Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (42 page)

New York Daily News, November 6, 2000

Eye on New York By Cyclops Reilly

HOW DO YOU SPELL
SCHADENFREUDE
?

I told you about these bums, didn't I?

Well, this morning I feel like an obese Cheshire cat who's had his fill and is now getting his belly rubbed for eternity.

I believe this is what those guys with high IQs and precise pronunciation call “schadenfreude.” It's one those great German words, like wiener schnitzel or sauerbraten. You know, the kind of words you use to rouse up the masses before you take the backdoor into France and invade Belgium again. “We will have wiener schnitzel for our people, or there will be sauerbraten to pay!”

I was informed by
Webster's College Dictionary
that it is the combination of two German words,
schaden
, the word for harm, and
Freude
, for joy. That's how we get the wonderful word “harmjoy.” Well, not exactly. Schadenfreude is defined as “pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune.”

Well, that's right on the money. Because you cannot imagine the pleasure I find in the misfortune of Congressman Jackie Swift and the Reverend Dr. John Costello. Saturday night, Swift was found at Hogan's Moat Saloon on Christopher Street with a snootful of cocaine and a suitcase full of one-hundred-dollar bills, $100,000 in all. Dr. Costello, the papal nuncio's bagman in this country, was found bouncing a naked 6-year-old boy on his knee at the Romper Room, the underground playpen for pedophile priests in the Meatpacking District. Presently, both are occupying cells at the 6th Precinct on West 10th Street in Greenwich Village. Enjoy the comfort, boys, before you go off on your island vacation—Riker's Island, that is.

It should not be overlooked how pivotal Aloysius Hogan, the proprietor of Hogan's Moat, and his cocaine-hunting dog, Barney, were in the apprehension of Swift and Costello. If it wasn't for the total surveillance that Hogan keeps at the Moat in trying to deter the scourge of cocaine, Swift might have never been apprehended. And without Swift's apprehension and his subsequent cooperation in pointing to the whereabouts of Costello, we would not know how deep the pedophile scandal runs in Holy Mother Church. Few saloon owners would go to the trouble of adopting a former DEA cocaine-detection dog in order to keep our saloons safe from the terrible addiction of cocaine. Hogan and Barney, you are our heroes.

Now there is only one more thing to do. Tomorrow is Election Day, and every New Yorker in the 7th CD should go out and vote with all your heart and soul for Wolfe Tone O'Rourke. O'Rourke may be a lot of things, but he is one of us. He eats, sleeps, and especially drinks in this grand city of ours. He's not in it for the money, the glory, or to compete with Senator Schumer on the Sunday morning talk shows. He's in it for us, to see that those thieves in Washington ante up what belongs to New York. If you think he's a lot of trouble around here, just imagine what he'll do to those pompous asses in Washington.

And while I'm at it, I want to throw a bouquet to Declan Cardinal Sweeney for the wonderful homily he gave at St. Patrick's during yesterday's mass. He admitted he was wrong about Jackie Swift and the Fopiano Gang, and while he didn't endorse Tone O'Rourke, he did say that Tone is “a decent and

genuine man and a much better Catholic than many of us are.” That's high praise coming from a man like his Eminence.

As for the rest of you, you have your marching orders for Election Day: Vote for Tone—like the Fenians say, early and often.

T
he election was as anticlimactic as the primary had been. O'Rourke rented the Queer Independent Democrats headquarters on Sheridan Square and the party began early. By 6:30, O'Rourke knew from exit polls that he had won. CNN called his number at 9:35 p.m.

The party already had started at Hogan's Moat. It seemed so much different than only three nights before when Barney had apprehended Jackie Swift with his dope and his bag full of money. Sam looked tired and she sat in O'Rourke's seat at the end of the bar and held onto his arm.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. Just very tired. Let's get over to the QID and get this over with. Campaigning is hard enough. Campaigning with a sevenpound belly is even harder.” O'Rourke kissed Sam on the forehead and announced they were going across the street for the victory celebration.

The QID was unbelievably hot with all the television lights. CNN, NY1, ABC, CBS, and NBC were all there. Even Fox had shown up, probably hoping for a clip of some O'Rourke outrage they could show over and over again for the next forty-eight hours.

With a great effort, O'Rourke helped McGuire up on the stage where the podium was situated. He looked for Thom Lamè and Lizzie Townsend, but could not see them. “Bad losers,” he thought to himself. There were cheers and whistles from the crowd, and O'Rourke actually felt embarrassed. He really didn't like the attention. He held Sam's hand tight and said, “This will be over in the minute.”

“Thank God,” she said, looking a little wobbly.

O'Rourke held his hand up for quiet, and the room settled down. “My name is Wolfe Tone O'Rourke,” he began, “and I believe I'm the Congressman-Elect from New York's 7th Congressional District.” Cheers went up, and O'Rourke smiled broadly. McGuire pressed a smile onto her own lips. “I want to thank all of you who worked so hard to make this night possible. I want to thank especially Clarence Black, your own Nuncio Baroody, and most of all, my campaign manager and my wife, Simone McGuire O'Rourke.” There were loud cheers. O'Rourke wanted to thank—but knew he couldn't—two other people, Cyclops Reilly and Declan Cardinal Sweeney, who had helped the campaign in more ways then they even realized.

“It's getting late,” said O'Rourke, “and it looks like we're going to have a long night waiting for the results of the presidential election. Let's hope for the best with Al Gore, for God help this country if George W. Bush becomes president of the United States of America. That man is dumb with a capital D.” There were no cheers for the red meat O'Rourke had just thrown out. It was as if the notion of a second President Bush had sucked the energy out of the room. “The booze and the food is on me. Thank you again. Good night and God bless.” With a triumphant wave to the TV camera, O'Rourke realized that his campaign for Congress was over.

It took O'Rourke and McGuire a good ten minutes to work their way through the crowd of well-wishers. Both of them knew everyone loved a winner, especially in America. If they had been losers, the joint would be empty.

Going down the stairs, Sam felt as though she had to take a desperate pee. “Oh my God, Tone, I don't think I can hold it.”

“What?”

“Oh, God,” she said. She felt wet. “I can't believe I peed on myself.” She gripped the banister, as if for dear life. Then it hit her. “Oh my God, Tone. I think my water just broke.”

“What?”

“My water broke!”

O'Rourke had heard the line a thousand times in movies and, like most men, he knew absolutely nothing about a woman's plumbing. Especially a pregnant woman's plumbing.

“But the baby isn't due for another six weeks,” he said, as if that had something to do with it.

“Baby ain't gonna wait,” said McGuire, looking terrified.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said O'Rourke looking around for Clarence Black. He saw him at the top of the stairs talking to one of the guys from the Moat. “Clarence, come here,” he said, and when Black didn't immediately break away, added “right now!”

“What's up, Tone.”

“Sam's water just broke. Let's get to St. Vincent's. Go get a cab.” Black went down the stairs in front of them and hailed a cab on Seventh Avenue and brought it around to West 4th Street. Black got in first, then gingerly helped Sam into the middle of the back seat, then O'Rourke piled in.

“St. Vincent's Hospital,” O'Rourke said to the Arab cabdriver.

“I don't know . . . ” the driver said.

O'Rourke lined the Village streets up in his mind and wanted a direct route. “Drive,” he said, “to West 12th Street and make a right.” The cabbie put the car in gear and did what he was told. After the right turn O'Rourke told him to go to Seventh Avenue and make another right. Within five minutes, they were in front of St. Vincent's ER. O'Rourke turned Sam over to a nurse and got Black to call Dr. Moe Luigi.

“Yes,” snapped Luigi. He was already asleep at 11 p.m. “Moe, it's Tone. I'm at St. Vincent's.”

Luigi was instantly awake. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, Moe. Simone's having the baby.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Luigi, rising from the bed.

“Can you get over here?”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

Sam was taken to the maternity ward. O'Rourke and Black waited for Luigi in the lobby. “You don't look to good,” said Black.

“I don't feel too good, either,” replied O'Rourke.

Luigi arrived within minutes. “I'll take over from here, Clarence,” he said, and Black wished O'Rourke luck.

“Every time it gets exciting,” said Clarence, “you send me home!”

“Yeah,” said O'Rourke, “exciting.”

Luigi brought O'Rourke up to the maternity ward where they were informed that McGuire was in labor. “Why don't you gown up and join her?” Luigi helped O'Rourke into a hospital gown. He could see that he was literally in shock from what was happening.

Hesitantly, he followed Luigi into the birthing room. “How's it going, Sam?” asked Luigi.

“It's tough, doc. It's tough.” She saw O'Rourke, almost hiding behind Luigi, and said, “Here's another fine mess you've gotten me into.” Even O'Rourke was forced to smile with her Oliver Hardy quote.

God, did O'Rourke hate hospitals. There were probably only two good reasons to be in one and they were to get born or to die. At least this would be a positive experience—he hoped. They were working between Sam's legs and O'Rourke, for once, couldn't look.

“I think this one is going to come quickly,” said the birthing nurse.

Soon Simone was pushing and groaning and there was sweat on her forehead. O'Rourke was up top holding her hand and she was in intense pain.

“Come on, honey, push it,” said the nurse. “Push it out.” With a shriek, Simone pushed, literally, for dear life and O'Rourke heard his child's voice as it cried for the first time.

The baby was squeegeed, scooped, and dried and wrapped in a little pink blanket. O'Rourke wondered how the nurse did it, it was such a little squiggly thing. She had, strangely thought O'Rourke, better hands than a Gold Glove shortstop.

The package was delivered to Sam and the smile told it all. “She's perfect,” said the nurse. O'Rourke suddenly felt like the odd man out with his wife and daughter, like a third wheel on a blind date.

“Let's prepare for the birth of the placenta,” said the nurse and O'Rourke knew he had to get the hell out of there. That was too much blood, even for him. “Here,” said the nurse, “hold your daughter.”

“No,” said O'Rourke, “I couldn't.”

“Won't break. Get used to it,” she said, dropping the bundle into O'Rourke's shaking arms.

He took the little brown child into his arms and she looked him intently in the eye, suspiciously, as only an infant can. Then it hit him, like a lovely shock. She had his eyes. Which meant she had the eyes of his mother, Mary Kavanagh, and his grandmother, Rosanna Conway. And the great mystery immediately became clear. He knew who Our Lady of Greenwich Village was. It was his daughter, Rosanna Mary Brigid Kavanagh O'Rourke.