A grandfather clock chimed eleven times then twice again drawing eyes into the unlit recesses of the old speakeasy. Illegal drink, the fuel that built this place, and so many others like it, also created a culture of disregard. Is that bad? That depends on what is being disregarded.

John got back on his subject. "Ireland has long looked to America as the land where her children sought refuge and succeeded where she had not. But it was in the mid sixties, with her university students' attention fixed on our civil rights activities, looking for fresh life lessons, that sect free thinking began to organize large scale - as academic protests. It was pure mimicry. Irish students amassed in large intersectarian groups, mulling on campuses and holding hands singing We shall overcome. It worked in America, it ought to work in Ireland."

The waiter anticipated, "But in America, there is a government of all the people answerable to all of the people. There is conscience. Law is grounded in inalienable rights of people in general, not Lords and Lordesses."

"Ladies," Shannon whispered.

"Not to me," he whispered back with a big grin as John confirmed his insight. "Exactly. The Dungannon hand-holding singing march from Queen's University, as a gesture of public assent of a higher level of public fairness, wound up as a televised blood bath under the battering of the Ulster Police. Brains, educated college brains were strewn on the streets. Those marchers were exactly half Catholic and half Protestant. It didn't matter that equal numbers of singing Protestants got their freedom singing heads bashed in, it was called - a Catholic uprising - a disturbance of law and order - and was crushed in the name of democracy.

Crushed. But televised. Those old time-worn brutalities did not play well on the tube. Gestapo savagery was not to be hidden. All over the world, people were aghast at what they saw. Belfast broke out into massive rioting. Scholars still haven't settled the tally of world organizations which officially and vehemently protested Ulster inhumanity. Businesses pulled back, way way back. It was five years prior to these national events that the personal tragedy of the seventeen year old Gavin McGuiness began. As the tale was told of Katherine being beaten up by Ulster Police thugs, Marcus muttered, "I almost ordered the stuffed peppers," to a circle of quizzical stares. He just waved them off.

"Peppers? Am I keeping you awake with this?" John goaded.

" 'S nothing. It's another.. oh, uh.. go on, tell us about McGuinness. Doesn't sound to me that they turned him. You make it sound like he just got more poetical. Suffering and art, they complement."

John almost agreed, but drew back, "Depends."

"On what?"

"Who's suffering. He could take his own. He suffered to diminish hers. Young Gavin was not his rebel father nor grandfather nor paternal anything. He was his mother, a poet, a romantic being forced to become his father. All those childhood warnings playfully instructed on his dad's lap, often as ditties and folk song, as he described them Ply of garbled child's lyric, Syruped savored, Ever sweeter, Swallowed mouthed in mindless meter. Fateful loops of ornament, Harmonic, Waft intoxicant, Issue unforeseen Though dearly heard, Reprised uncountenanced. It was song, to him. His father's voice to a motherless child. He heard the love in the voice but passed on the message. That meaning of those words was whipped into his flesh in that foul place. He was torn as to who he really was. He still doesn't know. He asks, Is all wisdom pain? From this and nothing else obtained? Are blameless failings ever fast? Deficient sheds or dice to cast? "

John paused, "Clearly, there's no going back. Look at his themes. They question duality of self, a single individual who is the one from two, two parents, two natures, two identities, two creators. Whose image? How is a single nature possible. Don't they clash? Must one, only one of the two, by necessity, by imposition of external realities, impose itself on individuality? Just when does two become one? At what point is the other duality of nature and nurture resolved by the singularity of necessity?" Macaluso was making guttural throat noises, unconsciously, as Mina was stroking his hair behind the ear. He made those sounds whenever deep feelings were stirring. Her stroking was now reflex. She knew that somewhere in that far away mind of his, even though he didn't feel it, something hurt.

"My father was a total ass hole," the waiter innocently plopped an introspection into a momentary silence. He was smiling tight lipped as faces turned to disapprove.

Shannon got to him first, "That's no way to.."

"No," his index was resolutely held up wagging his resolve, "he was. Sold out totally to the company. Gave my mother everything that he thought she wanted. But never once could he see that she wanted an honest life with an honest man. He abused her with gifts. She used them, never wore them, whatever. A totally shallow man. Weasel. A weasel with money. I.. I shun him. No big choice for me. Maybe duality is a problem only when the choices are of equal stature and not equally assimilated."

"Meaning?" Marcus prompted.

"Meaning that the mind of a sculptor might not be compatible with the mind of an accountant or a boxer, say. Hey. Maybe that's where mediocrity comes from! Mediocrity is the nullification of two great counter prowess's! Damn. I'm a philosopher! Coffee?"

All cups were held forward, as Marcus muttered, "Hold the hemlock."

"Well, at least they let him out.." Marcus observed, "..though I'll bet he was pissed."

"McGuiness? Let out? Pissed? Man." John laughed, "Trust me. They weren't LET out.", but he mumbled something about tuberculosis and not wanting to disturb the evening's wonderful dinner. "Some other time."

"So Caitlin and Katharine are the same name?" Mina was asking Shannon, a bit confused.

But John, on a roll, fielded her question, "Not in English," he clarified, "In thick Gaelic speech, Caitlin is Cah-tdrin and Katharine is Kah-tdrin. Hear the difference?"

"No."

"Cah-tdrin, Kah-tdrin, Hmm?"

"No."

"Cah-tdrin, Kah-tdrin?"

"No. I don't get it. You're saying the same thing twice!"

"Listen. Lissss-en, Cah-tdrin, Kah-tdrin."

"Oh fuck, John," Mina suddenly went red faced at her own slip of the f-word. Holding her hand over her mouth, "I never say that," her eyes were bugged while everybody made exaggerated oooooohhhh you're going to rot in hell sounds. When she salvaged her composure, she offered "Caitlyn is a nick name for Caitlyn. Does that make sense?"

Shannon was giggling and wiping her eyes as John tried again, "Cah-tdrin, Kah-tdrin. And yes, the FIRST one is an endearment with nationalistic overtones," he allowed, "And it DOES make sense if you have the trained ear to hear the difference. Clearly you don't."

"No."

"So who is this guy Ian?" the waiter prodded.

John almost fell over. "Ian? How did you.. Whoa.."

"Why do you think I'm sitting here. This is my major."

Recomposing himself, John wasn't sure as to whether he could go any further, but allowed, "Major? They have courses in this? Jesus. Ian is Katherine's twin brother. I can't .. mmm.. say more than that. I just, well, it's not that, mmmm, it's mmmm, maybe .. we could talk about.. mmm.. no.. just that he is.. mmm.. "

While Mina was muttering to herself that Ian didn't sound like an Irish name, Mack prodded, "Shannon, how do you hit control reset on this guy?"

With John was still babbling short incomprehensibles. The waiter just looked left and right with a big smile, "Check?"