If you spend any time in downtown Mansfield you’ll more than likely be familiar with Ernest Mahoney, the long-haired manic barista at Relax, It’s Just Coffee. He’s a musician, a poet, a landowner, a politician and – in my opinion – a man possessed by twisted genius.
I first observed Mahoney from a bar stool in the Clubhouse as he played a round of pool. I was intrigued by his swagger, his inventive profanity, and his gruff voice that seemed quite at odds with his cherubic features.
I watched him as he strutted confidently around the pool table like he owned the place (I was unaware at the time that he did, in fact, own the Clubhouse). We didn’t speak on that occasion, but as I put some Ramones tunes on the jukebox I detected a small grunt of approval.
Over time I’ve built up a relationship of sorts with Mahoney, developing a routine whereby I ask for a coffee, we exchange some words and then I give him some money before getting a hot drink handed to me.
Occasionally this routine is enlivened by Mahoney addressing me as “Steve Irwin,” a reference to his insistence that my British accent is in fact Australian, and that I am “the Crocodile Hunter.”
All good stuff, but I still felt I was a long way from understanding the “real” Mahoney. I was determined to get to the truth about the man behind the coffee grinder.
I pushed hard for a no-holds-barred, face-to-face interview.
Mahoney was reluctant and evasive at first, brushing me off with excuses and making ridiculous demands for payment. When I told him cash was out of the question he insisted instead on a “high-end wicker gift basket” of “Turkish cigarettes, Dove soap and glamour magazines.”
Sensing a bargain, I swiftly agreed.
On the day of our encounter Mahoney picked me up himself in his Daewoo Tacuma (a surprise).
“Can we talk about why you hide your aristocratic background?” I said as I settled down in the passenger seat.
“Hush a minute, man,” said Mahoney. “All in good time. If I’m taking you to Bonfire Nation you need to wear the blindfold.”
Bonfire Nation, for those that don’t know, is the sprawling gothic hideaway used by Mahoney and his associates as a studio and home base. Its exact location is a closely-guarded secret.
“I warn you now,” said Mahoney as he tied a grubby bandana over my eyes, “I will be making a number of wild turns and diversionary double-cut-backs. Just to put you off the scent.”
As it happened, the bandana was poorly secured and slipped down almost immediately. This allowed me to see exactly where we were going and revealed that Mahoney’s “diversionary” maneuvers consisted of nothing more than a quick spin through the Wiener King parking lot and six loops of the roundabout on Middle Bellville Road.
Upon arrival at Bonfire Nation Mahoney insisted on disappearing to make me a pot of “special tea” to “honor Her Majesty the Queen.”
I don’t particularly like tea and was annoyed at what I saw as another stalling tactic, but I decided to humor him.
As he crashed and banged around in the kitchen, occasionally cursing and laughing to himself, I peered around the dimly-lit drawing room. The thick velvet drapes were pulled shut and what little I could see was illuminated by flickering candlelight.
Mahoney returned with a pot of tea and some cups and saucers.
“Take a seat, old chap,” he said, as he set the tray down and flopped himself onto an 18th-century French chaise longue upholstered with purple tufted fabric.
The only other place to sit was a bean bag, which was somewhat awkward, but I perched on the edge and took a sip of my tea. It was quite revolting.
“Can we talk about your music?” I gasped, with a small cough.
“Sure,” said Mahoney, lighting an intriguing clay pipe fashioned in the shape of a gargoyle.
“You like this?” he enquired, holding up the pipe and exhaling a perfectly-formed smoke ring. “Just a little something I picked up in the Peruvian jungle. There are only two like this known to be in existence. Sean Penn has the other one.”
“Can we get back to the music?” I said. “You’ve had some success with ‘Mahoney & the Pliers,’ but I want to focus on your later solo career. Your first solo album – ‘Relax, It’s Just Ernest’ – had considerable success in Northern Europe.”
“Number 1 for 6 weeks in Latvia, dude,” nodded Mahoney. “It was crazy. I was on TV and (stuff). They were playing me all day on the radio … unbelievable. And I literally can’t walk down the street in Lithuania. I’m like the frickin’ David Hasselhoff of the Baltics, man.”
This is quite an achievement as “Relax, It’s Just Ernest” was considered by many to be commercially unviable, being a collection of 57 aggressive punk tunes lasting no more than 30 seconds each.
Mahoney’s new album “Room for Cream?” showcases a complete change of direction, consisting of just one acapella song spread over 40 minutes.
“Kind of a long croon,” he explained.
Aside from the music, Mahoney became something of a local celebrity during Mansfield’s mayoral campaign of 2015, coming within a hair’s breadth of being elected.
I wondered if, given how close he came to victory, he now agreed with those who considered his slogan “Shut Up and Take It, Mansfield” as something of a strategic misstep.
“A misstep, you say?” snapped Mahoney. “Well, that’s fine talk. Fine talk from people who’ve never had a number one album in Latvia.”
“OK, but let’s look at some of your policies,” I said. “For a start, you proposed the legalisation of ‘underground chickens’ – whatever they are.”
“‘Whatever they are?’” repeated Mahoney, incredulously. “It’s chickens that live underground, man, what could be plainer?
“And this isn’t some kind of pipe dream, this is reality. You think there aren’t already hundreds – thousands! – of chickens living under the ground in this town? Forget about it, hombre. There are more than you can even conceive of.”
“Well, let’s look at another of your proposals,” I continued. “You pledged to replace all downtown streets with flowing waterways.”
“Dude there are so many wins with that idea.”
“Yet your opponent in the race – with the backing of the city’s budget office – described it as ‘manifestly absurd.’”
“Did they address any of my points?” insisted Mahoney. “To start with: jobs for gondoliers. Do you know what the job opportunities are for gondoliers in this town? Like, practically zero. This would turn that around overnight.
“Also, no potholes – ever. Think about that. During winter, 50 percent of city council meetings involve the discussion of potholes. FIFTY PERCENT. Yet in Venice, no-one’s ever heard of a pothole. They literally don’t even have a word for it in their language.”
I was momentarily at a loss for words, and in the silence a thought struck Mahoney.
“Say Englishman,” he announced. “Wanna wrestle?”
I noticed with unease that there was indeed a wrestling mat on the far side of the room.
“Not today, thank you,” I said politely.
Mahoney shot me a displeased look and took a puff on his pipe.
“A strange thing indeed,” he said quietly, “that a man would come to another man’s house – as a guest – and not wrestle. I suppose that’s not what they do in Oxfordshire or Liverpool. I suppose you’d rather eat some fish ‘n’ chips and listen to the Beatles.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” I sighed, rubbing my forehead. I was beginning to see double.
Ten minutes seemed to pass in a second.
“What the hell is in this tea?” I snapped angrily.
“This tea?” Mahoney scoffed. “That’s nothing. I drink a half-gallon of this (stuff) before breakfast. Stop whining. Have a cigarette.”
“No thanks,” I said coldly. “I quit years ago.”
“Bulls(tuff),” said Mahoney. “I’ve seen you smoking dude. You know your wife comes in the coffee shop and says to tell her if we see you smoking. We all laugh about it man!”
“Shut up!” I snapped. “Give me one of those damn cigarettes.”
I took one and lit it, my hands shaking.
“I’m warning you, Mahoney,” I seethed, “if this part makes it into print …”
“Why are you telling me!” he replied, giggling. “It’s your story!”
“I know, I know,” I muttered, “it’s this tea, and your foolish comments. It’s getting me all flustered.”
I took another drag on the cigarette only for it to explode, primed as it was with one of Mahoney’s “enhanced” joke-shop bangers.
“This has gone far enough,” I moaned, waving away black smoke. Mahoney followed me laughing hysterically as I got up and staggered out of the room.
In the hallway I caught a look at my reflection.
“You took off one of my eyebrows, you maniac!”
“Whatever,” said Mahoney. “You think you’re the first person to come here and lose an eyebrow? Don’t flatter yourself dude.”
I jabbed my finger in his face.
“What sort of fool do you take me for, Mahoney? This whole thing has been a set-up from the start. You can keep your tea and your exploding cigarettes, because I’m done. I quit.”
I hobbled out of Bonfire Nation and disappeared into the woods. The sun was already low in the sky and darkness was falling.
As I battled my way through the thick undergrowth I heard doors slamming and strange bursts of laughter back at the house, along with whoops and the odd gunshot.
I didn’t look back.
