the town drunk’s living room was remarkably orderly. in fact, it kind of emanated a mid-century charm, what with its Danish couch, art deco coffee table, and asbestos crackers.

“living rooms,” said the town drunk, taking a seat across from me, “are incapable of emanating.” he was wearing a tuxedo with an orange bow tie; his face so freshly shaven I wanted to run a pen across its cheek.

“can you read my mind?” I asked.

“state your purpose!”

“there is someone,” i offered, my throat begining to vibrate, "I want dead . . . someone very close to me.”

“I am close to you presently,” said the town drunk, “is it me?”

“no, sir.”

“why then, dear boy, do you seek the town drunk for such a gruesome affair?”

“well, I figured if you, like, carried out the act, no one . . . no one ever suspects the town drunk of anything, except errant urination or something."

“but I’ve been sober for fifteen years!”

"WHU...T?“

“ask the village idiot to carry out this dubious plan of yours.” the town drunk stood up in a rush. “make sure to shut the door on your way out!”

“but that’s where it gets complicated.”

“ah! you are the village idiot.”

“my father is the village idiot.”

"christ!" he fell back onto the couch so abruptly the walls shook. then toyed with a cuffling before adding: “you want your father dead?”

“no.” my heart began to rattle. “it’s my sister I want dead.”

“your father's keeping your sister from you -- so as to protect her?”

“yes, but he’s the village idiot, so he keeps her in my room.”

“a misfortunate guardian,” said the town drunk, adjusting his bow tie now, “this father of yours.”

“he still tries to breast feed me!”

“you have my sympathy, dear boy, but I’m afraid a rather beautiful and, thank the heavens, willing damsel awaits my company. now, if you don’t mind, I must --“

“I was going to give you this fifth of whiskey.” I removed it from my jacket, waving the debaucherous prop in a desperate plea to persuade him. he exploded into laughter. "you think I’m a dog who salivates at the mere sniff of a butcher’s apron?”

“I’ll give you my iPhone!”

at which point the town drunk rubbed his gigantic hands together in a kind of sandpaper fashion and said, with an eyebrow raised, “is it 4g?”

It’s occurred to me I’ve lived all these years without ever having once excused myself from a dinner party and said, with a dramatic clearing of the throat: “Excuse me, but...I’m afraid something’s come up. I must get going.”

I’m thinking about this in Ireland in the passenger seat of my uncle’s car -- who beeps the horn, I’ve noticed, whenever a turn is imminent. He may have dementia, my mother’s warned me. However, perhaps the preempted horn-beeping before a turn is sane. At least, oncoming cars appear to be doing it.

For a guy whose teeth are the color of snow that’s been pissed on, his smile's pretty radiant.

I ask about the dinner party thing -- if he’s ever done that.

”Of course I’ve done that, lad. Jesus. Ye think I’m stupid?”

Why, though -- I mean, for what reason?

”Once, during a dinner at a girl's house, it suddenly occurred to me that I’d left my brudder bleeding all over the place.”

Wait, your brother was --

“He was bleedin’ all over the bless-ed floor, so he was. I couldn’t just leave him there, could I?”

You mean, Uncle Paddy was bleeding -- is that how he died?

“Ye ask more questions than that retarded kid who lives on the Hession farm. Are ye retarded, Tommy?”

I do? Wait. Ha. Ha. That was a question. Sorry.