OVER & OUT

(Fearghas & Stuart are my older brothers)

Over and out

The Queensboro Bridge crossing the Hudson on the way from JFK Airport to New York is, like the Brooklyn

Fearghas, Stuart, and Neil

Bridge, to some people a skyway at a terrifying height with plunging vertiginous views of enormous buildings away down below. 

The taxi on the outside edge lumbers along interminably locked in slow traffic as this here shrunken wreck of a passenger eyeballs the abyss exposed far down there, screaming (internally) "for his mother", with glimpses of the horror, like another local crossing the size of the Erskine Bridge, glimpsed way down far below, down there where we dare not look except in desperation to see if we are over... 

I told my brother Fergie, a poet among other accomplishments, of the experience and of how for a couple of days before going back at the end of the break I was in a distracted turmoil, afraid to go home, back over That Thing! Nooooo! 

On the morning, I went into a familiar bar half-an-hour before the coach picked us up, to get myself into a right good state of artificially induced serenity with a rapid succession of drinks. But nothing would do. 

The booze wouldn't work. I was too scared. Terrified into gibberish, I stared stark-mad fixedly at the coach's carpet for safety as we headed off... and then things took an unexpected course... and the booze, too late, did its work.

In Gaelic, with a version in English.

Stiùbhart ann an Nua-Eabhrac
le Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh

Chòrd Nua-Eabhrac ris glan.
Naoidheamh làr Taigh-òsta Shelburne.
Sàr-shealladh dhen Togalach Stàit Ìmpireachd.
Ach dhùisg seo gu dona an tuaineil-àirde aige.
Bha an taigh-òsta trang, ach air a’ cheann thall fhuair e
rùm (le sealladh nas miosa) shìos air an dàrna ùrlar.
Tha duilgheadas aige fiù ’s le drochaidean àrda.
Agus thàinig iad tarsainn tè àrd dha-rìribh air an t-slighe -
Drochaid Queensboro.
“Carson a tha feagal ort ro dhrochaidean
nuair nach eil dragh ort a thaobh itealain?”, dh’fhaighnich mi.
“Och tha sgiathan orrasan”, thuirt e.
Mar a b’ fhaisg’ a thàinig crìoch a làithean-saora,
is ann a bu mhò a ghabh e sgàth. Oir b’ ann taobh thall
Drochaid Queensboro a laigh port-adhair JFK.
Thòisich e ag òl mus do dh’fhalbh e.
Ann am bàr traidiseanta faisg air an taigh-òsta.
Pinnt lagar. Is beag feum a rinn seo, gu nàdarra.
Mhìnich e a’ chùis gu nighinn a’ bhàir.
“Feumaidh mi dol tarsainn Drochaid Queensboro
air an rathad dhan phort-adhair.Tha iomagain orm.”
Lagar eile. Cha do rinn seo cobhair na bu mhò.
Glainne fìon. Glainne fìon eile.
Cha robh an stuth seo a’ dèanamh a’ ghnothaich idir.
“Carson nach do shluig thu tè mhòr no dhà
de uisge-beatha?”, dh’fhaighnich mi dheth.
“Och cha toigh leam spioradan”, fhreagair e.
Air a’ cheann thall siod e a-nis air a’ bhus
air a shlighe mhì-fhoisneach air ais dhan phort-adhair,
an drochaid chrost ud a’ sìor fhàs na b’ eagalaiche na inntinn.
Drochaid àrd Queensboro a’ sìor dhlùthachadh ris.
Siod i ag èirigh na amharc a-nis. Siod a chridhe ag èirigh na uchd.
Ach aig a’ mhòmaid mu dheireadh nach deach am bus a-steach tunail...
Sin thu fhèin Drochaid na Bànrighe!
Tuaineil-àirde gu tunail-ìsle!

Stuart in New York
Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh (11 May 2019)

He is loving New York (even more than the original).
Up there on the ninth floor of the Shelburne Hotel.
Great vista of the Empire State Building.
But it seriously triggers his vertigo.
So he gets a move down to the second floor
with a (shall we say) “less challenging” view.
His vertigo, by the way, also involves bridges.
And they had just arrived over a rather high one -
the Queensboro Bridge.
“How come you have a problem with bridges
but not with airplanes?”, I asked.
“Planes have wings”, he said.
The closer the end of his vacation draws,
the greater his anxiety grows. For JFK airport
lies on the far side of Queensboro Bridge.
He hoofs it to a saloon before departure.
A traditional bar near the hotel. A pint of lager.
The cold-hearted liquor begrudges moral support.
He confides his plight to the barmaid.
“I’ve got to cross Queensboro Bridge
for the airport and it’s giving me a problem.”
A second lager. No more convivial than the first.
A glass of wine. Another glass of wine.
This stuff just isn’t philanthropic enough.
“Why didn’t you get a good couple of
whiskies down you?”, I ventured.
“I don’t like spirits!” he replied.
And so he rides the comfortless stage out towards
his showdown with destiny at Queensboro Ridge.
Will he ever make the High Plains beyond?
Queensboro Bridge. Overarching concern
now recast as arch-foe high-nooning his head.
He does not know what fate awaits him. He only...
He clocks his nemesis. Hands on face he fears his number’s up.
Then suddenly that crazy old coot driver hollers “YEE-HAAA!”
and whips his time-travelling bus down into Tunnel Gulch...
Way to go Queensboro! From vertigo to deep below!