a quiet night in bob’s bowery bar, at the corner of bleecker st and the bowery.
outside, snow was starting to fall gently.
a stranger walked in, and approached the bar, where bob himself was presiding.
the newcomer was not a prepossessing individual. he looked about fifty years old, heavy and round, wth the roundest nose in new york, and an old derby hat a size too small for him crammed down on his round bald head.
“whskey,” he ordered.
“any particular kind?” bob asked.
“cream of kentucky.”
“cream of kentucky it is, then,” and bob reached behind himself for the bottle of that famous brand.
“by far the best brand for the price,” the stranger added.
bob smiled. “i see you are a man who knows what he thinks.”
“indeed i am, sir.”
bob poured the drink and moved away, as the stranger did not seem to him to be inclined to talk.
just to the stranger’s left and and six feet short of the bar was the large round table known as the poet’s table. tonight it was sparsely attended with only seamas mcseamas the irish poet and lucius pierrepont st clair iii the negro poet representing the fraternity of bards, and seamas had invited father frank the whiskey priest to join them.
their conversation had turned to irish poetry, with father frank standing up for tom moore, and seamas denouncing moore as a fraud and championing james clarence mangan.
lucius introduced the name of yeats, while meekly admitting he was no expert on the whole history of hibernian verse.
although only seamas had been speaking in a particularly loud voice, the stranger at the bar suddenly turned to the trio and announced,
"if it is irish patriotism you’re wanting, gentlemen, clearly mangan is superior to moore, but for a true nationalist poet, your man is samuel ferguson."
"by the crusted toenails of finn mcool," cried seamas, "what have we here? a man with strong opinions on the poetry of ireland? who might you be, sir, a professor of literature specializing in the subject, perhaps at new york university, or at princeton?"
"not at all, sir," the stranger smiled, showing crooked whiskey and tobacco stained teeth, "just a man who knows what he thinks."
"with strong opinions on a variety of subjects?" seamas smiled back.
"with opinions on everything, sir."
"everything?" father frank asked. "everything?"
"why not, sir? i know as much as anybody and i am just as good as anybody. why should i not have an opinion on everything?"
"none, i suppose," seamas laughed.
"tell me, sir," lucius asked the stranger, "do you have any thoughts on the poetry of the american negro?"
"i do, sir. melvin b tolson is your man, melvin b tolson, sir, far superior to the insipid langston hughes, whom i consider to be a poet fit only for children."
"do you have opinions on subjects other than literature?" father frank asked the stranger. "religion, for example?"
"all religions are one," the man replied. "and are converging toward being one. the criminally neglected works of madame helena petrovna blavatsky are crucial toward understanding this. read blavatsky, my friend, and gurdjieff. nietzsche is also useful in this regard. "
"and politics"? enquired seamas. "what are your thoughts on the united nations, for example?"
"the united nations is a monstrously misguided enterprise, my dear sir. at this stage of humanity’s progress. and one, i may add, most cynically promulgated by that archfiend, mr churchill, and his henchmen in the corridors of world financial power."
the stranger had been expounding his opinions in an ever louder voice, and even bob had begun paying attention, with a small smile on his face. the two waitresses, janet and connie, who had been standing at the end of the bar, edged closer out of curiosity.
"how about history?" seamas asked. "do you have any thoughts on the conduct of the battle of waterloo?"
"i certainly do, sir. napoleon was wont to disparage ney after the fact, but if he had wanted things done differently he should have taken charge of ney’s operations himself. and this is not to mention the ridiculous amount of energy wasted on the farmhouse at la haye sainte."
the conversation went on in this way, with other patrons drifting in and out of it as the night progressed. the stranger was not to be denied, and faced all challengers, respectful and sarcastic alike, with manful resolution.
in this way mr thaddeus aloysius “opinions” o’toole joined the ranks of the regulars and semi-regulars at bob’s bowery bar, adding his more than two cents to the endless cacophony of song, story, disputation, denunciation, and assertion, that filled the rainy and snowy nights, in those long ago years, when a nickel was a nickel and a dime was a dime.
bob’s mom, in particular, always remembered him as a “perfect gentleman”.
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