You meet such interesting people in dark alleyways.
Take, for instance, the man who was out drinking with his daughter last week. He was a large man, probably in his sixties, with short grey hair and stubble. He wore wire-rim glasses and a tan coat. And I can only guess at the amount of alcohol he had consumed that night, but it was enough to make him eloquent in his wisdom.
He spoke of the economic downturn that had sent him and many others to find work in Leeds, England. While everyone who wanted to work left the country, those who stayed behind sponged off welfare, or the dole, as it’s called here. Then, when immigrants from Poland came to work the jobs the locals wouldn’t take, they got the impression that the Irish were, as he called them, “lazy b–tards.” So in other words, Ireland isn’t that different from America.
He warned us against the evils of drink, and that once we start down that road, it’s incredibly hard to stop. “You drink, and it kills the pain,” he said. “You do things to your body that you shouldn’t do. Then you drink more to kill the pain.” The end of the cycle, he told us, was himself. His body was so destroyed by drink that he won’t have long to live. And then he told us that the best choice in whiskey is a black bush.
He pointed out the fact that a decorative sign hadn’t been there a few nights ago. “Probably just rubble behind it,” he said. He probably didn’t mean anything deep by it, but looking back at it, especially after Belfast, it’s a telling symbol of the Northern Irish state, covering up the scars of conflict with pretty new murals and fancy shops.
But the most moving moments were when he talked about his daughter. “She means the world to me,” he said with a trembling voice. “And I’d never tell her that.” It was a startling image, this father, so full of love and so unable to communicate that love. It made me more aware of how hard it is for me to share my feelings with others, and how that might not be such a great thing after all.
As we said goodbye, he gave us each a hug and a kiss on the cheek. True, it was a little awkward coming from a drunken stranger, but in a way, I feel as if I knew him well, or at least that I would have liked to know him better. But we went our separate ways, and all I have are memories of a man lost in an alleyway.
“Covering up the scars of old conflicts with pretty new murals and fancy shops.”
This might be more true than you know: have you heard about this?
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/06/01/fake-shops-g8-northern-ireland_n_3372270.html
Beautiful.
[…] my persistent nightmare, my discovery of Ireland, the absurd legend, a particularly mushy post, my encounter with the natives, and a metaphysical discussion on the human condition and on writers that would do Chris Warman […]