Exit Rathole

                                                                

Saturday, seven a.m.

After a squally night the rain had finally stopped. The departure had to be an early one. Not to catch a plane or pick up the keys to a new apartment; nothing as exciting as that. No, Grudge Galmount had to clear out into the morning mist simply for the fact that the ‘Notice of Eviction’ was due to expire in two hours’ time. He didn’t want a messy scene and knew that the landlord would be here at nine sharp—with a goon or two in tow.

He accepted that he could not blame anyone but himself for his present predicament. It was, after all, a core principle of capitalism that rent had to be paid. Grudge knew in his heart of hearts that the drink trouble that followed him constantly would have to be addressed. Not just yet, though.

Looking at the day, he saw a heavy mist enveloping the neighbourhood and sensed it would be some hours before this shroud—along with the fog inside his head—dispelled. Bringing the remainder of his gear onto the front stoop and closing the big old door for the last time, he found himself ruminating upon the healing properties of sleep. He was forever noticing his knack of bedding down for the night with a head chock-full of the gravest concerns, only to see them scatter at sunrise upon the opening of his eyes. Granted, often after sleep, worries remained; invariably, though, once back from that “next to undiscovered country”, all anxiety was eased greatly. Then, there were the times when a good night’s sleep calmed and restored him entirely. He would wake, gripped with a feeling of tremendous elation—his legion of cares gone.

Grudge believed there was a hell of a lot of good to be said for sleep and—inveterate lover of shuteye that he was—he would certainly say it, to anyone who would listen.

Right now, however, he stood alone on the stoop.

He actually felt quite chipper despite the tumult of his circumstances. Setting his laptop at his feet—the final item gathered for evacuation—he waited for the transport which was on its way.

Tyrone Leech, a co-worker from the coffin factory, had kindly offered Grudge the favour of a temporary domicile and the wheels to carry off the escape. As arranged, and all going to plan, Tyrone’s white mini-van would arrive at any minute. Grudge stood on the steps with the front door closed behind him forever. Goodbye to the rathole, he thought, goodbye to the building. There was no going back now.

At his feet lay three sacks filled with clothes, shoes and books—he made a mental note to stop reading so much Chad Fleagle—as well as a holdall of other cherished items, for example some photo albums (Grudge was an incessant snapper, when his eyes could focus), c.d.s and several important papers ever worth carrying on this journey of life—namely, his birth certificate, his passport and his degree.

Also, as mentioned, in this hastily packed cluster of chaos, was his beloved laptop computer. For its own protection he had packed this item separately in a large reusable shopping bag. This machine he considered to be the keeper of his most precious thoughts, the weapon of his weblogs and quite possibly the key to his very future. Thinking of the texture of the computer, it struck him that so many goods nowadays had about them the feel of sweatshops and slave-drivers; he pictured a tired and oppressed individual, labouring in a hi-tech treadmill—in a state of utter hopelessness—under the baleful glare of a tyrannical boss. This image of oppression saddened him and he was suddenly awash with gloom. A further wave of sorrow struck when it came home to him that his entire earthly chattels now sat around his feet.

It was time to drink.

For breakfast he had salvaged three cans of beer from the rathole’s noisy fridge (he would not miss that appliance’s sinister thrum!). Opening one of them, he took a sip and burped quietly. He then lit a cigarette. Drinking beer at seven a.m. wasn’t really a heroic thing to do, but at this age and stage in his life Grudge Galmount was steadfast in his belief that early morning tippling was a noble pursuit—that, in point of fact, he was following in the footsteps of so-and-so and so-and-so and so many other so-and-so giants with feet of clay. Counsellors would say that such notions are simply manifestations of the defiance for which addicts are notorious. But—whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation—Grudge drank on.

Through the haze he saw a cat slinking down the nearby footpath with a timid looking dog following in its wake. The sight of these animals set Galmount wondering: where do the cats and dogs go when they die? Not just their corpses—there were no animal graveyards that he knew of in these parts—but their souls, too? Was there an eternal reward awaiting the poor creatures? Grudge was at a loss to know the answer to this musing and left the question hanging in the brume.

Seconds later, Tyrone’s van came into view and parked at the kerb. Grudge could just about make him out as the fog still hung forlornly on everything. Leech was the only one of his co-workers whom Grudge had any time for at all—he felt nothing but strong dislike for everyone else in the coffin factory. By the same token, Tyrone was the only person in the workplace who entertained Grudge whatsoever—the rest of the staff considering him to be a sad, drunken clown. The two men, through a shared taste in books and music, had become good friends over the course of the past year. Tyrone’s coming here this morning, as well as his offer of accommodation, were favours for which Grudge would be eternally grateful. He watched—with his heart growing lighter—as his pal stepped from the vehicle into the cold fog of the dawn.

Observing the weather again, Grudge was relieved that the gusts he’d heard whipping the walls through the night had abated. He could sip his beer and smoke his fag without the danger of being blown off the steps. And seeing the smiling Tyrone, now walking towards him, he was reassured, too, that his evacuation plan would not be blown off course.

The alcohol was going straight to Galmount’s head (it didn’t take much to get him pissed anymore) and he began to feel a dizzying mix of teariness and merriness overpower his being. At the bottom of the steps a clump of garden snails stuck on the wall caught his eye. He’d never noticed these fellows before in all the many times he’d passed in and out of the old front door. They carry their houses with them just like me, he thought, and he looked with welling tears at his strewn possessions. He checked himself, however, and refrained from crying—not wanting to do so in front of Tyrone.

He took a long gulp on the beer and could have sworn he heard the sea roaring to him from within the can. He wanted to dive inside it and disappear. He wondered if the snails had lived, stuck to the wall, throughout his tenancy or whether they’d just assembled there this morning to show him some solidarity and to bid him farewell? He knew that these were drunken thoughts and threw his head back in laughter at the mullings of his mind.

Tyrone reached Grudge’s face and thrust his hand out for a shake, saying.

—“You’re happy, Grudge, though it’s a bit early for a gargle. S’pose we can forgive you, what with the stress of moving and everything.”

Grudge shook Tyrone’s hand and tried to answer soberly. He only managed a slurred four words.

—“You’re dead right, Ty”

Halfway through his second beer by now, he was well on his way to being fully drunk and the articulation of long sentences had gone beyond him. The fog in his head felt as thick as the pea-souper—drenching the day with its vapours—that surrounded him. Although happy to be heading to Tyrone’s house, he longed for the green, green grass of his own home. The tears were still on standby behind his eyes and he felt that it would not be too religiose to suggest that this Earth was nowt but a vale of tears.

—“Tá mé ar meisce,” he said, mumbling the Gaelic words for ‘I am drunk’.

Tyrone paid little heed to his friend’s demeanour, seeming eager instead to attend to the business at hand—namely, the swift removal of Grudge Galmount and his earthly goods to a new home in the city.

Grudge’s tipsy mind was still focused on the garden snails. He looked at them all, fastened loyally to the wall. This molluscan, mental meandering induced an alarming shiver inside him which he could not explain. Probably just the drink, he reasoned (where, oh where, has my tolerance for alcohol gone!), not to mention my current fix.

He wondered if the molluscs would be coming along with him this morning? Bringing up the rear in his sorry, ill-lit procession—his pitiful departure to a new station on life’s endless train ride (or mini-van ride, he laughed to himself). They’d certainly be suitable companions, he thought, considering my sluggish progress with existence.

But, of course, the wall-sucking snails were staying put and would not be jumping into action at any time soon.

Grudge felt that today’s stage in his life had the distinct backdrop of something mournful and pre-ordained over which he had no control. And yet, despite the sadness in his heart, he had the consoling thought that out of today’s new beginning he might finally grasp the art of living out a true and upright life on this planet.

The two friends carried on with the removal, lugging the bags down the path and putting them into the back of the van. As he placed his precious computer down beside the other bags, Grudge turned for a last look at the house that had been his home for the past twelve months. A flicker in his memory teased him with an image. It seemed like two centuries or more ago; he was on that chaise longue again, carving away at a thick piece of wood. It was taking shape in his hands. Suddenly, and with revelatory grace, the figure emerged from the block: a person. The soul had proved tricky but he’d managed to sculpt it in the end.

What now for Grudge Galmount?

Well, he wasn’t quite ready to be led by the angels into the bosom of Abraham. More immediately, the bosom of Tyrone’s bachelor pad beckoned. In the longer term he thought of becoming a writer—but quickly dropped that idea when he considered the long nights he’d have to spend burning the midnight oil, the meagre recognition and—worst of all—the intense bitchiness of other wordsmiths; what little he had glimpsed of the writer’s life up to now had left Galmount dumbfounded and emotionally crushed.

In the passenger seat he rubbed his hands briskly to keep warm and nodded at Tyrone.

Leech gunned the engine and the friends were gone.

© Brian Ahern 2011