, but never completely wet. I wanted across the street, debating whether to knock at the door at a time of such trauma, but I had little choice, since almost everything I owned was in the house.
Finally working up the courage, more our of desperation than anything else, I walked up the steps and tapped timidly at the door. Thankfull, Brian's sister ansered, and not her mother. I explained the situation and that my pack was in the game room. She let me in and we went down so I could collect my gear.
"What's going to happen to Brian?" I asked, fearing my name and my cargo would eventually come up during the interrogation.
"They just wanted to talk to him. Seems he's been seen doing business with the man they claim is IRA. Probably just bookings or promotions, I think," she sounded worried and was trying to keep herself calm by lessening the threat.
"How long are they going to keep him," I asked.
"Probably let him out in the mornin'," she said, not quite believing herself. "I can't imagine Brian's involved in anything political."
I agreed. That wasn't Brian's interest at all, but I couldn't stay here. I was worried more for myself, but it didn't seem proper to be a house guest of someone who wasn't there, and under such circumstances.
I made my excuses and gathered up my things. She protested that it was late and I'd have a time finding a place to sleep, but I was on the verge of panic and figured I'd rather spend the night in a bus station than take the chance of another scene.
She let me out by the downstairs door. I thanked her and went out into the damp night. It was nearing 11pm, and the pubs would be closing soon, so that wasn't an option, and the last bus would be coming through any time now and I'd have to make a choice on what to do.
I saw the bus coming up the street and I made my choice. I flagged it down and got on, paid the fare and settled in on the nearly empty coach, trying to sort out my new plan.
By the time I got down at St. Stephen's Green, the city was completely dead. An occasional car rolled past, but otherwise the streets were empty and quiet. I began walking up Grafton, heading back to Trinity College and a chipper and hostel I knew would be open.
There was some heavy thinking to do.