CC8: Harps and Violins

Another banger went off next-door and a young guy dropped his pint with the fright, getting an uproar of response.

‘Fucking students!’ Geary, with a snort.
‘How do you know he’s a student?’ I asked.
‘They’re always dropping their pints when the bangers go off.’
‘He’s the first one I’ve seen dropping a pint.’
‘There’ll be more. Just you wait.’
‘What do you think that sort are studying?’
‘Which sort?’
‘The ones dropping their pints when the bangers go off.’
‘They’ve all degrees in idiocy probably. Anyway, Emer says you’re writing a book, Paul.’
‘Yeah, kind of.’
‘Well, good on you.’
‘It was her idea. She put me up to it.’
‘She’s the cat’s mother,’ said Emer.
‘Oh, I’m sure she is.’
‘Well, it’s good,’ Geary. ‘A good way to keep yourself busy.’
‘In these dry days, eh?’
‘Well, you know what I mean, at least you’re doing something.’
‘Industrious?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t see my bank account growing.’
‘Ah well, you shouldn’t look at it that way. Think of it more like a hobby to keep yourself ticking over. What’s it about?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Are we in it, you bollocks?’ asked Carol.
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you get the next round or not?’
‘You fucker. Fine, I’ll get the next few, but you better not make me out to be a skanky whore in it.’

Emer suggested I write a book while on the dole since it wasn’t looking like work would materialise any time in the foreseeable future, with all the layoffs and closures pounding the country hard. She used to dare me to do it all the time whenever I started giving that father of hers a rough time of it.

‘I fucking dare you,’ she said once.
‘Okay.’
‘Go on ahead.’
‘Okay.’
‘Make a fucking million.’
‘Okay.’
‘Give us all a good story.’
‘Okay.’
‘Sure they might make it into a film.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fucking Harry Potter and the Gobshite.’

Then one day, when she was being sympathetic, she said

‘You should do it. You should try to write a book.’
‘Right. What could I write about?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Not going to make any money doing that, am I?’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’m sure you can come up with some kind of a story, and then just spend some time developing it.’
‘A story.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you could put together a good story. You’re smart when it comes to that. Based on the stuff that comes out of your mouth when we’re watching TV, I think you’ve got your head on your shoulders in terms of the genres and formulas in these things. Who knows? You might even write something worthy of being made into a film, eh?’

Ever since she said that however, she’d been fairly condescending about the whole thing. I suppose she was right to be because most times I’d be sitting at home watching DVD’s instead of writing the fucking magnum opus. She knew it, so whenever she came home from work, she’d make me feel like shit about it. I’d give back as good as I got, of course. How can I write a book if everyday you’re moaning about something or other, I’d say. You’re not inspiring much confidence, love, I’d say. Ah throw away your violin, Jackie Chan, she’d say. It’s not much use to you. Go back to your day job. I would if I could, I’d say. Anything to get you off my back. Harping on like a nacker-yard Stradocaster. That’s a guitar, she’d say. Oh? I’d say. Yeah, she’d say.

‘Did I ever tell you about my book?’ Geary.
‘Yeah, I think you mentioned it before.’
‘Blood Kill.’
‘Yeah.’

I counted at least three of my generation’s neglected authors as I entered McManus’s earlier, including Geary. Standing at the bar when I first came in, Richard Fox, responsible for ‘Wheelchair Jesus and the Shitstorm’, reputedly based on the life of John Carroll. And sitting across from us in the beer garden, Marshall Sheehan, the man behind ‘A History of Megadeth.’