Lola’s Grandmother didn’t
like the Irish.
Lola said,
“For fuck’s sake, don’t tell
her you’re Irish.
She hates the Irish.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She does
though, so don’t even
mention the Irish.”
Lola was my girlfriend
many years ago in
California.
She had long black hair
and the eyes of a serial killer.
Those green eyes could
go cold in a flash.
She was French and
Native American.
We didn’t handle our
booze well.
We fought and fucked our
afternoons away.
Occasionally her Grandmother
called and wanted help with
something or another.
After a few drinks one night,
I said,
“The old girl seems to like me.
I’m going to tell her I’m Irish.”
“Don’t you dare”, Lola said.
“She won’t ever speak to
you again.”
We didn’t last long.
You can’t fuck, fight, and
drink forever.
Lola slit her wrists on a
drunken champagne night
after my sister’s wedding.
Blood and booze all over my
white Oldsmobile.
She ended up in a
psyche ward in Ventura.
I drove up and down the coast,
sad about Lola and about the
seaguls diving on the
beach for trash on all those
hazy afternoons.
Years later, I did one of those
genetic tests.
It turns out that I’m more
Scottish rather than Irish, and Lola’s
Grandmother is long dead.
The pipes
The pipes are calling.
I love the way you ended this.
Sad story though. I’m sorry for your loss.
Thanks
hello dearest Thomas this is really tragic story but a good one…Irish and Scottish I love them both my condolences 💕
tHANKS
Sad but what a great story. WOW! So real and upfront. Great!!
tHANK YOU.
Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Be tough to clean the white upholstery in that Oldsmobile. Great storytelling. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you. Much appreciated.