CC 83: The Pilgrim Punk in Her

Was it a charlatan he was, or just a forsaken outlander, riff-raff from the vulgar reaches of society? Marred by dyslexia and drug addiction, he’d been kept from entering the elite huddle, even though he’d expressed his eagerness to have that happen.  An uncle had once told me that poltergeists were elemental presences, fated to remember painfully evermore the hardships from their time in the world, so this is why we had to put up with their ructions.  The disenfranchised in life got their own back when the lights went out.  I began to question what knowledge I had of the poet.  Clearly little had remained in town of him to be remembered, and it seemed now this was due to the notoriety.  It upset me that of all words paid to his memory, most were negative:  charlatan - drug addict – thief - criminal.  Nobody had anything good to say about him.  They wanted him wiped from the books entirely. 

How many past vagabonds were now haemorrhaging on the streets once again, bleeding grey streams in the fog?  Back to remind the town of the nuisance they’d once been.  Back to take some revenge on the social structure which they’d rejected, and which had rejected them.  In many cases, it wasn’t clear who rejected who first.  But the last laugh was with the phantoms.  You’d pity the winos and nackers, but up close in the moment, when they got in your face with their shaky forms and stink, you’d fill up with disgust, and wouldn’t be running to the confession box afterwards.  The very next day however, you’d weep surely when you read about the one who froze to his death on the kerb.  Meanwhile, the hollow houses, built by shifty developers and sordid politicians like James Douglas, continued to sit there unused in sullen dummy estates across the country; homes now for those who would never have been invited when they were alive.

‘I’ve heard some talk about him being killed before,’ said Francie.  ‘Heard a rumour about the IRA doing him in or something.’

‘I heard that too.’

‘It’s bullshit.  They wouldn’t have bothered with him.  He was just a junkie at the time, and mostly hidden away from the streets.  You’d hardly see him at all.  And anyway, why would the IRA try to make it look like a train had hit him?  They weren’t known for their artifice.  Doesn’t make sense for them to be involved in what happened to him.’ 

‘Sad to think he’s now just fodder for the gab.’

‘Not at all.  He’d love it.  That chap wanted to be noticed from the very beginning.  Most of us do, don’t we?  It’s a pox on a man who gets lost in a town the size of this one.  It’s easier to disappear in a big city like Dublin – he would have been better off there, I think.  There’d be more drugs for him anyway, and way more stuff to rob.’

Emer suddenly yelped as her glass tipped the arm of the couch, bringing some wetness to it. 

‘Wreck the place, why don’t you?’ joked Paidi.

‘Sorry,’ said Emer to Francie.

‘Ah, forget it, will ya.  What is it, beer?  This furniture has seen its fair share of spillage.  If you look closely at your seat, you’ll see it’s smiling.’

‘Here, I better go to the kitchen,’ she said, getting up from the couch.  ‘I got some on me.  Should dry it up.’

As Emer went to the kitchen, I noticed Serena Hearty’s infamous snake twisting and slithering in the room, but it wasn’t hunting for Emer, or myself; it was coiling around Jane and tightening for the strangle.  I was left with little doubt that this was because Francie showed much interest in Jane; he was constantly leaning behind Geary’s back to share a secret quip and giggle with her.  I’d not considered Jane’s charms before, but I could see why Serena might have been feeling a tinge of jealousy; she could be very cute when wearing her manufactured punk chic in a certain way.  Though her clothes were often a modern travesty of the style, there remained something punk about the way she carried herself – the clothes were just overdoing it.  She could have been dressed more prudishly, like a North American pilgrim or something, but there still wouldn’t be any way of hiding the punk in her.  What a thought.  More than one man loved that pilgrim punk in her.  I can remember in the early days, when Emer was at college in Dublin, a bunch of us went up to join her for a show with some local punk bands playing.  Jane was there, and she was the only one who liked the music, one band in particular anyway.  After the show, I started going on about how the band she liked weren’t punk at all, that they were just a pop group dressing up as punk, and Jane got really mad at me.  She asked Emer if it was okay by her if she punched me in the face.  Emer said yeah.  And Jane punched.  I didn’t expect it.  The band were still shit, but I kept my opinion to myself after that. 

‘Here, I’ll come with ya for a wee natter in the kitchen,’ Jane said, rising to join Emer, perhaps aware that Serena’s snake was on the loose.

‘Girls will be girls,’ laughed Francie.

‘Don’t be so fuckin sexist,’ said Serena.