Gerry Mc Donnell was born and lives in Dublin. He was educated at Trinity College where he edited Icarus literary magazine. He has had six collections of poetry published and a novella. He has also written for stage, radio, television and opera. His writing has been translated into Breton, French, Russian and Romanian. In 2022 a collection of haibun, haiku and senryu, called A Kiss was published by Alba Publishing. His latest book called A Life Reclaimed, is a selection of his writing over the last thirty years, published by Alba Publishing in 2024. He is a member of the Irish Writers Union.
HOMELESS
By Gerry Mc Donnell
Note:
In the following monologue, Michael, a homeless man, is living rough in a public park — the Phoenix Park in Dublin, the largest urban park in Europe. He lives in an isolated spot beside a bench in a valley. He feels safer there than on the streets or in hostels. He tries to remember what happened that has him there. He can’t move on unless he does remember.
I wonder what time it is? I hope it’s noon at least. I couldn’t face a whole day.
Perfect! Half past twelve. Time for a shower and a shave and tackle the world head-on!
Would you listen to me! I wonder what or who I am? What happened that has me, a homeless man, fryin’ rashers beside a bench in the Phoenix Park? Was it one big event or a lifetime of worryin’ and frettin’? I need a mug of tea.
It’s a lovely aspect from my bench here on the grassy breast, lookin’ across the valley at the other breast with the silver birches.
If a woman saw somethin’ in me, she’d want to improve the place: give the bench a lick of paint, move those trees back, move that stream closer, make an arch of clematis to bathe under. That wouldn’t be half bad! But there’s two chances of that happenin’.
On my perambulations around the park, birdsong — particularly the magpies, which isn’t song really, heavy metal more like — can unleash a blizzard of words concernin’ my downfall! I can’t catch them. I’m blinded, spittin’. But I love the Park. I remember a woman. Was she my mother?
We were in the People’s Gardens. The scent from tidy flowerbeds filled the air. We had tomato and banana sandwiches.
I try the alphabet to jog my memory! The letter A! Start at the beginnin’.
Adam, afterwards, almighty, arsenic, abuse! There’s somethin’ sinister there!
Adam and Eve’s church on the quays I remember. Sure isn’t it where I used to go for the free dinners. I had my own knife and fork in my top pocket, the emblem of a posh hotel etched into them. A cut above the others!
I could stand crowds then. Not now.
Adam and Eve! A right pair! Original sin! It’s there before you, before you utter your first cry. The Catholic Church has you from the outset.
Sometimes I get a hankerin’ to go somewhere! A day trip! Not the one with CIE.
The mystery tour to Athlone is boardin’ on platform 2. He must’ve got a right slaggin’ over that! The mystery tour! Mystery Joe they must’ve called him.
Maybe I could go to the park in the city centre again — the one with the pond and the ducks and the scented flowerbeds beside the splashin’ fountain! I haven’t been there for years!
All the citizens walkin’ through, on their way to their offices and back again, and me lookin’ at them furtively and them ignorin’ me with my grimy face and claw-like fingers, rollin’ a cigarette. When I see them on their lunch break, walkin’ three abreast, all wearin’ grey suits and highly polished brown shoes, I can’t catch my breath. I’m suffocatin’!
That’s just me, of course. I can’t condemn them. They’ve families in the suburbs to take care of. But I can’t condone it either!
What am I talkin’ about? Who am I to condone or condemn anythin’ or anyone?
I used to like to walk through the city streets goin’ nowhere in particular. It just felt good to note the familiar houses and buildings — some still there and some gone.
I used to keep a notebook and make an entry for the ones I particularly liked and the ones that are listed. The Georgian houses. A feelin’ of security!
I loved the way the sunset lit up the red-brick houses on the quays!
Ah! I walked sometimes at night too, but gave it up. Too dangerous!
People out of their heads on drugs! They just have to catch your eye and you’re done for! Not the methadone ones now — pale, slurred speech, teeth rottin’ in their heads! God help them!
I’m notoriously lazy, I think. I like to lay my head against the sky in the aftermornin’ when it’s blue — sinful, I know! What a waste!
But sleepin’ is livin’ too! A Virgin Mary sky! Pristine! Enough of blood and guts!
That comes in the evenin’ with the exhausted sun goin’ down, after givin’ us a great time at the seaside maybe, with the grooves of sand hard on the little white feet, in cold, dance-makin’ puddles left behind in the ebbin’.
No, I won’t go there again!
Takin’ my tireless bike for a walk; crossin’ the city for all to see.
No, I’ll stay up here in the cool grass, with the silk of wild flowers at my fingertips — daisies and dandelions!
But I have a vague memory of jobs in hotels, a timber yard, polishin’ floors somewhere — probably all part-time.
Memory is a strange thing. I remember gettin’ a belt of a pliers on the cheekbone, for not knowin’ the Angelus in the religion class in school. Very appropriate!
Did I come home from school one day to find my mother dead with her head in the gas oven? Christ! Is that true?
Get back to the alphabet! I’ll go down the far end.
R. Rent? Was I a tenant? If I could remember where and when that’d be a great leap forward.
Nothin’ doin’, blast it!
Wait! Roses! I can smell roses. I think there’s somethin’ significant here! In a different class of rememberin’!
I wonder what colour they are? White for peace? Red for romance? Roisin Dubh, a black rose? Yellow, the yellow rose of Texas!
My favourite would be an old-world, striped red and white rose with a sweet scent.
I’m very particular. I’m not a gardener am I? Green fingers have I?
I suppose I could plant somethin’ up here. But I mightn’t be here long enough to see it grow. Or I might!
All the same, a cherry blossom tree maybe! I could have a carpet of cherry blossoms for a month!
But they’d get into everythin’, and if I dozed off with my mouth open I could choke.
Ah, don’t be so negative!
I sneaked down to the city some time ago, across the bridge to the train station.
I thought I’d sit on a bench in the station for as long as they’d allow me to, before they copped on to me, and watch the world go by.
It wasn’t how I thought it would be, though. The smell of diesel interminglin’ with the smell of roses made me feel sick. I wasn’t prepared for that! It jolted somethin’ in my brain!
They say that the sense of smell is the strongest. It brings back old memories better than any of the others! Roses!
Before I came here to the park I used to stay in hostels, but in those places they’d rob the eye out of your head!
There was violence too — men who had lost their lives, lashin’ out!
I took to sleepin’ and beggin’ on the streets. You’d think somebody would have recognised me!
Maybe they did and didn’t want to get involved; bringin’ me back to their place for a hot meal and fresh clothes. I can’t blame them!
One night I was attacked by some university students comin’ from their Annual Ball.
I liked to sleep near this seat of learnin’. I thought it would be safe, civilised.
They were no doubt drunk and frustrated at not gettin’ off with somebody.
It was in the early hours. They kicked me awake and insulted me, usin’ some choice language — and pissed on me!
That’s when I came up here.
A strange thing is happenin’. I wake up some days to find a fifty-euro note tacked to my bench, flutterin’ in the breeze.
I wonder is it the nice woman in the huckster shop down the hill, around by the path and out the gate?
That’s where I get my rashers, my tea, a sliced pan, etc. But she’s crippled with arthritis! She knows what I need so we don’t speak. That suits me.
If I was in good form one day and chatty, I mightn’t be able to repeat the exercise the next time. So it becomes awkward. Better not to risk engagement. Be civil. It suits us both.
But who could the benefactor be? Fifty-euro notes! For half a day’s work, lyin’ on my back, lookin’ up at the sky! Where would you get it?
Ah, the swallows are back, all relieved with a great story to tell. But you can’t know what they’re thinkin’. Are they thinkin’ at all?
Three cheers for the swallows! They must have the colour of foreign lands on their wings.
But that’s as far as I’ll go. They don’t remember the journey. Bird brains!
But I’ve great respect for them, the way they sway and swarm and don’t collide. Maybe they do, occasionally.
Get out of the way, ye feckin’ eejit!
I feel frightened up here at times. It can be dangerous with the young fellahs and girls drinkin’ across the valley there.
I’m safe enough as long as I don’t draw attention to myself when they’re there.
When they’re not there, I can light a little fire to keep me warm, to keep me company.
Sometimes I’d light a scented candle. It’s hard to smell it though, with the breeze. Someone else is gettin’ all the benefit.
Once, one of them came over. I didn’t see him comin’ in the dark. I could just about see his face. Ghostly it was.
He told me that his friend hung himself over in the silver birches — in the very place where they drink!
He said they wouldn’t abandon him. He also said that they wouldn’t harm me. Then his face was gone!
I don’t know whether to believe him or not. They could come for me in a drink- and drug-fuelled rage! Maybe because of the death of their friend!
Anyway, I turn the lights off, so to speak, when they’re there. Just in case.
Try the alphabet again! Go right down near the end.
W. Wet, water, willow, work? Whatever you’re havin’ yourself!
Women? No! Back up the alphabet! Come back up out of that lonely place!
L. Now there’s a letter! Love, longin’. A lover’s greetin’! The lockin’ of eyes, the smiles, the private laughter!
I doubt that I ever felt that! And yet I seem to know somethin’ about it.
You know, you could be in love, with big tears like pearls, ready to flow down your back! Jaysus, what am I like? I’m a laugh a minute.
I don’t have much dealin’s with the public. I can just imagine what they’re sayin’ about me.
There’s the woman in the shop; and there’s this man who leaves the path every day and climbs up the hill to give me the daily newspaper when he’s finished scrutinisin’ it!
He doesn’t say a word and I don’t want the bloody paper, but I say nothin’.
He’s determined! Doin’ his good deed for the day!
He collects the papers once a week so as not to cause litter, I suppose.
I think he knows that I sometimes finish the crossword for him.
He gives me a sidelong glance as if to say — it couldn’t be you, the dirt of you!
I wonder does he tell his friends in the pub? That’d ruin it! But sure drunk, he’d tell everybody.
Unseen and untold acts of kindness! That’s what salvation is all about.
Oh, what’s this kind of rememberin’? Oh, I don’t want this, I don’t want this!
I’m in the train station again! The smell of roses again!
I must be waitin’ for someone or leavin’ for someone? Who could I be waitin’ for? The Queen of Sheba? Mother Mary Aikenhead? The Pope’s brother?
Don’t be ridiculous! Come on, pull yourself together!
I’m sittin’ on a bench. The blizzard of words is back. I can’t see much. Is there a woman and a man walkin’ towards me?
Oh, what’s this? I’m standin’ up holdin’ out a bunch of red roses for the woman.
She’s taken aback, confused. She looks at the man and back at me. I’ve a splittin’ headache now.
No, no, that couldn’t be! She’s introducin’ me to her fiancée. All the strength leaves my body. She takes the roses graciously. She kisses me on the cheek. Then they leave.
I sat back down on the bench. Catatonic they call it; my mind flowed like a lollypop stick down a drain.
A porter called an ambulance and I languished in the NFA — no fixed abode — ward in a mental asylum for years.
The diagnosis: a weak grasp on reality as the result of childhood trauma!
They feared they wouldn’t be able to get me back, the psychiatrist said. I wouldn’t have minded.
They had to use ECT. I languished there for a long time.
The woman’s name is Maeve.
I first met her in the train station. I was a porter there, believe it or not.
I was on night duty. She was walkin’ from the last train on a Friday when books she was carryin’ fell onto the floor. I went to her aid.
There lay Kavanagh, Edgar Allan Poe, and Yeats on the tiles. You’d expect it from the first two, but Senator Yeats?
I recited some of The Raven by Poe. She was surprised, impressed! I made sure I met her each Friday night.
She was teachin’ English literature in Galway University and came home to Dublin for the weekends.
One night I plucked up the courage to ask her would she like to go for a drink or a coffee. She said she would.
I don’t know how the words came out — my mouth was as dry as sandpaper.
We used to meet in the Central Hotel and talk about literature.
I knew my onions. I’m what you’d call an autodidact. I read everythin’ I could get my hands on.
I was becoming obsessed with her though. I couldn’t think of anythin’ or anybody else. I was findin’ it hard to sleep or eat. Then she dropped the bombshell on the platform.
She visited me a few times. She said she didn’t know how deep my feelin’s for her were. She was sure the subject of her fiancée would have come up in casual conversation in the hotel. But the outcome for me would’ve been the same!
Her soft smile used to kill me every time she called up to see me. The doctor said it would be best if she didn’t visit for now.
I was relivin’ the trauma each time. I needed time for my mind to heal. I can’t blame her.
Can I move on now that I remember what happened? Go back down to the city?
Do I want to? Another winter here would kill me, even though I have a sleepin’ bag and a small tent left behind by the fellah who was here before me.
He was a Cockney chap. He said he was goin’ to give it another go. I heard him prayin’ the night before he left. He left with his chest out, on down to the city. I wonder whatever happened to him?
The sup of whiskey I allow myself doesn’t keep the cold out anymore.
I wonder can I avail of social welfare with no fixed abode, no address? I don’t think so.
But I have the money I squirreled away — the money that was tacked to the bench. Maybe it could be a deposit on a flat.
I could clean myself up at the stream and buy clothes from the charity shops. Become presentable! Get the dole.
Maybe I would meet Maeve. Sure that’d only set me off again.
I’ll leave the tent and the sleepin’ bag for the next fellah.
I don’t think a woman on her own could survive up here. It would more likely be a couple.
No doubt the past will still rattle me, but I will lift my head up again, gradually.
That’s in the future.
For now, I’ll shore up my fears and frettin’ with a rasher sandwich and a mug of sweet tea!
END
The Galway Review 