les peppaires. How many?”
Jamie smirked. “Trois.”
“Trois, by which you mean three, which in the Polish language, the language of the angels, is
trzy
.” Bobby briskly tossed three crimson peppers into a plastic bag, weighed them, and added them to what was going to be a pile of produce — a pile whose cornerstone was a big bunch of asparagus spears.
As they bantered, Bobby added some portobello mushrooms, a bag of basil, another of rosemary, seven ripe vine tomatoes, and, inevitably, a sack of spuds. Jamie shook his head as he paid the man. “You can take the lad out of Ireland, but you can’t take the potato out of his bloody shopping.”
“Food, it’s comfort. Hey, you ever thinka goin’ back, or you here for good?” Bobby handed over the change, and went back to arranging his stalks of asparagus.
“Ah, well. No idea … things changed over there, Celtic Tiger, then changed again … although if I keep up the painting racket, I could get out of paying taxes if I went back home.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Bobby’s eyes bulged out of his head. After almost twenty years in the family business, he knew a sweet deal when he heard one. “No taxes?
No taxes?
You’re nuts if you stay here, man. No offense, I’d miss your sparklin’ personality, not to mention your vegetable habit, but Jesus wept … no taxes … ”
Jamie left Bobby to mutter into the heads of lettuce, and worked his way toward home. He waved to a couple of the kids on their way home from school, and wondered why he’d let that slip. If he moved back to Ireland, yes, he could claim artist’s status and therefore all the proceeds from his art would be exactly that — all his. He knew that Dublin had changed, grown, improved drastically — but could he really leave all this behind? Was he close enough to being established? If he got an agent he could pretty much live anywhere — work in Dublin, show in New York, sell in Europe … Could he have his Big Apple and eat it, too?
It wasn’t like him to get ahead of himself like that. That was more his Auntie Maeve’s style, always grabbing at his hand for quick scan, pouring tea down his throat for a bit of a reading, whether you wanted it or not. Ah, sure, he loved her, mad as a bag of hammers as she was, adored by the entire family … but also one of the reasons that most of the sons, daughters, and cousins had stayed behind in Éire, as she was safely planted in Amerikay. All but Jamie, and if anything, bless her, she was as good a reason as any to get the hell out of Dodge.
As he approached the converted umbrella factory, the new guy on the third floor was coming out. Jamie settled in for a bit of a chat, but the fella just grunted hello and walked quickly toward the avenue. Jamie caught the door a split second before the heavy metal hit him in the face. Even if he lived here until he died, he’d never understand the lack of conversation.
He grabbed the post off the floor, and began the six-flight walk up to his floor. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to, like, get into the lad’s business. Just say hello, feck’s sake like, howaya and all that, just being friendly, neighborly.
I’m not looking for a new best mate, but would it kill you to stop for a half a bloody minute for a bit of a chat —
He was still ranting silently as he unlocked the door to his flat.
It was a New York miracle, thanks to Our Lady of the Boroughs — no one in Manhattan, unless they bought in Soho in the Sixties or Tribeca in the very very very early eighties had anything near to this much space. Industrial-sized (although why it required this much space to make umbrellas, he’d never know), with big windows and floor to ceiling columns — it was movie star stuff. The fact that there was no central heating wasn’t noticeable if you grew up in a terrace house in Stoneybatter, and the dust, well, the dust went unnoticed. Who cared if the windows were opaque? Or that walls had been thrown up
Jamie smirked. “Trois.”
“Trois, by which you mean three, which in the Polish language, the language of the angels, is
trzy
.” Bobby briskly tossed three crimson peppers into a plastic bag, weighed them, and added them to what was going to be a pile of produce — a pile whose cornerstone was a big bunch of asparagus spears.
As they bantered, Bobby added some portobello mushrooms, a bag of basil, another of rosemary, seven ripe vine tomatoes, and, inevitably, a sack of spuds. Jamie shook his head as he paid the man. “You can take the lad out of Ireland, but you can’t take the potato out of his bloody shopping.”
“Food, it’s comfort. Hey, you ever thinka goin’ back, or you here for good?” Bobby handed over the change, and went back to arranging his stalks of asparagus.
“Ah, well. No idea … things changed over there, Celtic Tiger, then changed again … although if I keep up the painting racket, I could get out of paying taxes if I went back home.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Bobby’s eyes bulged out of his head. After almost twenty years in the family business, he knew a sweet deal when he heard one. “No taxes?
No taxes?
You’re nuts if you stay here, man. No offense, I’d miss your sparklin’ personality, not to mention your vegetable habit, but Jesus wept … no taxes … ”
Jamie left Bobby to mutter into the heads of lettuce, and worked his way toward home. He waved to a couple of the kids on their way home from school, and wondered why he’d let that slip. If he moved back to Ireland, yes, he could claim artist’s status and therefore all the proceeds from his art would be exactly that — all his. He knew that Dublin had changed, grown, improved drastically — but could he really leave all this behind? Was he close enough to being established? If he got an agent he could pretty much live anywhere — work in Dublin, show in New York, sell in Europe … Could he have his Big Apple and eat it, too?
It wasn’t like him to get ahead of himself like that. That was more his Auntie Maeve’s style, always grabbing at his hand for quick scan, pouring tea down his throat for a bit of a reading, whether you wanted it or not. Ah, sure, he loved her, mad as a bag of hammers as she was, adored by the entire family … but also one of the reasons that most of the sons, daughters, and cousins had stayed behind in Éire, as she was safely planted in Amerikay. All but Jamie, and if anything, bless her, she was as good a reason as any to get the hell out of Dodge.
As he approached the converted umbrella factory, the new guy on the third floor was coming out. Jamie settled in for a bit of a chat, but the fella just grunted hello and walked quickly toward the avenue. Jamie caught the door a split second before the heavy metal hit him in the face. Even if he lived here until he died, he’d never understand the lack of conversation.
He grabbed the post off the floor, and began the six-flight walk up to his floor. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted to, like, get into the lad’s business. Just say hello, feck’s sake like, howaya and all that, just being friendly, neighborly.
I’m not looking for a new best mate, but would it kill you to stop for a half a bloody minute for a bit of a chat —
He was still ranting silently as he unlocked the door to his flat.
It was a New York miracle, thanks to Our Lady of the Boroughs — no one in Manhattan, unless they bought in Soho in the Sixties or Tribeca in the very very very early eighties had anything near to this much space. Industrial-sized (although why it required this much space to make umbrellas, he’d never know), with big windows and floor to ceiling columns — it was movie star stuff. The fact that there was no central heating wasn’t noticeable if you grew up in a terrace house in Stoneybatter, and the dust, well, the dust went unnoticed. Who cared if the windows were opaque? Or that walls had been thrown up
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