Posts Tagged ‘the drop of a hat’


May 30, 2012

If only my mother had got me what I’d asked for for Christmas, what happened would never have happened. At least, it probably wouldn’t have. And maybe things with Mary Jo and me would have gone differently. Could have gone well. It wasn’t that my parents couldn’t afford it. It was just that my mother didn’t want me having one. Instead, I got a Playstation. I found it under the tree and unwrapped it. Why had she got me this? This useless console? This wasn’t what I’d asked for. I left the sitting room and went to her bedroom. She was already up, drying her hair by the dresser.

“MAM!” I call loudly. “MAM!”
She turns around and sees me at the door.
“¿Que es?” she asks, switching off the hairdryer. The sound drowning away.
“What’s this?” I ask dejectedly.
“Is what you asked for,” she says.
“It’s what I asked for two years ago!”
“Well, now you has one.”
“But, nobody uses these anymore, Mam.”
“Did you or did you not ask a Playstation from us?”
“I did, yeah. Two years ago. But I don’t want one now.”
“Now that you has one?”
“See,” she adds philosophically. “We always want what we can’t have.” As though this has somehow resolved the issue, absolving herself of any responsibility for my disappointment. She turns back around to the mirror, flicks the hairdryer back on, and returns to combing her hair. The noise fills the room. I stand in the doorway, and stare at her incredulously.

*    *    *

Mary Jo Sullivan is a girl in my class. In our home-room, she sits in the row to the left of mine, one seat back. My desk is right in the middle of the class. She has a big ball of fuzzy hair on her head. Like a tumbleweed.  Kind of greyish in colour. Tiny, dusty curls. Her desk is always cluttered with little balls of crumpled paper. They litter the ground around her feet too. A bit like tumbleweed as well. Blowing past. These little balls of scrap paper. They seem to be drawn towards her.

I’m a bit drawn to her too. I don’t know why, but I am. I like her. I think I do anyway. I mean, like, I like her. But I’m not sure if I like, like like her.  I just think she’s funny. She doesn’t even know she is, but she is.

Mary Jo is a scatterbrain, always wandering cluelessly around the corridors between classes looking for the right room. I suspect she may be incapable of reading a timetable, so often does she wander into the wrong class. She’s never on the right page. Literally and metaphorically. Sometimes she’s not even on the right book. Whenever a teacher asks her to read and she hasn’t a clue where we’re supposed to be, she goes bright red and giggles nervously. And even when everybody starts to laugh at her, she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead of being humiliated, like I know I would be, she seems to find it just as silly as everyone else does. ‘Mary, Mary, away with the fairies.’ Girls in school are always saying that to her. Though she never seems to mind this either. This big bright smile forms on her face when they say it. As though it amuses her too.

I like the way she looks.  Kind of all over the place. Her mismatched clothes. Her constantly undone shoelaces and uncontrollable hair.  She always looks like she’s just come off a rollercoaster. But still she’s pretty. She’s doesn’t have the shiny hairdos other girls do. Or the long painted nails. Or the eyeshadow or the earrings, or any of that stuff.  But she has these big wide eyes that make her seem in a constant state of surprise. Her skin is light with barely a freckle. And there are dimples in her cheeks even when she’s not smiling, though she usually is. These things; girls can’t buy.

*    *    *

“Ask her for her number.”
“How!?” I ask.
“Just go up and start a conversation, and then ask her.”
“I can’t do that!”
“Course you can. Just go up to her between classes and say hi.”

It seemed so easy the way Twenty Percent says it. It seemed the simplest thing in the world to him.  He means it too. I’ve seen him do it loads of times: just walk up to a girl and start chatting to her and then ask for her number. Not that he ever got a number from them, but that never seemed to put him off.  Twenty Percent’s 0% success rate with girls never discourages him or makes him re-think or question his approach. Luckily, this hasn’t become common knowledge, or he could end up with an even worse nickname than the one he already has. I’d say if he became known as Zero Percent, he’d start to miss what he is being called at the moment. He’d start missing the twenty percent he used to have.

“But I dunno what to say to her. How do I start a conversation?”
“Talk about her sketches or something like that.”
“But I don’t know anything about drawing.”
“So! Who does? Just pretend you do. ”

She’s always drawing.  That’s where all the scraps of paper come from. She crumples them up if she makes even a small mistake. She draws these odd pictures on her bag, and on her pencil case. She draws on all her books and copies.  She puts little characters in the corners of every page, so that when you flick the corners you can see little cartoons. Even in Art class, she can’t hold back from putting her little characters clambering all over her still lifes. No matter what Miss Simmons asks us to do, Mary Jo always goes and does something a bit different. Miss Simmons never gives out to her though. I think she encourages it. She says art is all about ‘expressing yourself’. But I don’t have anything to express.

“So, I just pretend I’m into drawing?”
“And then, what do I do?”
“Say you’ve something funny to text her, and ask for her number.”
“But I don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just say you do.”

Mary Jo’s grades and mine are like the reverse of each other. Art is the one subject I do badly in, and the only one in which she does well. I suck at art. I’m easily the worst in class. I can’t even stay inside the lines in a colouring book.  I get A’s in all my other subjects though. Not because I’m smart. I’m not. I just have a really good memory. If I hear or read something once, I can remember it without any effort. But art isn’t about remembering things. It’s about something else. Something Mary Jo has: talent. If you were to judge us by our grades, you would think that I am the gifted student, and Mary Jo is the dunce, but I think the opposite is true. She is the one to watch. She is the one with the gift.

*    *    *

The next day during the eleven o’clock break I saw her in the yard. In her mismatched clothes. With a new purple denim cap on her head. Though it wasn’t really on her head. More like it was on her hair. Just balancing there on top of her curls. She was on her own, leaning against the wall outside the first year building, playing her Nintendo DS.  She was engrossed in her game; with that childish smile on her face.  I watched her from outside the canteen, trying to pluck up the courage to go and speak to her. I could see her nibbling on her lower lip with her upper teeth. I look at my watch. 11:15 it reads. Five minutes to next class. ‘It’s now or never’ I say to myself. I take a deep breath, and begin to walk across the yard. She gets closer and closer. I haven’t even thought about what I’ll say to her. I hope something comes to me when I get there. I really do. But, quicker than I’d imagined, there I am. Standing beside her.

“Hi,” I venture.
“Hey,” she says, without looking up.
“I like your cap”
“Thanks,” she says.

There’s a short silence, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She is too wrapped up in her DS. This eases my nerves somehow.

“What are you playing?” I ask.
“Picross 3D.”
“What’s your score?”
“There’s no score in Picross,” she replies matter-of-fact-ly.
“No.” She still hasn’t even looked at me.
“So, like, how do you play then?” I wonder if she even knows it’s me she’s talking to.
“You kind of make pictures out of blocks and stuff,” she explains.
“Oh, ok.”


“So, you like drawing then?”

More silence.

“I’ve seen your cartoons in your copybooks. They’re pretty good.”
“Thanks.” She just continues poking the screen with her DS pen. She seems happily disinterested. I look at my watch. 11:18. Two minutes till class.

“I’d like to see some more of your stuff some time.”

Again: silence. I wait for the tumbleweed to blow past.

I stand there awkwardly trying to think of how to subtly ask for her number, and can’t come up with either a plausible reason or the courage to ask her with.  But just as I’m about to give up, say bye, and walk off; the unexpected magically happens. She taps one last time on the screen, closes her DS, slips the stylus into its back, and says, “Sure.”  Then reaching into her bag, pulls out her phone, and asks, “What’s your number?”
“What!” I say, unable to believe what she’s asked.
“What’s your number? I have a few animations I’ve made saved onto my phone. I’ll send you some of them.”

She’s asking for my number! This; I had definitely not expected. I’m completely taken aback, and am so elated that for the briefest of moments I manage to forget what my mam didn’t buy me for Christmas. I forget that I don’t have a mobile phone. I don’t have a number to give her. Why wouldn’t my mother buy one for me? It’s the only thing I asked for. I must be the only kid in school who doesn’t have one. My folks have no clue how embarrassing this is.

“Eh, I don’t have my phone with me,” I say. “My mam won’t let me take it to school.”
“Right,” she says, unfazed. “So, what’s your number anyway?”

Should I tell her the truth or not? I probably should. She probably won’t care. Maybe I’ll just tell her that I don’t have one. Or will she think that my family is really poor? If I don’t have a phone? And I suppose, I’ve already told her one lie, so… No, I’ll just tell her the truth. It’s easier if I tell her the truth.

“I forget it,” I lie.
“You forget your own telephone number!?” That big bright smile breaking across her face.
“I know,” I say.” I’m an idiot.” And I begin to laugh too. “It’s a new phone,” I add. “I just got it. Still can’t remember the number.”
“And I thought you remembered everything,” she says teasingly.
I am stunned that she knows this about me. I am stunned that she knows anything about me. But I am still stuck in this sticky situation. Small lies begetting bigger lies.

“I don’t ring myself a lot.” I try to joke.
And even more unbelievably, she finds this funny. She starts to laugh that cute, nasal chuckle of hers.
“Nor do I,” she chips in, which tickles us both. And here we are, standing here talking, and laughing, and looking straight at each other, and I can’t believe how easy it all is. This is great. I realise I do like her. I like, like like her. Like, I like her a lot.

“How about you give me your number?” I say. “Then, I’ll text you after school.” She says ok and pulls out a pen and writes her number on my hand. She’s actually touching my hand! Holding it! She glances up at me with those huge eyes of hers as she does so. Her dimples deepen as she smiles; whether at me or to herself I do not know. She finishes and puts the pen back inside her bag. I look at the number on my hand, and instantly memorize it. We share a look, and just then the bell goes.

“What have you got now?” I ask.
“Spanish,” she says. “You?”
“Right. See you later,” she chirps as she turns to go. “Text me.”
“I will.” I say.

‘If I can think of a way,’ I say to myself. I remain there for a moment longer, watching her. Away she goes, meandering towards her next lesson. Gentle and carefree.  She is so lovely. And for the first time I realise how much she may mean to me. I stay there, where I am, my heart and eyes following her as she goes. Heading off towards her class; in what I’m pretty sure is the wrong direction.



March 30, 2012

Out of growls of vowels we formed our tongue
From howling sounds of hunger from the mouthings of our young
To shouts of warning, wails of mourning, rousing battle cries
The pity-seeking whimpers, the pained and pleasured sighs

From these instinctive urges our early words will form
Till language now emerges like Babel through the storm
Forefathers’ words can still be heard long after they depart
So mystical and mythical, their words outlive their heart

We scratched in stone our stories, we etched our truths in bark
From ink and quill to digital, we speak across the dark
Every generation’s lexis finds its own new webs to weave
Is it language that reflects us, does it shape how we perceive?

All the prose and poems on pages we wrote never to be read
If words aren’t shared with others, does it matter what we said?
Which came first, our thoughts or words, of what does thought consist?
Do they mutually depend upon each other to exist?

Do the verbose endure emotions the ineloquent can’t reach?
Are all our feelings raw, or do refined ones find a niche?
Is passion not as poignant when less poetically felt?
Does wot’s xprest in ur last txt mean less than wot u spelt?

Lo, archaic phrasings, doth your ancientness imbue
Our lines of love with longing which without would not be true?
And does the metre matter to the meaning of the art?
Is the beat set to repeat the pitter-patter of the heart?

Is there a rhyme or reason for the rhythms we have wrung?
Have you heard a music hidden in the rollings of the tongue?
Would syllables sing so sweetly if not for personification?
Do our hollow hearts hurt harder when we hear alliteration?

Meta-language, meta-physics, met a girl that I adore
She is calming like the ocean, what on earth’s this meta for?
She is cooling, she is gentle; yet, beware her mighty roar
I could see her sea consume me, how her waves enslave my shore

Words, my friends, you leave me, when I could never need you more
Are my fallacies pathetic, is my assonance unsure?
Are words just shields for cowards, just for books left on the shelf?
Is it rhetorically I’m asking? Do I even know myself?


February 24, 2012

Coins sat in the bar by the seat where he always sat. Not in it, but by it. Staring into the surf of his drink. Two twenty-something girls had occupied his usual corner. A blonde and a brunette. Dressed in primary colours. They were out of place in that bar and knew it. They felt awkward. As though everyone was staring at them. Everyone was. They spoke to each other in whispers and muffled giggles, looking back and forth to their touchscreens for distraction. Despite their obvious self-consciousness, there was a kind of excitement to their discomfort. All the Irish pubs they’d been in so far had been full of lively, confident men and women from around the globe. Well-dressed and comfortably hip adultescents that were closer to the present moment than any generation that had gone before. The iGeneration. This pub was not one of those places. This place was new. At least to them it was. This place was news.

“What can I do for you?” asks Philip, the barman.
“Could we have two whiskeys and one bottle of coke?”
“Sure. Ice?”
“A little.”

They had come looking for adventure and memories. They had found both. All the things that had happened, good or bad, could later be recounted as proof of having lived. Their hostel had been overbooked, and they’d had to share a room with two Japanese girls, who were equal parts fun and caution. They had kissed the Blarney Stone and lost bracelets in the process. Temporarily, at least. They had stepped up and down the Giant’s Causeway and had edged across the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. They had seen more of Ireland than most Irish people had, or would in their lives. In less than a week. Now they were on a new mission: to get lost.

“Here you are. Enjoy,” says Philip, placing the drinks before them.

The Settle Inn was a typical small town pub. Its seats were covered in green upholstery, and the stools were maroon, or at least people remembered them being that way. The lights were low, and were nestled in tulip-shaped lampshades, coloured a light brown by years of the bulbs’ heat. Philip, barman and owner of the inn, longed for new clientele. He generally had a positive outlook on life, but of late had begun to succumb to despair. A kind of restlessness was growing in him. The bar. This bar he owned. That was the source of it.  It was this place that he blamed these seeds of sadness on. Nothing he had done since taking over The Settle Inn seemed to have had any effect. The place had a mind if its own, and no redecoration could lift the heaviness that clung to it. His favourite part of each day was the morning, alone, preparing for what lay ahead. He would unload the dishwasher, checking each glass as he went, all the while looking around at the empty room imagining what it could be like. He imagined a small stage near the doorway, where singers could sing, or poets could recite. He’d have it by the front window, so passers-by would see them and drop in to have a look at what was going on.  But his plans never came off. His quiz nights bombed. The older folk complained that the questions were too hard, while the younger ones just cheated with their phones. He stopped having them after the fourth one. None had been profitable. He’d brought in a digital jukebox to liven up the place. He’d filled it with classic jazz and blues albums, indie rock compilations, Hits of the Eighties, and a whole hell of a lot of Motown, but all that anyone ever played was The Pogues.

“Where are you girls from?” he asks.
“Australia,” says the brunette.
“Ah, very nice. What part?”
“Sydney,” says the blonde.

Though the locals held the out-of-towners in disdain, everybody warmed to the tourists. Some summer nights, the local to tourist ratio was an even split. Mid-July to late August there was a buzz about the town. These were the best nights of the year. His weary regulars would rise to life, as though awoken from a great slumber. They smiled. They winked. They advised. They warned. “Throw that guidebook away, will you. It’s nonsense,” they said, regardless of the fact that they’d never read a page of one of them. The locals rose to the tourist challenge, ticking all the boxes required for stereotypical Irish folk. Hearts became deeper. As did pockets. Glasses and voices were raised to the roof. They told tall tales, broke out in ballads, and the Irishness of their English grew stronger with every syllable and every sup.

Today was not one of those days. This was winter. The end of November. The little light that came in only served to highlight the dust floating in the air. Coins sat at the bar with his head so close to his pint you could swear they were talking to each other. Jim McCudden sat reading the form in the snug in the corner. Patrick Owens and Michael Comiskey were playing draughts by the fire. The only voice to be heard was that of the TV newscaster announcing more cuts, and the occasional ‘Shower of bastards’ response from one customer or another.

“Shydney, eh?” says Coins, lifting his head from his pint and turning towards them, while at the same time looking past them. As though really talking to someone else, someone who wasn’t there.
“Wazh there Chrizhtmas,” he says and pauses, his sentence hanging on the verge of being a question, cryptic and dreamlike, until he adds, “nineteen shixty-sheven.,” and pulls himself upright into his proper storytelling posture.
“Chrizhtmas. Hotashell…  May.” He pauses again, squinting. “Or maybe Lily?”

He began his story in the middle, which is the same place he began a lot of his sentences, and some of his words. The girls listened and nodded along, as though they understood. They couldn’t. Coins’ speech was slurred when sober, incoherent when tipsy, and incomprehensible when drunk. He had been a seaman. He’d seen every port, and had a story for each one. At least he used to. Or thought he used to. It was not just his speech that had slurred, but his mind too. Places had muddled into each other over the years. Of all the cities he had seen, events he had witnessed, women who had quickened his heartbeat, and mischief he had got mixed up in; only a few fragments remained. Misremembered girls walking renamed streets of cities in which they had never been, where whatever words they had once whispered in his ear had long since faded into sweet nothings.

“Fire… she is… broke… rise up… over all over… lasht thing I saw…”

Philip translated as best he could. Having gotten used to Coins’ slurred speech over the years, he was able to decipher most words. Though the narrative still escaped hm. Not that he cared. Philip had a love/hate affair with his clientele. Summer threw up a few joyous weekends every year, but for every one of those glass-raising, spirit-lifting, heart-warming evenings, there were a hundred down-in-the-dumps, dog-tired days. He was tired of talking about the weather. He was tired of the horse races he had to show on the telly. He was even tired of Fairytale of New York. But most of all, he was tired of his regulars. The auld fellas who clogged up his bar with their mumblings and their grumblings. They seemed to soak up the daylight. No matter how sunny the day outside, or how strong the light streaming through the window, these guys always made it seem dull and rainy. He dreamed of barring them all. Let them find another bar to depress. Why did they insist on bringing their doom and gloom into his bar? He knew his regulars put off potential customers. Potentially interesting customers. The locals weren’t fond of out-of-towners. At least once a day, a couple of fresh faces would step inside the door and glance around. Philip tried to usher them in with words of welcome, but it rarely paid off. The regulars would turn, look, snort, look again, and turn back around; and the potential customers after a quick consultation with each other, would make a dignified retreat.

Philip was aware that it was the cold stares the barflies give that drove them away. The stares and the silence. A bar with ten people in it, and not a word being spoken. But, what could he do? He’d love to kick the regulars out, but at the same time they were his livelihood. Every spare penny they have ends up in his pocket. He’d go under without them. Plus, they’d never done much to warrant being barred. Besides getting drunk, incidents in The Stumble Inn were rare and easily resolved, and he could hardly criticize them for getting drunk.

“Deep clear blue. Falling. Falling,” continues Coins. His eyes are glassy and red. The girls have gone back to their touchscreens, communicating more with the hemisphere they’re from than the one they are in. Coins has lost his audience, but he goes on nonetheless. Philip slices lemons. Less listening than observing. He has heard them all anyway. And made sense of none.

“One two kangaroo. One two kangaroo,” blurts Coins, as a wet laugh breaks out on his face, down through his nose and out the side of his mouth.

Coins’ gift of the gab had long since waned from what it was. It wasn’t just that his words were incoherent. Behind the words themselves, the story itself had been eroded. Where once he would embellish his tales with fanciful untruths and colourful exaggerations, now he merely tried to tell the dull truth, and rarely got even that. A combination of senility and self-regulation had whittled away the rich tapestries of bullshit that he once wove.  What might have been seen as bawdy and bold in a man of younger years was considered lewd and lecherous in someone of his age. His cheeky charm had crept towards a vile vulgarity. His pausing, which used to be for effect, was now solely for the purpose of recollecting his train-wreck of thought. His catalogue of memories, which used to come to mind so vividly, eluded him in his ageing. The details grew cloudy and distant: names of places, and of faces; causes and effects; the reason and the rhyme; the season and the time. These things hid in the dusty cobwebs of his memory, and he could not go on till everything had become clear. And it rarely did. Neither the truth nor the lies coming to mind. Nothing but the grey between the two.

“Six feet six teeth I says,” he says, as the bar telephone rings.
“I’d love to stay and translate,” Philip says quietly to the girls, “but I don’t want to ruin the ending.” They laugh politely.
“In all the other bars on this street, there’s two more like him, and at least one worse,” he adds, picking up the receiver.

The girls returned to composing posts on their phones, so friends and family back in Sydney knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. They had wanted to find the real Ireland, the one off the tourist trail. As did everyone else. And they had duly found it and subsequently ignored it. They tried to capture it in texts, tweets, photos, and video; so that in the future they will be able to look back on the time that they had almost been here. They were here and yet not here. These present moments would become their future pasts. And unfortunately, they knew this.

Philip hung up the phone, and started wiping down the bar.

“Where else are you girls planning to get to?” he asks.
“Not sure. Any suggestions?” asks the blonde.
“Anywhere but here,” he says jokingly, but in his heart he meant it.

He was dreaming of the bar he could have had. In a city far away, where the Irish were the tourists, and the locals were vibrant and loud. Where stories were never told twice. Where people spoke in truths, and not just in gossip, rumours, and hearsay. Where folk danced on matted verandas out the front no matter how old they were. Where there was no jukebox because the customers themselves were made of music.

“Pull uz another, Phil,” says Coins, pushing his glass away from him.

Coins, too, was lost to another world. To faraway times rather than faraway places. He thought not of what he lived through or of what he had seen, but of the times when he was still able to remember what he had lived through and could reconstruct in words what of the world he had seen. Times when he could hold court with just the tone of his voice. When he could build suspense, cloak an audience in intrigue and mystery with the will of his tongue, or deliver a punchline to an enraptured bar. No one could hold a candle to him when it came to tales of adventure or of misadventure. But his wit and wisdom was not what it once was. No sooner would he begin his tale than it would start to unravel. He had told them so many times he was no longer sure of which parts he had made up, or of which he had left out. He had sifted fiction from fact and back again so often that he could no longer tell the difference.

“There you go.” Philip placed the pint down on the beermat in front of him, picking up the change that Coins had counted out.

At the far end of the bar Jim McCudden rose from his seat in the snug and wandered across the room to the jukebox in the opposite corner. He put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a pile of coins. He picked through them in his palm, dropped a couple in the slot, and returned to his seat. And soon after, once again, it was Christmas Eve, babe; in the drunk tank.


January 23, 2012

Who will wake and when
I wonder
From our slumber, from our dreams?
To find our pasts
Distilled, unmasked
While underneath their beams

Where questions we had never asked
Played out behind our eyes
Of memories of memories
Of long-forgotten lies

Who will wake and when
I wonder
In sheets of sweat and tears
For further future failures
And unforgiving fears

Not that we will remember
Nor on our hearts impressed
No lessons learned
No stones unturned
No fires in our breasts

We will fumble in the embers
For the flames in which we burned
Away the dark
For fleeting sparks
Of spirits we have spurned

Who will wake and when
I wonder
As I while away the hours
With distant sun
Insistent on
A love that wasn’t ours

As I slip towards sleep
The half-light creeps
The shadows slowly stray
Your night recedes
Into the deeds
And duties of the day

We will pass upon the stairways
In sacred silent shells
For any word
Expressed or heard
Would shatter both our spells

Who will wake and when
I wonder
When the webs are whisked away?
Whose whispers will we welcome?
Whose hearts will we betray?

I meet you on the landing
Where our two storeys cross
You blush, I yawn
My dusk, your dawn
In mourning, at a loss

Who will wake and when
I wonder
In which world will we be free?
Will I wake once more in darkness
Or will the dark be waked in me?


December 10, 2010

I have often wondered why we have friends. What they are for. I have very rarely had a conversation on any topic with one of my close friends which was as pleasant or as enjoyable as one I have had with a total stranger. In all honesty, when it comes to a discussion on almost any subject matter, the only difference between having it with a friend than with a stranger is that the appropriate rules of manners, respect, and tolerance are no longer required. And this can hardly be construed as a benefit.  Not to mention the fact that you have most probably heard and can already predict what your friend is going to say in most instances. And this only increases your own impatience, leading you to your own infuriation, which is exactly how your partner in conversation had known you would react. So all your conversations merely repeat themselves endlessly with only the levels of infuriation ever really varying. Going upwards obviously.

I had a conversation with a guy on a train not two weeks ago. Adam was his name. For three hours we talked. On a broad range of subjects. We exchanged political, cultural, and religious opinions; applauded the service on the train; philosophised about sports and the modern game; gave inaccurate portrayals of our personal lives, in which we had never been at fault; waxed lyrical about passions for which we had really only a passing fancy; passed off things we had just read earlier that day as our own long-standing positions; and god only knows what else we talked about in between. All in all, it was a most delightful conversation. Regardless of what topic we stumbled upon to. Nothing he said aggravated me no matter how much I disagreed with him or saw through him, as he was gentlemanly enough to choose to pretend to not see through me either. And I told him as he rose to depart at Midleton that I had ‘thoroughly enjoyed our conversation today’, which I had. And he concurred wholeheartedly. We shook hands firmly and he stepped off the train onto the platform. ‘What a fine man that was!’ I thought to myself. ‘Hopefully I will never run into him again.’

But friends are friends, and for reasons so far never satisfactorily explained to me; we are not permitted to dump them like you can a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Nor are you even able to ignore them like a stranger in the street. Somehow you end up being responsible for them. Despite sharing neither blood nor any other internal fluids with them. This seems to me like quite an unfair arrangement. They say you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. I remain unconvinced.

There were five of us in our poker group: myself, Ciaràn, Ricardo, Pavel, and Colm. Long-time friends. All guys. All met in college. Our poker meetings were always of a lighted-hearted fashion. Joking and jesting. Jibing and besting. The usual small-talk and gentlemanly gossip was also par for the course. We were a jovial bunch of lads by nature. At least most of the time. Especially at the beginning of the game. Though less so at the end. We tended to descend away from our naturally peaceable characters towards much more suspicious and resentful individuals as the game went on. If our games could be charted on a line graph, according to the categories of joviality and competitiveness, the graph would look like a perfect X. Joviality going downwards obviously.

I don’t remember when we first started having our poker evenings. I only really remember when I started winning real money. Before that, poker was the secondary activity. It was always ‘meeting up and (also) playing poker’. In that order of importance. The cards used not be a priority. Like scratching your balls, and watching TV.  But at some hard-to-define point the roles most definitely got reversed. The meeting/poker thing that is. As opposed to the balls thing, which as we are all well aware, could never be bettered.

Our early poker games were just for small change. No notes. Just whatever coins you could cobble together. Even still, there were continual, heated arguments about the rules when we played. It seemed it was never quite certain which version we were playing. Pavel’s aunt seemed to have brought him up playing some kind of communist version of poker whereby everyone’s bet had equal value regardless of how much money you put in. It was to prevent the rich from exploiting the poor he said. Ricardo was defiant that in Brazil certain cards were actually certain other cards at certain times known only to him. We never understood this ourselves. Ciaràn tended to deal the cards at least twice. He would miscount his deal more often than not, and insist the whole hand be re-dealt. Unless he had good cards. In which case, he would forget his “rule”, and agree to let it slide this time so as not to cause further “unnecessary inconvenience” to anyone. And Colm didn’t know any of the rules. And I’m still not sure he fully does.

Finally, the bickering and constant disputes got too much for someone – Colm, I think! – and he decided to get a copy of the official poker rules so as to put an end to our ceaseless arguing. It was a very wise decision. As we pored over the rulebook, we saw that we had all been all right all along all the time. We were all able to immediately recall situations where we had been arguing one of the points that we now had proof was part of official play. Or we remembered times when we had been so insistent that a particular aspect of play was true, and were now able to locate certain variants on the game where what we had been saying was in fact, acceptable. We each found justifications for each and every of our previous claims throughout the rulebook, and everyone was kind enough to agree to remember that things that had never happened had happened, and that things that hadn’t happened had; which was really very nice of all of us: to show our support in wilfully misremembering each other’s past actions, converting them into more righteous and justifiable acts. And this, as I have already suggested, is really what I suspect friends are for.

Nonetheless, we did at least learn the rules and stick by them. It brought about a monumental reduction in disagreements, and made our evenings a great deal pleasanter. We also bought playing chips. And a green felt for the table. We set limits on how much we would play with. Initially, it was €5 each. So the total pot was €25. Our poker evenings continued merrily in this way for quite a while, and only red wine spilled on clothes or the occasional poker or girl related fist-fight ever dampened our spirits. All things considered, we had an extremely contented year or so of poker. Sometimes we never even finished the game, and just ended up chewing the proverbial cud into the wee hours, with the overall pot left unclaimed, and not a one of us ever even thought so much as to steal it. Or in the event that the over-consumption of alcohol discontinued someone’s ability to play, never in our lives would we have dreamed of taking advantage of that passed-out opponent’s remaining money. For we were friends, and that’s what mattered. It was a nice year. Occasionally quarrelsome. But on the whole, it was very, very nice.

Over time though, the whole meeting-up aspect of cards was demoted to mere necessity. Things gradually grew more serious. And when this honeymoon period had begun to grow tiresome, the stakes were doubled to make things “more interesting”, which it did. Though it only stayed at that new level for 3 or 4 games. One evening, after we had finished, Pavel suggested raising the stakes even higher, so that the maximum total pot was €100. I wholeheartedly seconded this idea. Pavel had just lost out on the final hand when we went all-in; so while the other guys felt like they had lost a tenner, Pavel felt like he had lost the whole €50 and clearly felt the urge to recoup his losses at our following game. I also thought that raising the stakes was a great idea at the time, as I had just won that particular pot, and had suddenly become annoyed that I had only won €50, when I could have won twice as much if we had only raised the stakes a week earlier.

Ciaràn and Ricardo were less enthusiastic, and were both relieved that they had only lost €10. Colm, who was drunk and comatose by the end of the game, had nothing pertinent to say on the matter. In fact, he was drunk by the beginning of the game too. Kept shouting ‘yes’ or ‘crap’ when he looked at his cards. And lost all his money quite early in the game when he temporarily confused his interior monologue and out-loud voice; was quite clearly heard saying that he was about to “bluff” the next hand; and went all-in on a pair of hearts. What conversation he thought he had been making to us during this hand remains unknown, except possibly to Colm’s own cerebral dump. But probably not.

So the vote was split. Pavel and I were in favour. Ciaràn and Ricardo: against. Colm: asleep. Pavel was first to try to rouse him and force him to cast his vote. And wishing to resolve the matter promptly, simply tried to extract an immediate response from him.  ‘HeyColmDyathinkweshudraisethepotuptoahundredquidfornxtweek?Yeah?Whadoyoureckon?Weshould?Yeah?’ Colm looked up at him, and after presumably thinking it over very briefly so as to consider both arguments, emitted a low, but most definitely audible ‘yeah’, and then returned his eyes to their previously closed position.

‘Well, that’s that decided’, we said, and turned to pick up our coats to leave. But the boys weren’t having any of this. Ricardo accused us of manipulating our dear friend, and asking “leading questions” – whatever that means, some weird Portuguese mistranslation no doubt – which clearly wasn’t the case, and greatly offended both of our natures. We had merely wished for the decision to be made as quickly as was possible we explained. Colm had work in the morning and we thought it best not to disturb him more than necessary, as he would need to be fully alert for the day which lay ahead of him. But, they claimed we were being “blatantly and knowingly deceitful”, and insisted on re-clarifying Colm’s “actual answer”. So now it was their turn to wake Colm up and again extract his opinion.

Ciaràn shook him violently at first, and then held him very steadily by the shoulders, and keeping direct contact with Colm’s bleary, glassy, newly-reddened eyes asked him, “Do you? Colm! Look at me. Do you think? Colm, COLM! Stay with me. Do you think we should raise the pot? The pot? Colm. No, I don’t have any pot. No. No, I don’t. I don’t want any pot. The pot, for chrissakes. The amount of money we bet. Get it? The pot. Do you think we should raise the pot to 100 euro? COLM, COLM!!! Come back to me. Do you think we should raise the pot to 100 euro for next week’s game? What do you think? Huh? What do you think? Do you want the pot to be raised?’ There was a pause. His mouth opened to speak, but got closed up again before he could speak by a bit of an unexpected burp, which also contained a bit of unexpected vomit, which slipped out over his teeth and down onto his chin. He recomposed himself somewhat, and took stock of his environment. He looked about himself, admittedly in a slightly dazed fashion, not unlike an interrogatee after a 4 day, no-camera, no-lawyer, post-Patriot Act, physical questioning. And then he answered in his usual Irish drool/accent. ‘Whatever’, he said. And his face collapsed back down onto the table creating a loud face-meets-table type sound.

‘There,’ said Pavel and I. ‘So it’s settled.’

‘No, it’s not settled!’ Ricardo railed with put-on outrage. ‘He said, “whatever”, which means he doesn’t care. It means he has no opinion!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I countered. ‘It means we can raise the pot because he doesn’t mind.’

’It means he doesn’t mind if we do raise it, but equally he doesn’t mind if we don’t,’ argued Ciaràn.

This debate went back and forth for a short period. Meanwhile, Colm had slipped off the table and was lying on the floor with a bloody nose. We think this was from when his face fell onto the table, but it may have been from when his body fell onto the tiles. He was clearly in even less of a position to convey his thoughts on the issue than he had been the previous two times, and we realised it was best to settle the issue by some other means.

So we decided to toss a coin. The atmosphere of the room was again tense with competitiveness. I threw the coin up in the air. Pavel said ‘heads’. Ricardo said ‘tails’. And Ciaràn said ‘heads’. And it was tails.
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Ricardo. ‘We’re not raising the stakes.’
‘But Ciaran lost the coin-toss,’ I retorted.
‘Yeah, but I didn’t,’ said Ricardo.

‘But you can’t both play! You can’t both call opposite sides of the coin and still be on the same side of the argument!’

As anyone in our predicament would, neither Pavel nor I were willing to accept that they had won fairly, and insisted on a re-toss. So we agreed to throw it up again. This time, we made it clear who was going to call sides. Ricardo would toss. I would oversee his execution of it. Pavel and Ciaran would call sides. Ricardo picked a coin out of his pocket, tossed it in the air, caught it in his right hand and slapped it on the back of his left. Pavel called tails. Ciaran called heads. Ricardo lifted his hand to reveal the coin.

‘It’s heads,’ he declared. ‘We win. You can’t disagree this time.’
We looked at his hand.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s a real,’ he said.
‘A what?’
‘A Brazilian ‘real’. It’s our currency.’
‘How do you know which side is heads?’ we asked simultaneously. Even Ciaràn who was supposed to be on Ricardo’s side seemed uncertain.
‘I’m telling you. This side is heads.’ He assured us.
I remained unconvinced. We picked it up and studied it closely.

One side had the coin’s value, but it also had the year it was minted. The other had a design, the word ‘Brasil’, but no number saying how much it was worth. This was all very new to us. For a while, we became quite interested in this coin, the relative value in the currency compared to the euro, and current average wages in Brazil. We became distracted from our task. We learned of the huge collapse in the value of the ‘real’ in 2002, before our conversation led into a lengthy discussion on the scruples (or lack of them) of the proponents of free market capitalism, the global repercussions of its cavalier practices, and the lack of accountability or transparency currently required in the world of modern globalisation. Also, Pavel had a highly amusing story, which we had never heard him tell before, of a coin that was in his family that had taken a bullet which would have hit his great-grandfather’s scrotum, but had hit the coin instead, and thereby prevented the discontinuation of his lineage. A coin, without which, Pavel himself wouldn’t be here today. And we all enthusiastically chose to believe as fact the story that Pavel had chosen to enthusiastically believe as fact. In short, we momentarily forgot our differences and were once more returned to our good and companionable selves.

Until we heard what could only have been the sound of escaping wee coming from the unconscious sleeping, bleeding, dearest friend of ours lying on the tiles. And turning to look down at him, we saw his blue jeans, turn from a light azure, through turquoise, and on to something near indigo. This transformation beginning around the crotch, but via the miracle of capillary action managed to creep itself all the way down to his socks, into his shoes, and out onto the floor. We watched this happen with detached concern or concerned detachment. I’m not sure which would be a more accurate description. Fortunately it was his house. In truth, we always played at his house for precisely this reason. And in these types of situation, it was unanimously agreed upon that our leaving, would save both his potential embarrassment and our potential guilt.

So we went back to the original euro. We tossed it one more time, with much less tension in the air than had previously been there, and left; with Colm asleep on the floor covered in parts of himself which were supposed to be on the inside of him, but weren’t. We had won the coin-toss. We were raising the stakes to €100.

But it didn’t stop there. It was €100 for a few more games. And then it became €25 each to play for a pot of €125. We began taking it even more seriously. Getting to known the finer points of play. Studying each other’s habits. Learning tactics and gauging probabilities. Becoming fuller, better players. More professional. More ruthless. More like men.

And each time someone won, or nearly won, or just lost, or nearly lost, or won twice in a row, or nearly won twice in a row, or if someone failed to win on many consecutive occasions, or almost any permutation thereof: someone would suggest we raise the stakes. We would be divided in our opinions. Forming alliances. Vying for Colm’s vote – he never seemed to have an opinion. We’d argue. Sometimes, we’d agree to higher stakes. Sometimes, we’d keep them the same. But eventually, the stakes would be changed. Always upwards, obviously.

And before we knew it, quicker than it seemed possible, it was €200 in: €1,000 for the winner. We arrived at Colm’s house for the first game at these stakes. We were unusually punctual. Furthermore, Colm was unusually sober – one can only assume that the changing nature of our evenings had finally dawned on him. We retained the small-talk, but only as a matter of course. Our verbal tos and fros were running on automatic. We were content to merely pay lip service to the pre-poker ritual that we had cultivated in the previous two years. We dispensed with the pleasantries after a reasonably appropriate time had passed, so that nobody could have any grounds for complaining that we no longer cared for one another; and then we got down to business.

The first few hands were of little note; each man showing restraint in the early stages. There were even some remnants of non-game-related conversation, which I personally frowned upon, but was more than willing to tolerate. Drinks were few. Even Colm managed to restrain himself to a controllable tipsiness. And like this, the night edged onwards. By midnight we were all still in the game, and there was barely even a discernable leader as we had all won our share of good hands. Less than an hour after this, things had changed significantly.

Ciaràn was first out. His funds had begun to dwindle and he had had to take a gamble on a high straight, but lost out to a flush from me. He’d been particularly unlucky. He’d had a run of nothing hands, and had been caught out on a couple of pretty convincing bluffs. What really compounded his bad luck was the fact that, by looking through a glass of water which Ricardo had carelessly misplaced, I could; via the refraction of light; see his cards whenever he glanced at them. Though he briefly cursed his ill-fortune in an un-re-printable manner after losing, he was otherwise, nothing but gracious in defeat. He had played well, and there was nothing for him to be ashamed of.

Colm went out after him. In his (relative) sobriety, it seemed Colm was too cautious a player to ever have had a real chance. His erratic drunken tactics – or lack of them – had meant that he had won on many previous occasions, as his manner of play was highly illogical, and therefore completely unpredictable. It was very hard to read the thoughts of such an impulsive drunkard; especially the thoughts of someone we weren’t sure really understood the rules of play. His pile of chips slowly diminished, and he never took enough of a risk to get himself back into the game. His game ended with a whimper, though he himself appeared a tad relieved that he was now able to relinquish his restraint and finally relax. “Well, I had a good run of it there for a while,” he said, as he grabbed the (still hall-full!) whiskey bottle and took a great big gulp straight from the neck.

Pavel was next to go. I think none of us ever enjoyed when Pavel won. His post-victory smugness was an offense to the game itself. Pavel only ever won through sheer chance; unlike the commendable victories which Ricardo and I could command. He never succeeded through skill or guile like we did, but only through a continual run of beginner’s luck. Though, not this time. This time, his luck conspired against him. His inability to conceal his confidence in his cards meant that he won too little when his hands were good, and lost too much when his hands were bad. To add to his woes, the remaining players seemed unwilling to gamble against each other, appearing to take it in turns in trying to run him out of the game. And now he was out. Pavel had given it his all, and ought to have been proud of his performance; instead of being quite as vocally resentful as he was. He proceeded to express his dissatisfaction in a foul-mouthed and wholly unwarranted tirade, primarily at Ricardo and me, both of whom stoically bore the brunt of his vitriol, as we should have, as he is our friend, and we both understood that ‘these things happen’. His outburst gradually gave way to its very opposition: a stone-cold silence, which we deemed much more appropriate. We then resumed our game.

So it was down to two. Ricardo and I. Our stacks were pretty much even. He had neither as much as I, nor had I as little as him. Ciaràn dealt. A few tentative hands passed with no demonstrable advantage being gained. Until, on the fourth hand, the flop showed up a jack of hearts, a queen of hearts, and an ace of clubs. I had a jack of clubs and a queen of diamonds. Two pair. I looked at Ricardo. His face was devoid of emotion. As it always was. I had always found his calm demeanour most irritating, but never quite to the same extent as I disliked it just then. There was something recognisably inhumane about his expressionlessness or his calm. At that moment, I could not comprehend the existence of such a person. Had he no compassion for his fellow man? Did he not know how much this game meant? Not the money. Well, not just the money. But, the pride! The victory! The vindication! Why was this man trying so blatantly to come between me and what was rightly mine? I had toiled so hard to get myself into this position, and now I was sat face to face with this implacable automaton, devoid of both empathy and pity. Thus, I resolved, that for the sake of all that was good in the world; all that was just and right and fair; for all the underdogs of the world who’d never had a chance, who’d been trodden on by the cruelty and inhumanity of society; that I would beat this man! For them; but mainly for me; I would win!

The “turn” was another queen. This time: of diamonds. I had a full house.  I looked at Ricardo. He was contorting his mouth as he weighed up his options. I knew I had him. He looked over at me in thought. Then in one slow movement, with both hands, he pushed all his chips into the middle of the table. He stared back at me blankly. ‘All-in’ he said. My heart stopped. Then it raced. The blood coursed through me. I glanced again at my cards. Just to be sure. And somehow I managed to make the words ‘All-in’ come out of my mouth too. I added my chips to his and sat back to await the final card.

I looked about me. Only Colm seemed in any way interested in the result. He sat there, eyes wide, drinking the least “bloody” Bloody Mary I have ever seen. Pavel seemed unmoved and unmoving; his arms folded across his chest, a steely expression of contempt, disgust, and jealousy across his face. Ciaràn looked resolutely bored; his chin resting on his fist resting on the table; until he laboriously lowered his arm and drew it towards the fifth card to turn it over.

Ciaràn delicately turned over the river. It was the ten of hearts. My own heart was in my mouth. The game had to be mine! Didn’t it? It was surely mine. How could he beat me?  Could he beat me? Please tell me it’s mine. Oh god, to whom I have never before turned or ever will call upon after, I beseech thee, let me win! Lord of mercy, for the love of all the suffering of this unholy planet, let me have this game!

Ricardo, as calmly as ever, turned over his cards. As did I, though not quite as calmly. There was the pregnantest of pauses as we discerned whose hand had won. And then it was over.

‘Wo!’ said Colm. ‘They were close hands.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘They were.’
‘You can say that again,’ added Ricardo.

Ricardo and I shook hands, and then we all started gathering up what was ours, moving to put our glasses in the dishwasher, grabbing our coats, and what not.

‘Hey guys, what are youse doing?’ Colm asked in bewilderment. ‘Where are you going?’

‘We’re going home,’ we told him.
‘But it’s only just after one,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t anyone want to stay for a drink? Doesn’t anyone wanna stay and just talk for a while? ’

But none of us did.


February 19, 2010

Lost in endeavours, the splash of the tide
Breaks the stern as they turn, though there’s nowhere to hide
From the waves that they brave as the salty air stings
For the pots caught in knots, for the ropes in the rings

Hooked on their waistlines, and shipped from their ports
Crossed by their stars, retracing their course
For the strays of the surf, the orphans afloat
On coffins so often, the rescuing boat

So call me by name, as I call out for yours
So far, so silent; so far from the shores
The wax and the wane, the calm and the storm
Adrift in a dream, bereft, without form

But no sad-eyed trawler will breach the swell’s crest
Awash in white water, while the crooked crow’s nest
Has long been abandoned as the holds are all full
So the sky is my deck now, the ocean my hull


February 2, 2010

Christmas party in January. And not early January, but quite late. Almost February. Still, it’s a party and we’re not complaining. The Mongolian Barbeque works thus: you pick your own ingredients, the chefs cook it on a huge metal plate, and they give it back to you. It’s nice in theory, but I’m a shit cook. I don’t know how to cook. I don’t know what ingredients go well with what. My husband does all the cooking at home. I used not be so bad, but he was always much handier in the kitchen. And so, over time, the more he has cooked, the better he has gotten. And, predictably, the opposite has happened to me. Now, the only thing I can make well is toast. So leaving it to me to decide what goes in my dish is like letting one of the weakest students in the class decide what the answers to the test are. A nice gesture, but ultimately, a really bad idea.

In the queue for our dishes, Kevin whispers in my ear that he has been stuck sitting beside our director. I am aware that she is actually right behind him, and able to hear him too, but it’s hard to convey this knowledge to him discretely. He glances around, and his embarrassing gaff dawns on him. He goes instantly red. So red, I feared it might be permanent.  Irish people blush like no other people. It’s due to the depths of our shame. Our director doesn’t seem to mind though. I see her smiling to herself.

We get our food. We sit. We eat. We talk. We drink. We merry. All is well. I have always had my reservations about Christmas parties. There’s something about them that briefly turns adults back into teenagers. They are a lottery of regret. Who will wake up tomorrow regretting what? Who will struggle to maintain eye contact with which colleagues for how many weeks to come? Who will cringe the most in the aftermath? But at this stage of the evening, all is going swimmingly. I like this part. This is nice.

After our meal, in a clear demonstration of the fact that democracy does not work, we decide to go to Buskers. No one can even remember how it got into the hat, but Buskers has been chosen, and I insist, in the spirit of that very same democracy, that we respect the outcome of our own election process. Buskers is naff and full of posers. On the other hand, it is quite near. That may well be its only plus though; its nearness. Just down to Temple Bar Square, up Fleet Street, and we’re there. We enter. It’s early, and there are no bouncers at the door. Inside it is bright and offensive. Four blokes have taken up post by what will become the dance floor. They eye us as we enter, still a few shots short of courage. At the bar, the staff are bright and bubbly. Never a good sign. I get the first round. Our drinks are served and we move off, the ground flickering green and blue. I have never trusted establishments that light their floors.

After some time, and several rounds, a few of us come to realise that Buskers is not so bad, especially if you sit outside on the street. It’s quite pleasant out the front. A bit cold, but we can bear it. The music is absent and there is more to look at. It’s almost like not being at Buskers at all. In fact, had we just bought some cans and some deckchairs and sat a few metres to the right, we could have saved ourselves €20 or €30 each.

Darkness comes on as our spirits lift. Though I have no love for our employers, who treat us with such disdain, I have only affection for my colleagues who I am in this boat with. These are good folk here, and it has been good to work with them. They are people with spark and wit. Real people, with open hearts and lively minds, and I am glad to have known them.

But, alas, I am too far gone now, and I move to leave. Goodbyes are said. Hugs are given and taken, and I stumble off onto the shiny Dublin streets. I am tired and I am homeward. I take the 19a from Westmoreland St and sit up top. The bus crosses The Liffey to the North-side. The river is high this evening. On O’Connell Street, shoppers and commuters scurry along the paths. Friends and strangers, tourists and blind dates, await each other at The Spire. Already-full bins have further rubbish creatively added to their tops, like blocks removed from a game of Jenga; precariously placed. The next contributor to this collective house of cards may cause the whole tower of junk to collapse, and will therefore be responsible for all of the fallen litter, and not just his or her own entry. Them’s the rules, and everybody knows it.

I realise I am hungry again. I have drunk too much and have started feeling woozy. It is not so much hunger as a settling of the stomach I’m in need of. Something to soak up the booze. I need something bad for me. Something hot and bad for me. I want chips. A big bag of chips. No wait! Curry chips. Even better. That’s what I want. I want a tray of curry chips. I begin to imagine them. Begin to crave them. I grow impatient. Wanting them now. Wanting them immediately. My hunger increases at every traffic light that stops us. I think of where is best to get them. Where’s nicest. And where’s nearest. For the second time today, the nearness of the place wins out. I get off two stops before mine, and go to Macari’s where there is no queue. I consider getting onion rings too, but no; chips are all I’m really after. I order and am quickly served.

I leave with brown paper bag in hand. I had planned on waiting till I got home before eating them, but I am weak, and I cannot resist. Holding the paper bag and the lid underneath the tray, so as not to burn my left hand, I take the plastic fork with my other and dig in. I know it could be seen as uncouth or graceless behaviour, but I don’t care. Not here. Not in this city. I turn into my estate, and on to my road. And then, just a few houses from my own, a very weird thing happens. Between numbers 33 and 35 is a lane which runs between the roads, and a skip has been there for the past week or so. And as I pass this, a man jumps out from behind it and starts shaking himself at me. This naked guy!  Completely starkers. No mac. No towel or bathrobe. Just shoes. A pair of black shoes. And nothing else. I scream. A short, sharp, high-pitched scream. He continues to dance there with his lad in his hand, shaking it at me – it’s not erect or anything; he’s just swinging it around. And I bolt. My curry chips go flying into the air. I just run, possibly screaming, I’m not sure. I go as fast as my high heels will let me. I get to my gate, push through and run up to my door. I do not look back. I grab my purse and desperately search for my keys. I find them, get the right one, push it into the slot, turn it, enter, and slam the door behind me. My heart is racing, and I am in a suddenly sobering kind of shock.

My husband, hearing my panicked entrance, comes rushing out of the front room to me.

“What happened? What’s going on? Are you ok?”

I don’t know how to respond, but, eventually manage to tell him that I have been flashed by some guy out in the estate. His predictable reaction is to want to go out and get the flasher, and beat him up, or bring him to the police, or who knows – I’m not sure how far he had thought his plan through. He steps out the door and looks out at the road. He sees no one. Then he steps back in, and looks at me.

“What did he look like?”

I don’t know what to say. It happened so quickly.

“I don’t know. He looked… naked.”

“I mean, what kind of guy was he? Old? Young? Tall? Short? What colour hair? Anything?”

I stare back at him speechlessly. My shoulders and arms pull up into an intense shrug and I can’t think of anything at all. I guess I am still in shock. My mind is drawing a total blank. I have absolutely no clue how to describe him. I open my mouth, but can’t seem to get any words out. He stands in front of me impatiently, with a look of urgency and exasperation on his face. “What kind of guy was he!!!”, he repeats.

“What did he look like?”

“Sh-sh-shoes”, I manage to stutter. “b-b-black shoes.”


November 20, 2009

Slowly Friday slips beneath
The gravel which once was concrete
We travel nowhere down this street
As time unravels at our feet

And night comes on without alarm
It takes us in with seasoned charm
The wistful words, the twisted arm
She stays to please, but comes to harm

The orange glows conceal the hours
The hidden hands, the city cowers
Cocooned in cars and lonely towers
Marooned within these walls of ours

And yet, despite her taunts, we dare
To step unchecked into her lair
The fingers tremble in her glare
She does not fear, nor feel, nor care


November 6, 2009

Numbers. Everywhere, numbers. Passengers get on. “One fifteen” “Two twenty”. “One sixty five”. That’s all they say. No hello. Just numbers. Sometimes they question me. I respond, “No, take the 16A or the 11” and the like. Numbers. Always numbers. Letters too. But mainly numbers. I have a number also. D12. It has replaced my name. It is how headquarters know me. “D12, you’re the 39A at 7:15.” And it’s how I introduce myself to them on the radio too.

I stare out through the windshield out at a sea of license plates. Countries with their names sliced: IRL, ENG, NED, FRA. Counties gutted of their letters: CN, WW, LK, MN. They’re bringing in postcodes soon. All that clambering for upper-class addresses, and soon our homes too will be reduced to numbers.

From the table of elements’ atomic numbers to the galaxies Abell2667 and IOK1, we have numbered everything. Before me the traffic stutters forward, stopping and starting, engines quickly resuming their gentle murmurs. And the rain drifts across the day, decorating the pane in tear-like drops, trickling down the glass in ever-changing glances; rivulets joining up and moving off in larger diagonal currents. Numbers. Everywhere, numbers.


November 2, 2009

It’s funny how bright this place seems now, these fields, open and expansive. Even the woods feel light and easy, unburdened by memory, unhindered by regret. I stroll around the edge, stopping every now and then to read the names which have been carved into the barks of trees; wondering if I might recognise any. So far, I haven’t. Some are barely legible; only a vague imprint that something was once written there remaining. The trees also struggling to conceal their scars; each year falling a little further inside themselves.

It has been so long since I have been back here. My brothers – born a year either side of me: Darren, older; Shaun, younger – have long since left. As have I. We chased this place away when we could. It’s funny though; growing up we spent so much time running about these fields and woods that I keep expecting either one of them to jump out at me from where they have been hiding in the long grass, or to drop down before me from a branch above. I keep glancing over my shoulder, in case they’re coming up behind me with water-balloons.

You always had to be on your toes with Shaun. Ever-grinning, he was always up to something, and I was usually its victim – he was scared of pulling pranks on Darren, scared of how he might react. Shaun was an interminable messer. That cheeky smile fixed to his face, he was more prone to fits of giggles than anyone I’ve known. Strange how, when we meet these days, the memory and the man seem so at odds. The years have pulled down his cheeks. He smiles now only with his lips. The jokes no longer funny, his eyes grew dim.

A year and a week older than me, Darren was the rock of us. It almost seemed like he was born to be older than us, as though he had chosen the role. He was always the one with the plan and Shaun and I would follow him regardless. I remember the bridge he built. We found a log deep in the forest, a large trunk, and he pulled it at least a hundred metres along the forest floor, waded the water with it resting on his shoulder, and laid its end on the opposite bank. Shaun and I had given up after an hour; feeling ourselves to be more of a hindrance than a help. But Darren pulled that log all day, without a break, half a metre at a time. Step by painstaking step. And when it was done, he was proud. And he was happy. When he set his mind to something he could not be stopped. No matter how hard it was, or how long it took, he would not give up until he had succeeded. He never complained and he never cried. I remember how, once, while cutting roses for our grandmother, he fell into a mass of briars, and came out covered in thorns looking unrecognisable. He was so cut-up that I cried, and I could not look at him, but he didn’t shed a single tear. He didn’t even seem upset. And I really believed that he could not be hurt.

I continue walking along the track where the field and forest meet. No kids play here today. Maybe they don’t come here any longer. I go on a little further, and then stop; contemplating whether or not to venture into the woods a little. I look in past the trees, and then back out across the field. It is so much brighter here than I had recalled. Even the breeze is light. And as the sun streams down gently, I am stricken with sadness; a sense of grief, knowing I have lost something, but unable to remember what. And I steal off into the past. We catch minnows in the shallow pools; and cautiously inch across them when they freeze each winter. A fox’s den in the undergrowth; we lie in wait, us three, camouflaged, under mounds of leaves. Defending tree-huts from invasion, alliances rising and falling. In the long grass, after school; nervously; my first kiss. Her name escapes my memory, her face too.

It’s strange how far we let ourselves drift. Drifting off, and away, and apart. We were so inseparable then; my brothers and I, keepers of a sacred bond. Now we are grown, and we do not share our fears anymore. We divided them up between us, and each buried a piece.

For there are those other memories too. The ones we hid, and bade ourselves keep. The ones that Shaun could not laugh off; that Darren could not fight. Memories of hiding out here past dusk, refusing to go home; of the things we could not do then, of the things we did not understand. Feeling afraid. And over time, that fear became anger, and I could not put it out. We locked them up in the dark, and made them dull; those memories. We left them in our wake, so that they might fade. And the details slip away towards obscurity, but never fully get there. The colours dampen in the mind. Who wore what when? Who did what to whom? And in what order? These things go. Dialogue is erased, the faces are drawn blank; the light drained.

I look at the land about me, the woods, the sheer brightness of the day, the colours so vibrant in the daylight, and it hardly seems like this could have been the place.

Our memories are elusive. They paint their own past. Or cover it over. We are left with a negative; a small dark clip of the truth, and that is all that we are able or prepared to see. We are afraid to blow it up, afraid of the bigger picture. These things we have seen; they have shaped us. They direct us still. And we will keep them with us always, whether we mean to or not. So, no, we have not forgotten; but then again, nor do we remember.