Che Guevara and the Sidetracks Incident
Kenneth HickeyChe Guevara took me disco dancing Saturday night, to Sidetracks to be precise. His cool tones, laced with the Latin licks of his Argentinean accent instantly attracted the local girls. Sipping rum and coke from a frosty glass he spoke with passion of his early days in Guatemala, not that many of his young admirers had any idea in which part of South America that particular land lay. His theorising on left wing economics and ideology were not as attractive to the young female pupil of St. Aloysius's, as his gleaming smile and shining eyes. With every word he held them in his hand, told them of the young beauties of his homeland, dark eyes and hair like oil, happily carrying the Kalashnikov of the revolution in their unmanicured hands with nails of cracked painted polish. Their bravery was unrivalled. His audience swooned appreciatively in response.
As the hour drew late and the night grew hazy he watched entranced at the young peoples' cavorting, the manic dancing of the damned, and wondered what he died fighting in Bolivia for. He smiled sadly and stated as an aside that Castro would be appalled. Too soon the smoke of his fat Cuban cigar brought the monkey men bouncers scurrying, knuckles bleeding from the night's earlier work. His protestations on the grounds of diplomatic immunity feel on deaf ears, his claims of fascist oppression even more so. The tattooed, shaven headed, drug dealing doormen simply stated that the law was the law, before half crushing Che in a choke hold, four of them diverted this apparently exceptionally dangerous man to the exit, towards the trip down the stairs and kicking that would inevitable ensue. I watch him go, screaming that the revolution would never die, a strange sense of self preservation holding me fast, despite my proudly held socialist credentials.
I returned myself back to the land of bells and whistles, blowjobs and high octane liquor and got to thinking about what Guevara had said. It was hard not to concede that he had a point as I sucked on another chilled white wine, thinking to myself that they had nailed a guy to a tree for having the audacity to suggest that maybe if we all loved one another that the world might be a better place. Instead, these days, rugby players with private educations kick each other to death in the street and solicitors argue that telling the truth, on tomorrow's wrappings for Lennox's chips, might result in a jury of the accused's peers being unduly influenced. It was a hard one to figure so I ordered another cocktail instead.
With the drinks arrival and my continuing musings, in defiance of the health minister's regulations, I lit one of Che's big round Cuban cigars, a gift received on picking him up from Cork's half finished airport, and waited to be dragged down the stairs after my idealistic friend. Picking myself up from the ground where they threw me, angry that my dirty look jeans were now dirty, soiled by the slime of a half eaten chicken supper, Lennox's have a lot to answer for, I dusted my threads down and strained in vain to see the clock of Shandon's bells. Eventually resolving my impasse by realising I was wearing a watch after all, given as a birthday present by my girlfriend, I couldn't help wondering where she had got to.
Gosh… is that the time! Broke into a hobbling run, those stairs can leave a mighty amount of bruising, hoped to catch Che recruiting freedom fighters from around the fountain on the Grand Parade. The chip shop at two thirty A.M. was always a magnet for the revolutionary sort. Turned the corner and there he was, portable copy of ‘The Communist Manifesto' open on page one, settling in, crosslegged on the pavement, about thirty seconds into a planned lengthy recital. The ecstasy swallowers were standing open mouthed in awe as two women police officers ambled across. Che Guevara was ready with his insults and I knew it was all going to end badly. I should have expected as much from a man with an Irish grandmother.
Kenneth Hickey's awards include The Full Length Play Award at the Listowel Writers Week in 2005 as well as being short-listed for the PJ O'Connor Awards and the South Tipperary Chapbook Awards in 2003 and 2004.