2.
A number of years ago, I gave into the softened approach, relaxed my judgmental inclinations towards the folks of the world. I’d since relieved my character of this restriction and returned to the judgmental ways of old, so I had no difficulty seeing into and through these people for their hollowness and gall. They were sitting around Emer laughing and joking customarily, but I could perceive the moments they shared between themselves did not include her, and were based on mutually disparaging silent reflections. Although I couldn’t peer inside their brains to observe their unvoiced opinions, I was confident of a number of things regarding their thoughts on me and Emer. For instance, I could see they were disturbed by our marriage and probably talked about it all the time when neither of us were around. They figured we’d gotten married way too early, maintained we should have waited a few years before that. A common feeling amongst those our age. People didn’t get married so early anymore, they tended to give things time to develop, as opposed to moving into wedlock before a comfortably long-term arrangement had been established. The only people who got married so hastily were those with enough money to cover the inevitable divorce costs – Hollywood newbies, front page floozies and the like. Twenty years ago, our youth wouldn’t have been an issue for anyone. Far from it. In fact, back then, we may instead have been denounced for waiting too long before actually going through with the ceremonial nonsense of it all.
Another thing I knew they thought about was our sex. I could see it in their faces, in both the male and female faces. When the individual is confronted by a confirmed couple, the individual is always given to ponder the act of their coupling. On top of this, Emer and I always had a certain amount of status, especially at that time in and around the wedding, so I’m sure there were those teased by the white fantasy and purity of it. And considering we’d only been married two years, those fantasies were probably still lurking somewhere in the back of their heads.
‘How long is it since you were laid off now, Paul?’
Bastard Geary.
‘A month, just gone.’
‘Ah. Shitty.’
‘Yeah, shitty. Just shitty.’
Geary had aged in the face and hair, but he was dressed almost exactly as he would have been in this very pub ten years ago. I pictured him in this very pub ten years ago. Yeah, he was just the same. A long grey coat and blue shirt, then and now. And with the nose like Staunton’s wolfhound’s cock.
Geary beat me to the role of the Pied Piper in our school play years ago. I got the part of the Narrator. I remember people telling me how great it was to be the Narrator, but Narrators didn’t do anything but talk. I wanted to be in on the action. The Narrator just remarks on the action. What a boring part to play. Here I am again, I might add, the Narrator. It’s all I’m good for. That’s why you’re getting this story in a book. If I was good enough, you’d be watching all of this in a movie, quietly content, and happily letting it sweep past you without concentrating so much, your hands free to eat hot dogs and drink a coke, and not busy turning pages.
‘Where’s the party tonight, Carol?’ asked Emer, interrupting talk of my job loss. She was deft at converting the subject if it was something she couldn’t be bothered listening to, or talking about. She had some knack for it, I should say. For when she derailed the subject, people were actually attentive to whatever it was she wanted to talk about.
‘Paudie’s,’ replied Carol, emptying the salty ends of a Pringles tube down her throat. ‘Ha ha, Mr. Pringle. Down my throat.’
‘How’s Paudie? Haven’t seen him in ages. ’
‘Ah, he’s a fucking gobshite, sure, you know.’
‘Does he still have his decks?’
‘Yeah, he still plays all that crap.’
‘Is he still going with Orla?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ah, that’s great. Haven’t seen her in ages either, how’s she doing?’
‘A fucking mad thing, she still is, you know.’
‘Ah.’
A banger went off in the garden next door. It sounded like it blew a hole in an elephant. Everyone laughed. I’d just about shit in my jeans. A girl sitting across from us looked at me like she could smell it. What’s your problem, missus? I was close to shouting over, but then Geary said
‘Remember Stephen O’Hanlon?’
‘Yeah, from school. Scarface, yeah?
‘Yeah.’
‘Nutcase.’
‘Yeah, he died.’
‘Jesus, how?’
‘He crashed his truck into a wall trying to rob an ATM machine. Well, that’s what they’re saying anyway. A few others are saying he was in love with this sexy Korean girl and when he found out she was a nun, he crashed his truck into the wall in a desperate stupor.’
‘Poor bastard. Is that the Korean girl I’ve seen walking around town, always wearing sunglasses?’
‘Yeah, she’s hot, isn’t she?
‘Oh yeah.’
‘It could be true, you know. Stephen was a bit like that, a bit sensitive.’
‘I always had him for the type who’d try to rob an ATM machine, to tell you the truth.’
‘I wonder if she really is a nun?’
‘Who the fuck-nose?’
I’d heard Emer talking about going to a party earlier, so I began to worry a little. I could foresee an argument over whether we should go or not. I didn’t like the people at her friends’ parties. They were all drug-heads in the bohemian-design who thought much of themselves and others until it all got out of hand and they stabbed you in the heart with a screwdriver one night. She knew I didn’t like her friends, and made much of arguments relating to the matter, so we’d be running around the pub in no time, if I didn’t get a suitable excuse in order.
‘We’ll be going to this party in Paudie’s later,’ she said.
‘Ah, right, yeah.’
I would allow it to sit with her as she downed more vodkas. She was certainly doing away with them this evening.
‘And your father’s on the front of the Democrat this week, eh?’ Geary said to her.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she answered, taking another gulp.
‘Yeah, he’s there, talking about the motorway or something. I didn’t get to read it all actually. I just saw his picture on the front. He was standing on a bridge, overlooking the new motorway. Don’t know what it was about, but he looked pretty cool.’
‘The Democrat, there’s a fucking rag for you,’ said Carol.
Emer’s father had five books of poetry published, and often appeared on RTE radio, discussing the arts sometimes and occasionally reading his poetry. A celebrity in Dundalk, he was a singular presence at any council meeting, or, what do you call them, noteworthy functions. He was not an amicable gentleman, but evidently clung to his eminence and sold his apparent genius left, right and centre. How Emer lived with him for so long, I don’t know. At the wedding, he chose to ignore my family and I could read his condescension a mile off during those moments when he was made to be around them. That said, he’d appeared happy about our marriage, even once telling me that I might one day be a man he could respect if I could make a few million. A million, I told him, would be nice, but a few of them, I couldn’t see that happening ever. He would often spend hours out at Cooley sitting on a ledge somewhere writing bloody poems about how green the fields were and how blue the sky was that day. I could never understand those fucking poems. The sky was never blue in Dundalk. It must have showered the shit off itself every time his lordship showed up with his moleskin notebook.
‘On the motorway, was he?’ I said. ‘Caught by the cameras, eh? Jesus, I hope no-one was hurt.’
