Beginnings
Our story starts, as many stories do, in that dreaded collage of teenage hormones and angst clashing with the lost dreams of the middle-aged, High School. Of course, our story truly starts much sooner than that. In fact, let's put that High School start on hold for a moment, and start our story with the dissatisfaction of a young potato farmer's son in Ireland, and his decision to leave that land for the greener pastures of America upon a heated argument with his father (we won't get into it here, but suffice it to say that there was a gauntlet thrown at the start, potatoes launched in the middle, and whiskey bottles sought in the aftermath). The second start (for she was a few years younger than the potato farmers son) came when the daughter of a middle class cobbler aspired to travel to the New World, and see what wonders the streets of Boston and New York may hold (mostly unintelligible drunks, and a collection of pickpockets and con artists, respectively, though this was not to be impressed fully upon the young lass for a few years yet). With her family's blessing (in the form of a one way boat ticket to Boston, where they had a cousin they would find out upon their daughter's arrival had perished in a fire naught but a year prior to her departure), she packed her meager belongings, and headed cheerfully to experience the Grand New World.
If we were to follow this strand of history, we'd find these two travelers chancing upon each other in a Boston pub one evening, him as a customer and her making ends meet as a bargirl (the lack of a living and breathing cousin there to greet her and provide a roof and several hot meals a day for her had set her plans to see the finer side of life back somewhat substantially). Now our former potato farmers son was no Shakespeare to be sure, nor was he a Victorian Gentleman (though, there is much to be said for those that aren't), however he was no brute of a man either, and believed that a man had to make his way through life working as hard as he could, so that he could drink himself to sleep in the evenings without feeling he hadn't earned that right. All of which is to say, he wasn't a particularly well mannered or heroic man, but he was a generally good and decent human being. And sometimes, when you are down on your luck as our former cobbler's daughter is, and starting to question the general decency of the human race as a whole (Irish-filled pubs in Boston are not so different now as they were then, or indeed, ever), in these situation oftentimes the light of an overcast evening seems as brilliant as a harsh noon under the desert sun.
Which isn't to say that our former potato farmers son (let's call him Flanagan, shall we?) didn't have his good qualities. So yes, he spent 16 to 20 hours a day during the week working various jobs (among them, store clerk (short-lived), shoe shiner (equally short lived), ice delivery man, and construction worker, to name a few), and in the pubs (it was his firm belief that the amount of work he did and the abuse he put his body through doing it earned him the god-given right to drink whiskey to his hearts content, and his livers distress). This was exacerbated with their move to New York early in their marriage, where it was infinitely easier to get into the sort of trouble that is impossible to get out of, short of a one way trip to the bottom of the river. For all that, he always had a (usually whiskey flavored) kiss for his wife in the morning and evening, he never laid a hand on her and rarely raised his voice in anger in her presence (excepting one time, when an especially forward gentleman in Boston had made one too many remarks insinuating that Flanagan was too drunk when he arrived home to notice if his side of the bed was warm or not, for which the provocateur in question received two black eyes, seemingly in exchange for his two front teeth and his dignity). His pub visits never infringed on his working, for he was of that rare Irish mold that can visit the bottom of a whiskey bottle or eight in the evening, and in the morning be fit as a fiddle for work (if that fiddle was working manual labour and had a dull throbbing in the back of their skull, as well as a bowed back and creaky, popping joints). When he and the former cobbler's daughter (let's call her Mary) were blessed with a son in their second year of marriage (and their first in New York), he made sure to spend what time he had on weekends with him, taking him to baseball games whenever the opportunity arose.
As you can imagine, this recipe was not one for a long life. In the fourteenth year of their marriage, and the twelfth of their sons life, Flanagan caught ill, and after a short, hard fought battle, passed away. The cause of death was somewhat unclear at the time, but given the note made by the mortician about the size of his liver, we can now surmise that it was most likely liver cancer caused by his prolific and unabashed drinking that did him in, combined with and helped along by the extreme amount of manual labour performed throughout his adult life.
After the death of her husband, Mary's health gradually worsened. Although for much of their time living in New York she had worked as a seamstress, maid, and occasional secretary (her ability to read and write and willingness to work for cheap made her an attractive temporary hire for businesses in a bind, but her unwillingness or inability to lose her Irish accent coupled with her altogether average note-taking skills made it hard for her to stick), as time passed after Flanagan's death she found herself more and more sick, and less and less able to work. This necessitated the working in earnest of her son, whose given name was Cathair, but went by Bartholomew, his middle name, or Tolly for short. Rather than saving it up to spend on pop, candy, ball gloves and the like, Tolly's hard-earned wages went to paying for food and rent for him and his mother, as well as medical bills when she could be convinced to see a doctor.
Having to in large part support your own mother through your teenage years as her health gradually declines is a burden enough to weigh down even the mighty Atlas, who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders as it is. On top of that our young hero (because he is the main character of this story, believe it or not!) has school to attend, for even through her failing health his mother refuses to let him drop out, believing that the education she and her late husband lacked will be the key to helping their son reach higher in life than they themselves managed. Calling on every resource she had at her disposal (including some she didn't know she possessed), she managed to impart to her son the work ethic of an Irishman that is his heritage, the bearing of a gentleman, the temperament of a much older, much wiser man than his years would suggest, and the patience of someone that knows the world is constantly changing and evolving, and eventually his opportunity will present itself.
It was not an easy life for Tolly, not seeing his father die and his mother wasting away, bedridden by the time he turned sixteen, but it was a life he bore with as good a cheer as could be mustered, and in the grand old spirit of the Irish, get up every day with the knowledge that it would not be an easy day, but damn it, he was gonna grit his teeth and smile at it anyways.
Which brings us back to our first beginning. As can be imagined, the workload put upon Tolly between supporting his mother and attending school at least three times a week did not leave much time for the usual teenage activities, chief among them making friends and chasing girls. Tolly had tried to have girlfriends a couple times, being tall and moderately good looking, but it had always ended the same way--with them rarely being able to spend time together out of class, and the young lady deciding it was best to just be friends.
On the subject of friends, our protagonist had few, at least in the traditional sense. Not being at school as often as many as the other kids his age, and not being able to socialize with them much after school outside of the occasional baseball game, friendships were few and far between. There was one boy that he had grown up next door to, and was fast friends with for several years, before they moved away when Tolly was 15. There was a young lady that was considered a tomboy, that lived a few doors down, that seemed to be in some ways a kindred spirit, in that they both seemed to yearn for more than what they were, but were willing to be patient to chase it. And finally, there was Sebastian. Sebastian was a smaller kid in High School, that was often picked on by the larger kids in his class. One day, on his walk back from school, Tolly happened across Sebastian being threatened in an alleyway. Recognizing him as well as one of the meaner young men from school, Tolly stepped into the mouth of the alley and said, in as a calm a voice as he could manage given his anger, "What do you think you're about, Matthew?"
The bully, Matthew, responded without turning around, practically sneering as he held Sebastian still by the lapel, "Turn around Mick.* You've got a mum to take care of, you don't want to go getting involved in my business."
His eyes flashing a steely grey at the insult, Tolly took another step forward, loosening his grip on his bookbag. "I'll say it again, Soup-Taker,** what do ye think ye're about, have ye nothing better to do than pick on half-pints?"
Matthew turned around slowly, releasing Sebastian's lapel and letting him drop backwards onto the seat of his pants. Through gritted teeth, Matthew spit out "What did you call me, Mick? Did you call me a Soup-Taker? Do you think I'll stand here, and let you call me that, you grubby, goopy, lazy, marrow sucking dirty Mick!" Getting louder and louder with each insult, striding forward, fists balled in anger, Matthew cocks his fist back, and lets a punch fly at the seemingly unconcerned Tolly.
Seeing how riled Matthew is, Tolly waits for him to approach, casually closing his stance slightly off from Matthew, facing him at about a forty degree angle and adjusting his grip on the bookbag. As Matthew closes, his late fathers advice, given one weekend on the walk back from a baseball game, flashing through his head: "If you throw the first punch, you better knock him on his ass. Otherwise, never throw the first punch. Let him show you his weakness, then kick his ass."
Tolly takes a half step back with his left front foot as Matthew unleashes what would have been a devastating left overhead punch had it connected, letting the bag in his right hand swing slightly back before rocking it up and forward, twisting his waist and letting the motion carry his arm, guiding the heavy sack of books directly into Matthew's cheek.
Matthew takes the hit, and drops like a rock, his mouth bleeding as he lies crumpled and moaning quietly on the alley cobblestone. Tolly looks briefly at either of his assailants silent compatriots, gesturing for them to get going. They comply without a word, picking up Matthew and carrying him as they depart, one of them shrugging what amounts to an apology for his friend on his way.
After waiting a beat to make sure they're not returning with thoughts of revenge, Tolly offers his hand to Sebastian, helping him to his feet. "They didn't get your lunch money yet, did they?" he asks the other boy. "Nope, you stepped in just in time." Replies Sebastian as he dusts himself off, looking back up with a resigned sigh. "It's only a nickel, but that's all I got I swear, I ain't holdin out on ya, it's just all I got. I'll give it to ya willin, jus don't hit me too ok?"
Tolly takes a long, hard look at Sebastian before shaking his head twice. "Keep your money. Those guys are bullies. You needed help. I helped. You don't owe me anything."
With that Tolly turns on his heel and exits the alley, completing his walk home to drop his books off and check on his Mother before his shift starts, leaving Sebastian to stare after him, disconcerted, before gathering his wits and making his own return home.
*Mick is a derogatory term for an Irishman, referring to the fact that many Irish last names start with the Mick sound (McDonald, McArthur, etc.). Our protagonist, while not in normal conversation having a pronounced Irish accent, does occasionally have it poke through in times of stress, or anger.
**A Soup-Taker is a derogatory Irish term for someone that has sold out on, or is hypocritical with respect to, their religious beliefs. The origin dates to the great potato famine in Ireland, when Catholics converted to Protestant in order to receive a free meal.
