Origin of the Hollander

I've had many inquiries as to the origin of my name. My attempt to address this in the post "The Hollander" turned into a strange musical interlude. So I will try to answer here instead.

Back in those days, Mr. McCartney and I were living in the infamous House Of Beds, living it up during what we called Fuck-Fest '91. The couple next door had decided to try a temporary separation and rented out their house to these nice, young, girls. April was one of those rare redheads, neither drop dead gorgeous nor hideous. She was the bi-sexual of the household. Ursula was a tall, black haired, blue eyed, pale skinned, truly drop dead gorgeous, German girl. We were dismayed, at first, to find out she was the out and out committed lesbian of the group. Our fears were allayed when Ursula announced that she had broken up with her long time girlfriend and that it had been too damn long since she had been with a man.

CUT TO POKER SCENE:

Since I had already taken most everyone's money at the table, the bulk of the group decided to make the long trek to the Kenton Liquor Store. Colin and Angela were broke and consoling each other next door at the House Of Beds. April, Ursula, and I were the only remaining players and I was holding a straight flush. While I don't believe in censorship, even self censorship, I won't go into the details of what happened when the only stake the girls had left were their clothes. It will have to suffice to say that I won the poker game hands down and enjoyed a rollicking afternoon with the two neighbor girls.

Once Colin and Angela were sufficiently consoled, Colin burst into Ursula's bedroom to announce that we had to go meet some associates of his, right now. These associates were waiting for us down under the St. John's Bridge and it was a matter of some urgency that we find them before the cops did. I couldn't tell if Colin was excited, scared, or both. April had to jump on him and pin him to the bed to keep him still. Even then I barely had time enough to finish up my tryst with Ursula before he was dragging me out the patio door with my shoes and shirt still in my arms.

"What the hell is so important you had to interrupt me and two beautiful lesbians for?"

"The Irishmen are here, and they're in trouble..."

THE IRISHMEN ARRIVE IN TOWN

We never did know what the Irishmen's business in town was. All we were told is that it had gone horribly wrong. The contact who was supposed to meet them at the Sauvie Island Ship Yards hadn't shown and a suspicious dock security guard had called the Portland police when the group couldn't produce any I.D. or explain their presence in the high security area. Whether that guard survived the blow to the head he received is still a mystery to us. Seamus and the other three Irishmen, being the calm, cool, collected, professionals that they were, knew exactly what to do next. They ran like hell. Armed only with .357 handguns and no knowledge of the local area, they found themselves scattered about the downtown St. John's neighborhood. Someone in ops planning was going to answer for this stupidity.

Down by the decrepit St. John's movie palace sat the lone functioning payphone in town. Seamus used the last two-bits in his surplus army coat to call the emergency agent for this job. Shit, man, how did such a simple operation turn into this fucking circle jerk? The emergency contact told Seamus to get to the maintenance bunker under the bridge and wait there for help. A local supporter would be there shortly. If he had been able to find his three partners, this might have been a workable plan. In the meantime, he still had the local cops to worry about. Fuck!

CONSOLATION

Colin and Angela were laid back, enjoying a post consolation cigarette when the bedside phone rang.

"Mr. McCartney?..."

Two minutes later Colin burst into Ursula's bedroom and began our newest adventure. Not to say that the afternoon spent with my two new friends was exactly uneventful. Flush with recent coitus, and several hundred dollars cash from my poker winnings, I was almost as excited about meeting the Irishmen as he was. We probably ran ten blocks before we realized that we had enough money for a cab. A half hour later we arrived at the base of the grand St. John's Bridge. Our soon to be new associates were not in sight and several Portland police cruisers filled the usually quiet park.

"Sir, you're going to have to get this taxi out of here."

It was a uniformed cop sticking his head inside the driver's window. Colin slowly waved the Tricolour outside his door. While the cabbie argued with the cop, Colin slipped out of the car and headed straight for the concrete and steel maintenance bunker. Officer Press caught sight of him before he made it ten feet from the vehicle.

"Hey buddy! Get the hell back in before I slap the 'cuffs on ya!"

It was enough though. Seamus had seen the signal and knew who to look for. We both stared back at the bunker as the driver slowly turned down onto the narrow, one-lane service road. We got one glimpse of the surplus army coat running around the corner of the concrete pier as we pulled up behind the public lavatory. We chain smoked for awhile, trying to keep away from the cops, but staying close enough to rescue the crew.

Seamus desperately looked for something, anything, that would help him. The green metal door had only one rusty padlock holding it shut. He resisted the urge to shoot the damn thing off and used the butt of his pistol to break it instead. Good, much less noise and fuss. Inside it was dark and his eyes couldn't adjust after the bright Portland sunlight. The concrete room was cluttered and cool. Piles of tools and equipment blocked his way in. Something in here will work, but what?

Colin tried to look nonchalant, standing there in the entry to the men's room. I slipped another twenty to the cabbie to placate the man who had become a nervous wreck. It seemed as if several hours passed but it was really only five long ass minutes before we saw a park maintenance man heading our way. "Shit, what does this guy want?" The park official stopped briefly to talk with a Portland cop and we were sure we were gonna get kicked out of the park, at least. As he approached he rasped out "Mr. McCartney?" Holy crap it was the Irishman!

"Thank you for your assistance, gentleman. Now, may I suggest we get the hell out of here?"

The cabbie managed to pull himself together and drive slowly up the service road out to the main streets of St. John's. As soon as we were far enough away from the cop filled park he pulled over and insisted on taking his leave of us, and another of my twenties.

"We should get off the streets, I have a safe place nearby" Colin said.

"Not without my mates."

"So where do we look for three Irish guys who are running from the cops in Portland? I asked.

Colin and Seamus just smiled.

THE COWBOY WAY

American ATM's were almost too easy to pilfer. In less than a minute he had five hundred dollars worth of twenties in his hands. Next thing on the list was to find a store front filled with typical American clothing. Five doors down from the bank he saw his target. Destry's Urban Ranch looked like just the place. The Korean shop keep had considerable difficulty deciphering his thick Irish brogue but he managed to make his wishes known by using hand signs and flashing a wad of bills. He was quietly trying on his new duds in the changing room as the small army of Portland police flashed by.

"I believe we need some whiskey!" Seamus grinned at Colin and me.

So we quick-stepped it to the second nearest hard liquor bar and ordered a round of doubles, neat. I stood there, belly pressed to the bar, wondering what on earth we were doing. As it was a Saturday afternoon in August and this was the blue collar town of St. John's, the bar was quite crowded. We saw all of the usual characters there. The toothless barfly at the end of the bar chortled over some dirty joke. The Harley riders shot pool and kept a slightly nervous eye on their babies parked outside. The crystal meth dealers huddled in a corner boothe trying desperately to not look like crystal meth dealers.

The bartender knew us. It was our dear friend Brandy, a semi-regular at the House of Beds. I'd tell you Brandy's real name but I have an aversion to getting shot (not to mention getting cursed, the woman is a bonafide witch).

"Hey guys, you still want me to tend bar at your party this weekend?" Brandy asked us in her sexiest Stevie Nicks voice.

Not only did she have the voice but she also had the Stevie looks. How could we help but have our attention diverted from our task of finding errant Irishmen? As I said Brandy was a friend of ours, so it was easy for us to get over served in her establishment. If we ever got too drunk to drive she simply made us wait till closing and brought us home herself. A situation which came with its own fringe benefits. Along about our seventh double whiskey we found our attention momentarily pulled away from our beautiful bartender friend and shifted to the stage. Karaoke night was in full swing and the latest victim was heading for the spotlight. There he stood, or wobbled rather, decked out in tight-ass spangled Wrangler jeans, fringed western shirt and lizard skin shit kickers. The whole outfit was topped off with the biggest damn black cowboy hat I ever saw.

"Oh, I got friennddds in lowww placess"

It was one of our missing Irishmen, drunk off his ass hiding from the cops in a whiskey bar. Seamus looked as if he was gonna pass out right then and there. Brandy made a disgusted snort. We let him finish his song then hustled him out the back door to Brandy's car. The other two Irishmen were out there sitting on top of the dumpster, drinking their own giant bottle of booze. And singing. Were they scared about the cops possibly finding them? No. They were angry that we interupted their back alley concert. Brandy had to come out and threaten them with witchcraft before they acquiesced and let us pour them into the car. Next stop - Danny Foster's bachelor pad condo.

THE HOLLANDER

Danny didn't seem too upset when the six of us burst into his place. He was used to it because it happened there almost as much as it did at our house. As a matter of fact he didn't even slow down his love making to the ebullient Erin McCartney. They just got louder about it when they realized they had an audience. At first we tried to ignore their passion, figuring it wouldn't last that much longer anyway. After the first hour we decided we had better do something to mask the noise. Whiskey, we need more whiskey!!

Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four?...

Colin drained the last half of his bottle in one giant slurp and proceeded to drop face first on the kitchen linoleum. He became a bit disconcerted listening to his childhood friend making very loud love to his sister. Three of the Irishmen joined colin in his catotonic state, while Seamus and I discussed everything in the known universe. Still after five hours of drinking and yelling we could not quite drown out Erin and Danny. So, naturally, we cranked up the Beatles tape that we were playing for the fifth time and sang along, loud and bad. It was then that I decided I was drunk enough to ask him just what exactly their "business" in town was. The inebriated smile dropped from his face and he pulled his arm off from around my shoulders where it had sat for the last several hours.

"Now why would cha be wantin' ta know dat? How da I know ya ain't a federal agent lad? Colin here is a fine, upstanding Irish Catholic boy, but we really don' know shite about you do we now?"

"Me? I'm a friend of Colin's, and Erin's too. Although maybe not as good a friend as Danny seems to be to her"

"Shore, but what be yer background lad, what be yore faith un family?"

"I'm Dutch and come from a long line of committed Dutch Catholics."

"Ahh, so ye be a Hollander den? I have no truck agin the Hollanders."

Next morning when Colin and the three Irishmen awoke , and Erin finally exhausted Danny, Seamus and I were still up drinking whiskey and belting out Beatles tunes. The hungover Irishmen glared at me with suspicion and Seamus said, "Wake up ya drunkin sots, get over here and meet a new friend of ours - Lad's, I'd like ya ta meet The Hollander!"