***
(Carol Clerk: The Story of the Pogues)
Somewhere midway between the shrill tones of music and the swirl of colours on the palette, at a small table at the wall, Joey sighs, takes a deep pull on his cigarette, breathes out and pensively watches the cloud of grey smoke. It’s a much more pleasant sight than his companion opposite him. Shane looks disheveled even by his standards, nursing a bottle of vodka. He seems a bit sleepy, which is nothing unusual. But his grumpiness exceeds the usual levels.
Joey clears his throat. He would rather be somewhere else, doing something different, but manager’s duties are manager’s duties. "Shane, stop sulking and listen. They are all grumbling that they haven’t been paid for months. At least two band members – I will neither mention names, nor call names – are threatening to leave. Like a bunch of kids screaming for candy..."
Joey notes that he has at least managed to get Shane’s attention. The heavy-lidded eyes don’t stare into the wall any longer, but somewhere in the vicinity of his face although they retain their tragic, vacant expression. The situation with the band is a pain in the neck, but everything is made sweeter by the fact that they have a new album, promisingly titled The Crock Of Gold, in the can. All it needs are some last finishing touches by the sound guys, the cover and the sleeve, and the thing can hit the shops. Joey hopes it will make more crocks of gleaming gold than just one as a balm for this misery.
"Fucking uproar, two bastards are spitting on me, others joining them like a herd of cattle. And I have even renounced my fag-lighting salary in their benefit. Still the fuckers won’t shut up."
"Fuckers..."
Meaningful glance at Shane. "You should be the one to shut their hungry little mouths with something. May it be cash or your endless charm. I’m broke. Don’t force me to book more gigs. You’ve already been through that once and didn’t come out exactly victoriously."
A silent moan. "Joey, do you have to..."
Joey smiles. "Well, I had to tell you."
"Not now..."
Not now, not now... Of course, Shane is sulking, Shane is broken-hearted. Vicky once again caught him red-handed with another lassie. The usual circus followed, both Shane’s shoes landing on the head of their owner, Vicky’s wimpering and whining, "I never want to see you again, you dirty lecher", slamming of the door, all that jazz. Nothing new under the sun. Although Joey does feel offended that she accused him of hiring a whore for Shane. Such an unjust accusation. True, the girl made her living by the oldest profession, and true, he was the one who led her to Shane’s room. But as soon as the chick spotted Shane, she emitted an ecstatic shout, claiming to be a lifelong fan of the Pogues – "I sucked their music with mother’s milk!" – flung herself into Shane’s arms, her long blonde curls flying, and firmly refused to take any money. And devoted a whole night to pleasing the hero of her heart, instead of watching the clock and counting pennies. Act of pure love. So how does Vicky dare to call him a dirty pimp?
Anyway, the result is sullen and grouchy Shane, wallowing in self-pity. Joey discreetly checks the time on the display of his mobile phone, hoping that he could still make it away from here in time to claim the free night the blonde-haired fairy promised him for coupling her with the man of her dreams.
Holding a half-smoked cigarette in his left hand, he skilfully extracts a fresh one from the pack and lights it with his right hand. He holds out the old stub to Shane. But, very unusually, Shane doesn’t take it. He doesn’t perceive his helpful assistant at all, his eyes are fixed somewhere behind Joey.
"What is it, Shane?" Joey turns around.
"That bloke..." Shane nods. "I want him to draw Vicky."
The artist seems to have finished his masterpiece, biting on his brush and studying the paper with a satisfied grin.
"That old scumbag?"
"Yeeeaah... Bring him here, Joey. To draw me Vicky."
Obligingly, Joey rises up and walks over to the artist’s table.
"Excuse me..." Joey’s eyes slide down to the finished painting. The interior of the pub... well, kinda. The two tough guys with shaved heads sitting at the bar, shrouded in a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke, have metamorphosed into two elder Irishmen in tweed caps, peacefully puffing on their pipes. The tirelessly struggling whistler have multiplied into a whole ceili band. Joey disgustedly tears his gaze away before green shamrocks could start popping in front of his eyes.
"The man over there – Shane MacGowan – would you join him for a while... with your tools? Surely you know Shane MacGowan? Of the Pogues?"
"Never heard," grins the oldster.
Never heard?! "Well, would you kindly buzz there and draw him his wench... I mean his lady?"
The old man’s eyes sparkle. "My pleasure!" He gathers his papers, palette, a handful of brushes and charcoals of all shapes and sizes, and rushes over. "One more pint of Guinness, please!" he shouts over his shoulder at Joey.
Before Joey gets back to Shane, the artist has already pulled a chair to their table and made himself comfortable. "So?" he raises his eybrows expectantly.
Joey turns to Shane: "Do you have a pic of Vicky?"
"Nah."
"Hmm... She should be easy enough to draw."
"Easy, Joey?! She is the most charming woman in the world! She is ethereal and... and her green eyes..."
The artist picks up a sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal. "So, gentlemen, just describe the ethereal beauty to me, and I’ll do my best to capture every ounce of her charm."
"Well, she has a round face..."
"Round, Joey? Her head is no melon!!"
"Big mouth, big teeth..."
"Shut the fuck up! You make her seem like a vampire!"
"You shut the fuck up, Shane! Or describe her yourself! She is your bitch, not mine!"
"JOEY! She is... she is..."
"Yeah, Shane? Waiting..."
"It’s your job description! You are my assistant! So assist!"
"Assist to saying and doing nothing? With pleasure."
The artist has drawn an indistinct shape vaguely resembling a human head in the meantime. "Her lovely eyes," he says, "what are they like? And her nose..."
"Like a pompom."
Shane’s next ,Joey!‘ comes out as a hiss despite containing no ,s‘.
The artist sketches a small pompom-like nose and faint outlines of eyes. "Like this?"
"Bigger eyes," murmurs Shane. "Smaller nose."
"Shane, we’re not drawing a Barbie doll. Leave the nose as it is, and make the eyes a bit... umm... not like that... a bit more..." Shite, how do people do it when a police sketcher asks them to describe a criminal? It is a mystery to Joey. Or the reason why no criminals are ever caught.
After half an hour, half a dozen new fags having piled up in the ashray and half thousand invectives having flown around the table, the artist puts down the charcoal and pushes the finished creation to Shane. It does look like Victoria... a bit... or at least it could look like Victoria if it was viewed in a dim half-light and the viewer had a rich imagination. The enthusiasm of the artist, which seemed endless, have dampened noticeably although he bravely keeps a polite smile plastered to his face.
Shane stares at the picture for a long moment. Then he stares some more. "My girl with green eyes," he mutters finally. He pushes the paper back to the old man. "Make her eyes green."
"But..."
"Here." Shane stabs his finger into the palette. "Make... her... eyes... green."
The artist sighs, then squeezes out some green paint on the palette, and dips his brush in the remaining beer. Few strokes and the irises of the beauty’s eyes are lush green. They stare from the paper in an almost reproachful manner.
"Pair of green eyes," murmurs Joey. "And a-roving, a-roving, a-roving I’ll go..."
"SHUT UP!" Shane turns to the artist. "And you fuck off. Fuck off, I tell you..."
The old man seems genuinely hurt. He stands up and reaches to collect his belongings, but Shane slaps his hand on the papers. "Leave it all here."
"But..."
Shane draws the palette closer to him, like a kid afraid that a big bad man could take away his favourite toy.
"Later," intervenes Joey. "Come to pick it up later. Do you think Shane MacGowan would steal your things, for fuck’s sake?"
The old man, offended, retreats to his corner. So that’s one more sulker for this night... Joey regretfully thinks about what his blonde lass is doing this very moment. And with whom.
Shane sweeps away the portrait with his arm, and it lands on the chair vacated by the artist. He squeezes out a giant heap of green on the palette. And a mountain of black. And some red and white.
He gazes at a blank sheet of paper for a long time. Then he buries the thickest brush into the black pile and smears it over the paper until the whole white rectangle – and a sizeable portion of the table – is pitch dark. He blows at it to make it dry, then gives up the effort and just waits, taking a swig of vodka, his gaze following a plump waitress with tousled brown hair as she floats among the tables.
After a while, he lowers his eyes back to the blackness on the table. Thoughtfully, almost carefully, he picks up a thinner brush from the collection and buries its tip in the green hillock. A green blotch materializes on the left side of the black paper. Shapeless it begins, and shapeless it remains. But adding a few touches of red and white reveals a human face. Or maybe not entirely human, but face it surely is. Shane looks at it and then adds a resolute black cross on the creature’s forehead. He lifts his eyes to Joey. "That’s her."
"That’s Vicky?"
Shane nods. His head is lowered again, eyes fixed at the green face. "That’s Vicky..." He emits a short rasping laugh. Briskly picking up the brush again and letting it swirl in a succession of quick strokes, he sketches another ghastly green shape, to the right of the paper, keeping a certain distance from Vicky. The outlines of its face are even more misshapen, its mischievous eyes shining fiery red, the top of its head covered by... what? black hat, white hair? Who knows, apart from the creator himself.
Shane once again looks up, sparkles of triumph glittering in his eyes. "And this is you, Joey."
Before Joey can say a word, Shane’s hand with the brush dances over the paper again. A new apparition appears to the right of Joey, at the very right of the paper; the biggest of them all, its wide bald head covered with gauze-like patches of white above huge blood-red lips, its robust skeletal ribs in stark contrast with the surrounding blackness.
When Shane seems to be done and doesn’t supply any comment, Joey comes up with a question: "And that’s who? Paul MadDog?"
Shane gives him the sort of look a teacher might give to a dim-witted pupil. "That’s a leprechaun."
He sighs, and while Joey toys with his mobile phone, he fills the gaping hole between the figures of his girlfriend and his manager with a fourth creature, as green as the rest of them, sporting a black bowler hat, frowning as if it didn’t feel at ease, as if it blamed its creator for having to find itself in such a company – or simply for having been created. To Joey, it vaguely resembles Van Morrison, but after his previous fiasco, he doesn’t bother to ask.
The space below the four figures comes alive with fiery red flames. And in the midst of the blazing inferno – a pot, licked by the hot flames. Ominous black pot with amorphous green contents, as green as the beings towering over it.
Shane puts the dirty brush into a beerglass and pushes the rest of things away with his forearm. Masterpiece finished. Joey doesn’t want to show his curiosity, but when Shane remains silent, he thrusts his mobile back into his pocket and nods his head to the paper: "They’re cooking dinner?"
Shane taps his finger at the green mass inside the pot. "That’s me." The touch leaves a green smear on his finger, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He picks up the painting, studies it for a moment, then holds it out to Joey. "For you."
"For me?" Joey’s hand with a pint glass stops in front of his mouth.
"Yup. Birthday present. Krrsshh." Eruption of Shane’s trademark laugh.
"But it’s not my birthday!"
"Never mind. Here. All yours." Shane chuckles again, reaches over the table and slaps the paper on Joey’s forearm. Then he leans back, takes a gulp of his vodka and gazes somewhere through Joey. "I’ve been shat on and spat on and burnt alive...," his eyes slide back down to the painting, now lying on the table in front of his manager"... burnt alive in this... this... crock."
Joey pauses in the middle of a swig, then slowly swallows his beer. "Crock you say?" A pause. "And it’s a present, right? Mine?"
Shane nods, then turns away and, with a broad grin, lures a waitress to himself.
Joey waits for nothing else. He carefully washes a brush in the remnants of beer, then rummages through the tubes with paint until he finds a yellow one. He squeezes a tiny blob on the palette, and meticulously dabs it on the paper until the green contents of the pot – or crock – is all covered under yellow – or golden – mass.
"Crock of gold," he murmurs under his breath.
He studies the picture appraisingly. Then he looks around the pub. The fog of drowsiness has thickened, even the whistler has given up his battle with holes. Spilt beer drops from the edge of a nearby table, the occupant of the chair having disappeared underneath. Joey gets up. Shane is still flirting with the waitress – he is in good hands. And why bother with anything else? One problem – the new album cover – has just been solved. One thing at a time, that’s enough. The last sight Joey sees as he heads towards the door are the huge green eyes staring reproachfully from the empty chair where the hapless portrait landed.
