by Roddy Doyle
—All set, he said.
—Wha’ did your man say to you?
—He offered to mind my card for me.
—Brilliant.
—Off we go.
And, again, I was leading. My shoulders, my muscles, seemed to protest; they were pulling me back. But I pushed through the stiffness. I didn’t turn, in case I’d see he’d gone and left me alone. I expected to hear him laughing.
We were at the corner of Wicklow Street.
—We could go this way, he said.
I kept going straight.
—Fine, he said.
He’d increased his pace and he came up beside me again.
—I’ll go with the flow, he said.
—You said that earlier.
—I was remindin’ meself, he said.
—Abou’ Jessica, I said. —Yourself an’ Jessica.
—Yeah, he said. —A pint in the International would’ve been nice.
—We’re goin’ to George’s.
—True, he said. —But en route. Wha’ was it we used to call them?
—Pit stops.
—That’s right, he said. —The pubs between the pubs.
—It’s more piss stops these days, I said.
—That’s clever.
—Jesus though, Joe, the homeless people.
—I know.
—It’s desperate.
I’d been looking at another couple in a doorway. They were both lying down, under an open sleeping bag and a damp-looking blanket. The man – the boy – was leaning on an elbow. She looked even younger; she was lying back, her head on a backpack. He was holding a thick paperback and they were both reading it. Further up the street there was a trestle table, flasks, Tupperware full of sandwiches. Like the remains of a street party – until we got up to it, and passed. There was laughter, there was friendship, I thought. But the faces – caved in, haunted, frightened, and – somehow, some of them – childlike.
—It’s desperate, I said again, quieter.
I loved the sound of the word, and the feel of the word, coming from me. I was still a Dubliner and I liked being a Dubliner, despite the homeless men and women – because of the homeless men and women, the wit of the kid back at the bank. It made no sense – it made drunken sense. I felt hopelessly angry, stupidly proud, close to crying. I felt at home. But I wouldn’t be coming home. Dublin wasn’t my home.
We were on Chatham Street now. I saw the bronze arms holding up the lights on either side of the door.
—Neary’s, I said.
—Pit stop.
—Piss stop.
—George’s is only a minute away.
—My bladder doesn’t do minutes.
We were going where I decided we were going.
* * *
—
Pubs, the world of men. There were women too. But the world – the pub – was made by men, put there for men. There were no women serving, no lounge girls, very few women sitting on the stools along the counters. Dark wood, old mirrors, smoke-drenched walls and ceilings. And photographs of men. Jockeys, footballers, men drinking, writers – all men – rebels, boxers. The women were guests. The men were at home. There was a day, I parked myself on a stool and, although I’d never sat on it before, I knew it was mine. All of the stools were mine. That particular stool was in George’s but it was the stool we found in every pub in Dublin. I’d discovered my life. The shy man’s heaven. A string of pubs, connected by streets and lanes, the streets in plain sight but secret. Poolbeg Street, Sackville Place, Fleet Street, Essex Street, Dame Lane, Wicklow Street, Exchequer Street, South William Street, Chatham Street, Chatham Row, Duke Street, South Anne Street, Duke Lane, George’s Street, Fade Street, Drury Street, Stephen’s Street, Coppinger Row, Johnson’s Court, South King Street. The streets were sometimes crowded, sometimes deserted, but only we knew why they were there, their real, hidden purpose. They got us to Mulligan’s, Bowe’s, the Sackville Lounge, the International, the Stag’s Head, the Dame Tavern, the Long Hall, the Dawson Lounge, Neary’s, Rice’s, Sheehan’s, the Hogan Stand, Grogan’s, Kehoe’s, the Duke, the Palace, George’s. The one big pub, the Dublin pub, the light, the smoke, the other men. We were men, with other men. The voices. The man at the bar of Sheehan’s telling other men – and telling us – how he’d escaped from John of Gods, where he’d been sent by his sons to dry out. His eyes watered, his hand shook as he reached for his glass, but his voice told us what lay ahead and what we already had. So this chap stands up and he says, My name’s Jim and I am an alcoholic, and another chap gets up and he says, My name’s Fergus and I’m an alcoholic as well, and then the chap sitting beside me, he gets up and he says, My name’s Paddy and I’m an alcoholic, so then it seems to be my turn, they’re all looking at me, so I stand up and I say, My name’s Tommy and I’m going over the fuckin’ wall the minute it gets dark enough. The laughter, the love, defiance. Nothing about him scared us. The voice in Mulligan’s, the deep voice that shook the glasses on the nearer tables, although it was never loud. Today’s Cunt was what we called him. He’d see us come in; he was always there. Today’s cunt is Charlie Haughey, or Today’s cunt is Leonid Brezhnev. He never repeated a name. Haughey. Brezhnev. Reagan. Johnny Logan. Thatcher. Mr T. Garret FitzGerald. Garry Birtles. Pat Spillane. Today’s cunts are Def Leppard. He worked in the Evening Press, one of the barmen told us, but he was there whenever we walked in. There was the man with the suit and ponytail who read the New Statesman. He sat for hours at the bar. He stood, he left. He ordered his gin and tonic without opening his mouth. He paid for it, he took his change. He never spoke a word. The world of men. Where they – where we – could be who we wanted to be, who and what we were going to be. Today’s cunt is the Reverend Ian Paisley. The men stepped out of a world, into their real world. The secret one. The sacred one. The one that only men knew. Today’s cunt is Billy Ocean. Everything outside was an act, an endurance. Inside the pub – that was where life was. Nothing mattered, and that was all that mattered. We entered it. I thought we’d stay there.
* * *
—
—You made it, said Joe.
—Just about, I said.
—Never pass a jacks, he said. —Advice for the agein’ man. Never waste an erection, never trust a fart, never pass a jacks.
I started to laugh, and so did he.
—The fart one’s great, I said.
—Isn’t it? Ever do it?
—Shit meself?
—Yeah.
—No.
—Same here, he said. —A few close calls, but.
—Close calls don’t count.
—That’s probably true, he said. —We didn’t come in here much, did we? Back in the day.
—Ah, we did.
—It was a pit stop, though, wasn’t it?
—Yeah, I said. —I don’t think we ever stayed here. For the night, I mean.
—No, he said. —Good pub, though.
—Yeah.
—They’re all fuckin’ good. There’s still plenty o’ good pubs in Dublin.
He’d ordered the pints while I was in the Gents. I’d checked my phone but I’d missed no calls or messages. And that was worrying me now; I wasn’t sure why.
The place wasn’t full. There were empty stools. But we stood. He picked up his pint and brought it to his face, his eyes. He looked at it over his glasses. Then he looked at me.
—Come here, he said. —It’s really good to see you, man.
I picked up my pint. It felt good in my hand. We tapped our glasses. We were careful doing it.
—Good to see you too, I said.
—Really fuckin’ good, he said. —I’m glad we came into town.
—Yeah.
I looked around.
—It hasn’t changed much, I said. —Has it?
—Don’t think so, he said. —It’s much the same.
—That’s good.
—It is.
—We’re the oldest people here, I said.
—An’ it isn’t tha’ long ago we’d’ve been the youngest.
—It feels tha’ way, sometimes.
—It fuckin’ does, he said. —Fuckin’ tempus fugit. Look at your woman over there, though. Jesus, the legs. No – sorry. She’s half our age – fuckin’ less. Jesus, though – fuck it. She’s amazin’.
I shrugged. I’d looked at her, the woman – the girl. She was lovely. They were all lovely.
—No harm, I said.
—No, he agreed. —An’ I suppose –. I think, anyway. Here’s my theory. If we didn’t notice things like tha’ – the girl there. If it didn’t make us sit up, if it didn’t give us tha’ little bit o’ joy. It’d be time to bow out, wouldn’t it? Am I righ’?
—No, you’re right.
—The one-way flight to Switzerland.
—Yep.
—One last wank an’ then the electric chair, or whatever they use over there.
—I think it might be more humane than the chair.
—I read a book about electric chairs once.
—Did you?
—I did, yeah, he said. —I can’t remember much about it. But I did – I read it. Very interestin’, it was.
—Informative.
—Fuckin’ very, he said. —An’ great pictures.
—Ah, no.
—Yeah, he said. —Nothin’ gory now. Just photographs of empty chairs, mostly. In the different prisons, like – the different states of America. They were like art. They were art.
—The chairs?
—The photographs. The chairs too, but. They’re spectacular an’ – the straps.
—I used to think wha’ made them really frightenin’ – and fascinatin’ as well – was tha’ they were nearly like ordinary chairs.
—That’s righ’ – you’re right.
—Big armchairs tha’ were designed by a chap who could only design kitchen chairs.
—That’s it, he said. —Brilliant. Anyway, I don’t think I’d mind goin’ ou’ tha’ way. An electric chair made in Switzerland would be high-end, by the way. Well worth the fare.
—You don’t have to go all the way to Switzerland to get yourself electrocuted.
—Tha’ might be missin’ the point, though.
—The trip is part o’ the – the process, is it?
—I think so, yeah. The journey. A day shoppin’ in Zurich, then the chair.
We were glowing – I was sure we were glowing. We were fresh again, young again, hilarious. In the world of men – even though there were more women in the place than men. And that, somehow, made it even more a world of men. We were the men at the bar.
He drank. He swallowed.
—Good pint.
—Good pint.
—Good pub.
—Very good pub.
—Good to be here.
—Yeah.
—I haven’t forgotten.
—Wha’?
—I was tellin’ you somethin’.
—About Jessica, I said.
—Abou’ me an’ Jess, that’s righ’.
—You go with the flow.
—That’s right, he said. —It sounds flippant, like I don’t care – I couldn’t give much of a shite. But that’s not what I mean.
—That’s not what I thought, I told him.
I was liking him. I was remembering him. I was happy here. I tasted my pint. It tasted good – it felt good.
—I love her, Davy, said Joe. —Simple as tha’.
—Okay, I said. —Good.
—Simple as.
—Okay.
—Trish says that a lot.
—Wha’?
—Simple as.
—Okay.
—A dam burst, he said.
—I don’t get you.
—Just tha’, he said. —I saw her –
—Trish?
—Jess, he said. —Fuck off. No –. No – shit –
—You’re fine, I said. —I understand. You’re not dis-missin’ Trish.
—No.
—Go on, I said. —You were sayin’ abou’ Jess. G’wan.
—I’ve forgotten wha’ –
—The dam burst.
—I saw her, he said. —That’s right. In the school. An’ the dam burst. The thirty-five years or whatever. Thirty-seven. The missin’ years.
—Missin’?
—Kind o’, yeah, he said. —I’m not denyin’ I’d a life – a good fuckin’ life, by the way. I’m not sayin’ tha’ for a minute. My kids – fuck me, I’d die for them an’ that’s not the drink talkin’ now.
—No, I know, I said.
I wanted to agree with him, I wanted to follow him. I wanted to get this finished.
—An’ Trish, he said. —We had a good life. I love Trish – I really do. If she walked in here now, I think I’d start cryin’. I love her. So, like, I haven’t been sleep-walkin’ around the last four decades. Or – what’s the other one? Livin’ a lie. I haven’t been livin’ a lie. I’d never fuckin’ claim tha’.
He was looking at me and listening to himself, to what he was saying. I was his mirror.
—I know tha’, I said.
—If I could work it, he said. —If we could arrange it –. An’ actually, I’m sure we eventually will. It’ll be grand. I think it will. But I hate not seein’ the kids. I hate, like – tha’ they’ve turned against me. An’ I don’t blame Trish for that either, by the way.
—No.
—But –. Anyway.
—Goin’ with the flow, I reminded him.
—Well, he said. —I wish I’d never said tha’. To be honest with you.
—I think it was me said it.
—Was it?
—I think so, yeah.
—Well, it sounds terrible, he said. —Not wha’ I meant at all. What I feel.
—You said, the dam.
—The dam, he said. —That’s right. The fuckin’ dam. Good. This is what I mean. What I mean is – bear with me, Davy.
—I’m here.
—Good man. So. When I met Jess, it wasn’t –. The dam didn’t burst, exactly. It was more, the water level rose. Like a lock in a canal. A lock more than a dam. The lock gate opened an’ the water level rose. Everythin’ filled in, if tha’ makes sense. The lock – like. It’s the years between seein’ Jess in George’s back then an’ seein’ her again. It was empty –
—Empty?
—Not empty – fuck it. This isn’t perfect, what I’m tryin’ to say. Not empty. Why did you interrupt me?
—I didn’t interrupt you.
—Ah, you fuckin’ did.
—Lads.
It was a barman, a tall young lad with a white shirt and a dickie bow.
—Sorry, I said.
—Keep it down, he said.
—Yeah, sorry, said Joe. —We’ve had a few, you know.
—No problem.
—We’re harmless, said Joe.
—I can see that.
We were twice his age and we probably reminded him of his father, or his grandfather. He moved away from us.
I waited a few seconds.
—Sorry, I said.
—Okay, said Joe.
—I didn’t interrupt you, I said. —I didn’t. I was just lookin’ for clarification.
—Clarification?
—Yes, Joe. You know what it means. You said the lock was empty.
—Fuck the lock – fuck the fuckin’ lock.
He was keeping his voice down. He was smiling.
—This is hopeless, he said.
He looked for his pint on the counter, then saw that it was in his hand.
—For fuck sake.
He laughed.
—Jesus, he said. —How did tha’ happen?
—Wha’?
—How did I not know it was in me fuckin’ hand? We’re not tha’ drunk. Are we?
—I’m grand.
I held up my pint.
—Mine’s here, look it.
—Good man.
—The empty lock, I said.
—God, you’re such a bitch, said Joe.
—Well, you dug the fuckin’ thing, I said.
—I read a book about tha’ once as well, he said.
—Russian prisoners diggin’ a canal. Political prisoners. Durin’ Stalin’s time, before the war. A huge fuckin’ thing tha’ turned ou’ to be useless. Thousands o’ men were buried under it. Fuckin’ thousands o’ them.
—The empty lock.
—It wasn’t empty, he said. —It was just full o’ the wrong liquid. No – fuck. Let’s just abandon the canal. This isn’t makin’ me happy.
He wasn’t joking. The glee, the messing, the drunk intelligence – they were gone. He looked tired. He even yawned.
—Sorry, he said. —Sorry.
He turned his pint on the counter, an inch, another inch.
—I’ve changed, he said. —But I keep forgettin’.
—We all change, I said.
—Well, I’m sure that’s true. But I hate hearin’ it.
—Why?
—It makes it harder to explain the thing, he said.
—It’s as if it’s a thing that happens to every man. We were talkin’ about it earlier, weren’t we? A midlife thing. Or post-midlife. Or whatever it’s called – if it has a fuckin’ name. But, look it. I give up.
He looked at the counter. He looked at the floor. I looked at him looking at the counter and at the floor. He looked at the counter and he looked at me.
—She isn’t happy, Davy, he said.
I said nothing. I wasn’t going to interrupt. I looked at him. He was moving.
It was me. I was the one moving, swaying from foot to foot. Moving to a slowish song I wasn’t hearing. I stopped. I put a hand on the counter. Anchored myself.
—No, he said. —I don’t think she’s ever been wha’ you’d call happy. Isn’t that terrible?