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A Memoir
by Frank McCourt
Then the priest came along the deck and Owen moved away. The priest said,
Were you talking to that man? I could see you were. Well, I'm telling you he's
not good company. You can see that, can't you? I heard all about him. Him with
his gray hair swabbing decks at his age. It's a strange thing you can talk to
deckhands with no morals but if I ask you to talk to the rich Protestants from
Kentucky you can't find a minute.
We were only talking about Dostoyevsky.
Dostoyevsky, indeed. Lotta good that'll do you in New York. You won't see
many Help Wanted signs requiring a knowledge of Dostoyevsky. Can't get you to
talk to the rich people from Kentucky but you sit here for hours yacking with
sailors. Stay away from old sailors. You know what they are. Talk to people
who'll do you some good. Read the lives of the saints.
Along the New Jersey side of the Hudson River there were hundreds of ships
docked tightly together. Owen the sailor said they were the Liberty ships that
brought supplies to Europe during the war and after and it's sad to think
they'll be hauled away any day to be broken up in shipyards. But that's the way
the world is, he said, and a ship lasts no longer than a whore's moan.
Chapter two
The priest asks if I have anyone meeting me and when I tell him there's no
one he says I can travel with him on the train to New York City. He'll keep an
eye on me. When the ship docks we take a taxi to the big Union Station in Albany
and while we wait for the train we have coffee in great thick cups and pie on
thick plates. It's the first time I ever had lemon meringue pie and I'm thinking
if this is the way they eat all the time in America I won't be a bit hungry and
I'll be fine and fat, as they say in Limerick. I'll have Dostoyevsky for the
loneliness and pie for the hunger.
The train isn't like the one in Ireland where you share a carriage with five
other people. This train has long cars where there are dozens of people and is
so crowded some have to stand. The minute we get on people give up their seats
to the priest. He says, Thank you, and points to the seat beside him and I feel
the people who offered up their seats are not happy when I take one because it's
easy to see I'm nobody.
Farther up the car people are singing and laughing and calling for the church
key. The priest says they're college kids going home for the weekend and the
church key is the can opener for the beer. He says they're probably nice kids
but they shouldn't drink so much and he hopes I won't turn out like that when I
live in New York. He says I should put myself under the protection of the Virgin
Mary and ask her to intercede with her Son to keep me pure and sober and out of
harm's way. He'll pray for me all the way out there in Los Angeles and he'll say
a special Mass for me on the eighth of December, the feast of the Immaculate
Conception. I want to ask him why he'd choose that feast day but I keep silent
because he might start bothering me again about the rich Protestants from
Kentucky.
He's telling me this but I'm dreaming of what it would be like to be a
student somewhere in America, in a college like the ones in the films where
there's always a white church spire with no cross to show it's Protestant and
there are boys and girls strolling the campus carrying great books and smiling
at each other with teeth like snow drops.
When we arrive at Grand Central Station I don't know where to go. My mother said
I could try to see an old friend, Dan MacAdorey. The priest shows me how to use
the telephone but there's no answer from Dan. Well, says the priest, I can't
leave you on your own in Grand Central Station. He tells the taxi driver we're
going to the Hotel New Yorker.
We take our bags to a room where there's one bed. The priest says, Leave the
bags. We'll get something to eat in the coffee shop downstairs. Do you like
hamburgers?
Copyright © 1999 by Frank McCourt
The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people ...
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