Curracloe

Little one for the summer...

Curracloe

The cars looking for parking and granddad saying out past the sand bank are basking sharks. That he used swim with them out in Dungarvan and he gives a wink. Young lads green coming off the waltzers and through the P.A. there’s a seat left on the Future Dance. The roar of holiday money thrown to chippers and arcades, pin balls smashing records. And in the marram grass the big fella is climbing up on the missus, half clothed the big red neck on him. Little men with ice cream snots dripping off the top lip shouting and bawling as a skinny chap in atomic green togs, water to his ankles, wonders the point of it at all. And granddad says they’ve no teeth on them but by Jaysus they’d swally ya whole. And now the big fella, covered in lumpy sweat apologizing to the missus, just gimme a few minutes says he and I’ll be ready again, the sand plastered up his inner thigh tearing the hole off him. Mothers with sun screen palms and everyone trying to make memories, forcing too hard, some. But we lie down and bask in it all, melanomas and our skins not able. And there he is now a little bit further out, shaking with the cold and the waves turning black. The chap in atomic togs swimming with sharks.

VAN CITY 2

These are barely edited, jaysus they're as raw...enjoy it anyway


VAN-CITY 2

May as well be times square for a Wexford boy. Streets gridded across each other and buildings so tall you go ant like. But god love them these poor lads don’t know how to name places at all. Future Shop one of them was called and Chronic Tacos was another. There’s a dose of punky looking one’s begging for money with a cardboard sign that reads: Too honest to steal, to ugly to whore. The tranny goes by sitting in the back seat of the squad car and I throw a quarter, or a dime or, a nickel down. No idea. The tiredness of the world is heavy and I duck into Bulldog Coffee ordering an Americano. The coffee’s two dollars but I get charged twenty cents more. I’m about to start something but then I remember the tax. I sit down by the window and open a book about enlightenment. I’m trying to understand it but it’s tough going like. Full of these stories that don’t make sense and how you’re already enlightened and if you strive to be enlightened you won’t be enlightened. If you meet the Buddha on the way kill him. But I keep at it and if I’m truthful I don’t understand a word. That’s the point the book says.

                When I get back to the hostel Beano’s after leaving a message in with the dudey-man that sold him the mushies. It doesn’t say much:

                Couldn’t hack it man, went home. Good luck.

                So that’s that, half way around the world by myself with three full packs of lexapro and two grand.

                You’ve never seen Guinness poured as quick and those country boys aren’t lying it doesn’t fucking travel. Nearly eight quid for the pint before tax and yer one has the gob open for tips all afternoon. And don’t even start about the pub, a ‘sports bar’ with some eejit on the telly spinning the handle bars of his BMX. Beano’s probably waiting on a plane now, heart sunk on his ma’s dinners. Might even be right what?

                It’s six when I get back to the hostel, eyes jet lagging, wankered on four pints. Leonard’s gone and it’s just me in the room. Nicer jails out there I’d say. Four green bunks, four lockers and a wooden floor. Walls are just stacked bricks like the dorms back at DCU. I drop two sleeping tablets, an antidepressant and wait to fall asleep. My heart starts hurting like it sometimes does, those sour pints of Guinness turning bad in me. Sadness looming, the heart tighter, sure what have you to be moaning about? Half way around the world and a small fortune. I’m reminded of my own weakness born of nothing in particular. I fall asleep gasping and fart some stout.

VAN CITY

gonna turn this one into a short story but right now it's kinds working as flash fiction.

VAN CITY

The air hostess brought me four party cans, one after another before I dropped two sleeping tablets. Twenty minutes later Beano taps me on the shoulder saying to come to the tail of the plane and look at all the ice. He asks me why I’m stumbling and I give him two sleepers. The nine hour flight to Canada breezes by, us with our heads dog-like at the windows and half closed eyes. Beano starts talking to some contractor who tells us he can set us up with a tree planting company if we ever go to Alberta. He’s slurring his words though, the sleepers coming on strong and him going on about how he’s republican out and out. I interject, try and keep the old boy onside should we ever decide on Alberta. I don’t remember the rest of the journey. Beano and me head to the luggage bay after the landing and he goes:

                “Jaysus boy you were slurring your words some bad back there.”

                The lad on the desk at the hostel asks if we want some dried mushrooms. Mexican he says and scratches his stubble, dandruff in his hair. Just the room I say and Beano says fuck it, takes two stalks worth heads on them like UFOs. There’s no elevator to the rooms, I manage lugging a two year visa worth up the stairs, arms cramped up and raw. Each room has a flag painted on the door, I’m staying in Argentina with a Swede called Leonard. He’s a fifty odd chap, smell of money off him too flicking through pages on a tablet. Hello I say, realising how long it’s been since I used that particular word to greet anyone. Yup, Story, Craic, newly useless. He smiles and puts his head back to the screen, half eaten apple there like a medal. I take another sleeper out of my bag wash it back with a sup of water and my antidepressant. I fire everything into my locker and lie on my bunk the springs moaning with pressure.

                In the morning there’s still no sign of Beano. I head down to the restaurant for a free breakfast, rashers me hole, bacon like a bag of tayto. Fucking bagels and something called wonderbread. The apples are savage though to be fair. The waiter comes over to me and starts going on about bagels with jelly and cream cheese. “Cheers” and he stands there eyeing me like the conversations not done. Okay then he says and fucks off. It’s playoff season and the Canucks are doing well, a pride parade is due next week and its ten years since they caught Robert Pickton. They nabbed him before he had a chance to do his fiftieth prostitute, bits of the rest of them out with the pigs. I walk out onto Granville St, and there’s two hoores boxing the chops off each other by a greyhound bus. I watch from a safe distance, they both look crack hungry, one of them muscled and toned. Square jaw tense as she’s throwing another dig and then I see it, all because her skirts riding up her leg. The little mickey head-banging between her thighs. The cops pull in and break it up, stick the made up fella in the back seat the other one crying out loose teeth.

                Van-fucking-couver sahn.