work.
There are an awful lot of weeds coming up through the gravel . The farther you go away from the Dublin road the more grassand dandelions there are. Every time I step on one, every time I step on a dandelion, my runners crush it flat. It stays there pressed against the gravel bleeding its white milk blood. There’s a stile between the path and this big field that runs along the river for a couple of hundred yards. The stile makes a hole in a fence of barbed wire. The gravel rattles up to this stile and then stops dead. It doesn’t continue into the field but the path does. It is a worn track of bare earth. At least once a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year, someone walks along here. It’s gotten so that if you get right down you can see the effects of all this weight. It’s gotten so that on your hands and knees you can see the trench that the path is becoming. Once a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year, is starting to make the riverbank subside.
I’m standing at this stile and now the black fleck up ahead is starting to look like a man. I’m standing at this stile and now my face is starting to make a weird expression. I know this because I can feel the muscles of my jaw spasm and I can feel my lower lip twitch and I can feel my eyes go wider and wider. It’s like they’re trying to suck in and swallow everything in front of them.
I’m standing here with one foot on the gravel and one foot on the stile and my face is looking like melting plastic because I recognise the man on the riverbank.
I recognise him because he’s my Da.
The next day my Da tells my aunt that he’s been let go. But he doesn’t tell her since when. He never says for how long he got up, put on his overalls and went to a work that doesn’t exist.
He never says why he gets let go. He never says what happened. What really happened.
This is my Da. He won’t ever, ever meet a problem head-on.
I’m listening to my Da saying that Dr Thorpe wants to speak with me and I can feel Seán tense up behind me. I’m listening to my Da saying this and what I’m thinking is, Da’s going to be fucking useless in this situation.
He’s standing in the hallway and his hands are all knotted together into white balls of gristle so that it’s like he’s praying really hard for something. He’s lost most of his hair and the forty-watt bulb hanging above him is slicking his pate with a light that looks jaundiced. He doesn’t look healthy and his face is a shifting swamp of worry.
He’s going, ‘What have you done, boys? Seán, are you in trouble?’
All the time he blames Seán for stuff. No matter what I get myself into, he blames Seán.
My shitty results in maths? Seán.
See also my superhuman ability to repel girls.
See also my problems with some of the other lads from around town.
Everything is Seán’s fault.
My Da refuses to allow me to take responsibilty for anything. It’s like I’m a miniature version of himself. You just avoid things or yoke them onto someone else or hide yourself under thecovers until they go away. If life fucks you over, you just put on your overalls and keep leaving the house like everything’s all A-okay. You live in the vain hope that things will somehow turn out fine. That there’s been some big mistake somewhere. That the universe is sorry for throwing sand in your face. Anything other than confront the fact that you may have to actually do something.
This is what yer man from Teens in the Wild calls avoidance . It follows from a lack of self-esteem. Like everything else in the entire fucking world. I hate psychology. It is snake-oil and make-believe .
I hate psychology because Seán’s gone to about a zillion psychologists and he’s still all screwy in the head.
I’m looking at my Da and I’m watching him wring his hands and I’m saying, ‘Seán didn’t do anything.’
This isn’t strictly true, but I figure I have bigger
There are an awful lot of weeds coming up through the gravel . The farther you go away from the Dublin road the more grassand dandelions there are. Every time I step on one, every time I step on a dandelion, my runners crush it flat. It stays there pressed against the gravel bleeding its white milk blood. There’s a stile between the path and this big field that runs along the river for a couple of hundred yards. The stile makes a hole in a fence of barbed wire. The gravel rattles up to this stile and then stops dead. It doesn’t continue into the field but the path does. It is a worn track of bare earth. At least once a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year, someone walks along here. It’s gotten so that if you get right down you can see the effects of all this weight. It’s gotten so that on your hands and knees you can see the trench that the path is becoming. Once a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year, is starting to make the riverbank subside.
I’m standing at this stile and now the black fleck up ahead is starting to look like a man. I’m standing at this stile and now my face is starting to make a weird expression. I know this because I can feel the muscles of my jaw spasm and I can feel my lower lip twitch and I can feel my eyes go wider and wider. It’s like they’re trying to suck in and swallow everything in front of them.
I’m standing here with one foot on the gravel and one foot on the stile and my face is looking like melting plastic because I recognise the man on the riverbank.
I recognise him because he’s my Da.
The next day my Da tells my aunt that he’s been let go. But he doesn’t tell her since when. He never says for how long he got up, put on his overalls and went to a work that doesn’t exist.
He never says why he gets let go. He never says what happened. What really happened.
This is my Da. He won’t ever, ever meet a problem head-on.
I’m listening to my Da saying that Dr Thorpe wants to speak with me and I can feel Seán tense up behind me. I’m listening to my Da saying this and what I’m thinking is, Da’s going to be fucking useless in this situation.
He’s standing in the hallway and his hands are all knotted together into white balls of gristle so that it’s like he’s praying really hard for something. He’s lost most of his hair and the forty-watt bulb hanging above him is slicking his pate with a light that looks jaundiced. He doesn’t look healthy and his face is a shifting swamp of worry.
He’s going, ‘What have you done, boys? Seán, are you in trouble?’
All the time he blames Seán for stuff. No matter what I get myself into, he blames Seán.
My shitty results in maths? Seán.
See also my superhuman ability to repel girls.
See also my problems with some of the other lads from around town.
Everything is Seán’s fault.
My Da refuses to allow me to take responsibilty for anything. It’s like I’m a miniature version of himself. You just avoid things or yoke them onto someone else or hide yourself under thecovers until they go away. If life fucks you over, you just put on your overalls and keep leaving the house like everything’s all A-okay. You live in the vain hope that things will somehow turn out fine. That there’s been some big mistake somewhere. That the universe is sorry for throwing sand in your face. Anything other than confront the fact that you may have to actually do something.
This is what yer man from Teens in the Wild calls avoidance . It follows from a lack of self-esteem. Like everything else in the entire fucking world. I hate psychology. It is snake-oil and make-believe .
I hate psychology because Seán’s gone to about a zillion psychologists and he’s still all screwy in the head.
I’m looking at my Da and I’m watching him wring his hands and I’m saying, ‘Seán didn’t do anything.’
This isn’t strictly true, but I figure I have bigger
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