to the groups going out for nightcaps, he is nobody; a mere extra in the television show of their night. his presence only clouds their vision of the next bar, where they’re going to get drunker than a sot and slam pints of murphy’s.
by the performers, he is a listener; he entangles himself in the crowd of half-sober locals and apprehensive tourists losing themselves in the slippery fiddle and the bubbly accordion.
and in the smoke room, he is a therapist, someone who listens to the drunk germans and drunk italians pour like a tap about their grandparents’ health and how they’re being exploited at their jobs at the construction site. he kindly gives them back their pouches of tobacco they mistakenly drop on his table.
to the street-sellers, the jewelry-makers, he is an opportunity. they speak in their foreign accents and worldly tongues as they point to their creations of silver and stone. the street performers grill their guitars and puff their pennywhistles to the great beat and bustle of life all around and flash their ample smiles when he drops a crumpled euro into the tin can.
in the pubs, he’s a celebrator. someone whom you imbibe with, someone to shout with, someone that listens to the cries of “eirinn go brach!” and “pog mo thoin!” he becomes equilibrium in the coldness of alcohol and the warmness of people and his mind goes as foggy as dawn in the rolling hills to the western irish coast.
and to the nighttime, he is a drinker. the sound of music bleeds out of every pub like the block’s own merry, drunken symphony. the concoctions of guitar and fiddles, accordions and whistles mix together to make this grand cultural cocktail that inebriates him more than guinness ever could.
by the buildings, he is a seeker. he explores the rustic buildings with rigor, buildings that are older than his country. he finds all the hidden gems; quaint knit shops where the kind old women ask where he’s from as he puts a hank of lambswool on the counter for purchase.
to the city, he is an observer. he notices the beautiful plated fountain with the historical plaque providing shade for the lovers underneath. college students, newlyweds, and tourists bask in the sun in the park, resting on the crunchy emerald grass.
the horn honks of impatient drivers amuse him, because the thought of a tour bus slithering through grafton street, being slowed down by the great tumult of life, is ludicrous. the cries of “slainte!” worm their way into his heart.
to the city, he is many things, he is another welcome in a hundred thousand welcomes. cead mile failte! he is another character, another pawn in the great tale of the city, another set of footprints worn into the boundless cobblestone.
McCallum High School
10
