Colin Broderick - Orangutan: A Memoir

I have to warn you: This is not a pleasant story. In fact, its downright ugly in places. But its my story and Im not going to apologize for it. Its the truth: my truth. This is a document of my first eighteen years living in America as an Irish immigrant, as a construction worker, as a drinker, and at times as a writer. So if you still want to read it, go ahead. From here on in you have nobody to blame but yourself. And if you dont like it, I dont care. Stop whining and go write your own damned book.

In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there is within me an invincible summer.

Albert Camus

W ANKER . Hey, wankhead.

Someone was standing over me, yelling. I felt the toe of a boot prodding harshly into my rib cage. I clenched my fists and snapped bolt upright, ready for a fight as I forced my leaden eyelids open.

Thats it. On yer feet and lets go, the voice continued. Youre in New York now, ya little bollox. This is not your mothers house back in Tyrone.

It took me a moment to wrestle the face above me into focus. It was my cousin Sean towering above me.

Come on. Get up. Move it. Lets go.

I grabbed him by the leg of his pants, determined to halt his onslaught, but released my grip again just as quickly, clamping both hands on my head to quiet the searing pain that was rising behind my eyeballs.

Oh fuck, I said. What happened?

You drank about a bottle of vodka and ten peppermint schnapps is what happened. Come on, up.

Hearing him say the word peppermint triggered a series of vaguely familiar mechanisms that stirred my internal organs into something that felt like a wet dog circling for position on a green shag carpet. I was going to be sick.

I pried myself off the living room floor where Id been sleeping and shoved my way past Sean with one hand clamped over my mouth.

If your mother could see you now, huh, I heard him shout after me as I lurched toward the toilet bowl on my knees. Youd better be ready to go in two minutes. Its nearly seven thirty; we shouldve been on the road a half hour ago. This is no good, lads. This is no fucking good at all.

As I hunkered on the floor, hugging the bowl, it was coming back to me. Id staggered off the plane at JFK the previous evening. My cousin Paul had been there to meet me. Wed driven in over the Triborough Bridge. I remembered seeing it now, Manhattan, a silhouette of skyscrapers, like black headstones against a hazy orange sky. Wed gone straight to an Irish bar in the Bronx to meet the rest of my cousins. I remembered the air-conditioning and the first frosty beer stein. The rest was a blur.

I pried myself off the toilet bowl and splashed some cold water on my face at the sink. The wet dog had found its spot on the rug and was resting peacefully. I took a look at myself in the mirror. There I was: Colin Broderick, twenty years old, an Irishman in New York; Id made it.

When youre done admiring yourself there, George Michael, its time to go, my cousin Paul said, standing in the open door of the bathroom. Sean appeared behind him.

What do you make of this little bollox, huh? Sick, after a few civil drinks like that.

Its a sad state of affairs, alright, when a man cant hold hees drink, said Paul.

It sure is. It just wont do. Im calling your mother this evening, Sean continued over Pauls shoulder, and telling her what a show you made of yourself last night, disgracing the Broderick name on your first night in America.

Sean, I said.

What?

Shut the fuck up, please.

Oh, Im calling her. He grinned before breaking into that laugh of his that sounded like a donkey having its balls squeezed. Mark my words: Claire Brodericks goin to be hearing from me, I can tell you.

Great. Say hello for me when youre at it.

Oh, I will. Dont you worry about that. Right, lads, seriously, lets get the fuck out of here. Paul, youre supposed to be in the city at eight oclock. Take Des and this useless cocksucker with you and Ill take Ian and the rest of the gang to Brooklyn. Right, lads, come on, lets get this show on the road. I glanced down at the clothes Id woken up in, a wrinkled and stained white shirt and blue jeans. Id been wearing them since Id left my house in County Tyrone early the previous morning.

Maybe I should put on some work clothes.

I thought they were your work clothes. Sean laughed again. Come on, theyll do for the day. Lets fuckin go. He turned back into the living room and yelled, The vans are leaving, lads. Anybody whos not outside in two seconds will be looking for a new job and a new place to live this evening.

I moved to the door of the bathroom and took a look around the apartment to see who he was yelling at. There were lads rising, bleary-eyed, off the couch, off the floor, out of the armchairs, from doors that opened off the small living room.

Jesus, I said to Paul, who was still standing next to me. How many of us live here?

Im not sure, he said pensively. I think it was thirteen at last count maybe its fourteen now that youre here. Well have to take a head count on rent day.

So where should I leave my suitcase and stuff?

Whatever patch of floor you dropped them on when you came in last night, I suppose. Right, come on, weve got to roll. We can sort that out later. He turned to the door to follow Sean out into the hallway, yelling over his shoulder, OK, Des, lets hit it, youre with me, time to roll.

I followed him on down the stairs and out into the morning heat. It was a hot, clammy May morning in New York in 1988 and I was on my way into Manhattan for my first days work.

I was ushered into the van to sit on a five-gallon drum of polyurethane that sat on the floor between Paul and Des.

How come I get to sit on the drum? I asked. Shouldnt we toss for it?

Thats the way the thing works here in New York, Colly, Des said, getting in behind me. The FNG always sits on the drum.

What the fucks an FNG? I asked.

Thats you, Paul said, handing us each a smoke. Youre the Fuckin New Guy.

Paul and Des were brothers. Wed grown up together. Theyd left Tyrone ahead of me for similar reasons. There was the issue of the dismal economy, of course, and the miserable climate as well, but most importantly there was the desire to escape the caged feeling of living as a Catholic in the British-occupied North of Ireland. It had gotten so bad back home that a lad couldnt leave the house for a quiet drive anymore without the prospect of being stopped and harassed at gunpoint by a pimply-faced British soldier no older than himself. Lads that we knew had been shot and killed by the British already. Occasionally we could hear bombs as the police stations and army barracks were attacked by the IRA in the neighboring towns of Ballygawley, Carrickmore, Omagh, and Beragh. We would go silent and count off the explosions on our fingers: one two three four five Theyve killed a few with that one, alright, someone would say. The more the merrier, would come the reply.

Id tried London for two years already, but that was worse than living at home. Having to take the worst job on the building site from an English foreman who referred to all Irishmen as Paddy was not part of the life Id had in mind. And then of course there was the drinking. It seemed no matter where I lived, my drinking was becoming an issue. But it would be different now that I was in America. I was sure of it.