This week, our columnist encounters an ex-prisoner, neighbours who are emigrating, and a doctor who tells him to keep taking the pills
HE MISSES his signing day. Down on the beach with his daughter, and dog, when he remembers. Panics and phones: someone in the dole office picks up, and hangs up, repeatedly. For the rest of the day. Next morning, he queues to explain his predicament. A civil servant requests his signing card, fetches it back at him: “Monday. Hatch two.”
Why exactly did he miss his signing? He’d like to say that when days are empty, it is surprisingly easy to forget (everything).
“I had to attend a funeral.” The servant commiserates. And doesn’t mark him absent – three such events and he’d be stopped a day’s payment.
****
A man with sickly white skin is being asked when he last signed? “Five year ago,” he says, loudly, as if trying to create an audience.
“What have you been doing?”
“Workin’ out. Watchin’ telly . . . ” Cackles from the queue. The official taps the glass: “Sir? What have you been doing for the past five years?”
“Amn’t I after bleedin’ tellin’ ya: I was locked up.”
The ex-prisoner has a posse gathered round. He flips a mobile, scrolls up images of what the unemployed man presumes must be a new-born.
“Many is that, Jay-O?”
“Five.”
“By five different birds?”
“Nah. Two by the first.”
“You’re some man, Jay-O.”
Some clown, more like. The admirers slope away: “We’ll buzz off ya later, alrigh’ bro?’’
Jay-O seems unsure what to do with his new-found freedom. Then realises he is being stared at; by some bloke unlocking a motorbike.
“I owe you money?”
“In a way: all those kids, all those unmarried mothers . . .”
Jay-O’s jaw drops: who is this muppet? He moves forward with intent. The unemployed man stands up, fast. Jay-O takes stock: six two, nasty chain in his oversized mitt. No fear in the eyes. Mutters something about the ancient biker not being worth it. Then, after flicking his eyes over the reg, moves off.
The unemployed man realises he’ll not be able to park his bike near the dole again, not safely. Realises also that he has lost the plot: what was he thinking?
Drives home, images of knives, white trainers, flashing.
****
In the gym, he has trouble opening the little combo lock they gave him when he joined. Tries a few possibilities: a wallet stuffed with €50 notes presents.
Wrong locker! He shuts and re-locks it, almost running away.
****
In nine days' time his neighbours emigrate. He’s happy for them, but envies their youth, the choices it brings. Still, even if he were accepted somewhere, it would be virtually impossible to leave: his father is 86. Breaking the old man’s heart – which is what would happen if his granddaughters were prised from him – is not something he could countenance.
He listens to the couple talking. Dreams and ambitions. Remembers emigrating to NYC in the 1980s. How dreams intersected, cruelly, with reality. His own race, chiefly, who tried to take advantage.
They’ll be legal, however. Maybe it’ll be different for them?
The young man calls him into the kitchen. “You’ve been a great neighbour. I’d like you to have these . . .’’ Perfect, boxed sets of stainless-steel wrenches, spanners. An expensive cordless drill. The neighbour is of a generation that finds physical contact easy. He hugs the unemployed man. Who manages, just, to keep tears at bay: What the hell is happening?
****
The decision to decrease the dosage by 50 per cent, taken without consultation, was foolish in the extreme. Such significant, unsupervised reductions can create mood swings, irrational anger. Suicidal tendencies. He has children he professes to adore, a wife he claims to love: why take such a risk? Well?
The patient’s voice, when it finally arrives, is rumbling, almost unrecognisable: “Because I wanted to exercise some control over my own life.”
“You’re an intelligent, educated man,” says the shrink. “Surely you must realise that we are not defined by our employment status, bank account, the car we drive? (Tell it to the mountain. And the Stokes twins, thinks the patient).
He must reinstate the full dose. When he ceases drinking again, they can discuss reducing if, that is, no further depressive episodes occur. Meantime, please be careful, cars get driven off piers, families get rent asunder – by men who decide, unilaterally.“I’ve learned my lesson, Doc.”
****
An e-mail from his old school inviting alumni to a 30-year reunion. He went to the 20-year, had a blast. No way he’s going now, though, not feeling like this. The e-mail lists five guys who’ve since passed. One he remembers as wild, beautiful. Tearing up the wing ball tucked tight. Jesus.
Get some perspective – every day above ground’s a miracle.
Is it, though? And is it true that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?
If so, how come he doesn’t possess the strength of 10?
Surely you must realise that we are not defined by our employment status, bank account, the car we drive?