THE BABY has outgrown her car seat: he searches the attic for anything he might swap. Unearths a perfectly serviceable digital camera (upgraded, why?). A portable TV with built-in DVD player they bought when they began renting a summer house in Kerry (why not pack the existing one into the car?).
He posts ads on a variety of free sites. A woman in Meath makes contact, offers a decent brand of car seat in exchange. He agrees, in principle, emphasising that no money is to change hands.
He packs up the items, carefully, meets her in the car park of a shopping centre. She is driving a massive ’09 Mercedes MPV. And is morbidly obese.
She demands to know how old the camera is, whether he has the remote for the DVD. He shows her the camera, still in its original box. Shows her the remote, the new batteries he bought. Explains to her he is a careful man, that she has no need to be concerned. She makes a noise through her nostrils. He examines the car seat – it is in good order, though she could have removed and washed the fabric.
He goes to shake hands; that’s when she announces she wants €40 on top.
He reminds her of their deal. She says a deal is not a deal until all the merchandise has been examined. How does she know the telly is even working? Sure, she might go home and find she has brought two worthless items. He assures her he is an honest man. She does the nostril thing again. He feels resentment building: the woman represents, all of a sudden, everything rotten on the island, the bloated opportunism, the sleeveen-ism, the lack of respect for other . . . Ah forget it.
He places the seat back in the boot. Okay, okay, she says, I’ll take 30. No thanks, he says. Right so, give me 20, we’ll both be on our way.
He shakes his head, moves off, cardboard box suddenly heavy. Arrah it was worth a shot, she shouts after him.
He wants to tell her where to get off, wants to tell her she is a God-awful recession vulture, but instead he turns back.
Wordlessly, he deposits his box in the boot of her Merc, retrieves the seat, walks away.
***
He spends hours scouring job sites, writing emails, sending out his CV, phoning old contacts. A lot of the heads he worked with are gone. Talking to their disinterested replacements, his voice betrays him – nervous, lacking in confidence. Sometimes, he can’t even get past reception.
***
His wife suggests he take a break from the computer, the phone. What about your motorbike? The insurance, he reminds her, was cancelled, months ago. Take the money we were going to use to tax the car, she says. Go on, get some head space. (By which she may also mean, “and grant me some”.)
He rings the insurance company – you’re lucky, says the rep, another month and you’d have lost your no-claims bonus.
He takes off into the mountains. During the boom, it was impossible to enjoy this wilderness. Too many flash gits in soft-tops.
Now the landscape is empty. Christ, he’d forgotten how beautiful it is. He opens the throttle wide, leaves it all behind – the worry, the nagging voices on the radio. In his head.
Descends into a small village, thinking of a coffee. He had debated whether or not to take a flask, but it seemed so careful, and pre-meditated, so old.
Enters a cafe. His fingers are cold and stiff, it takes an age to fish his gloves off. He requests a coffee, emptying his pockets on the counter. His dole card sits there. The old woman at the till moves it, slightly, just one finger, taking €2 from the pile.
– You’re not working?
– No.
– Well, it seems to suit you.
– Sorry?
–What I mean is, you look happy.
He can’t think of a response. He moves outside.
There are some hill-walkers gathering. They smile over, as if to say: “You too have been let in on the secret of this place.” He realises he is happy – for the first time in months. Perhaps the tablets have kicked in? Maybe it is simply that he is out of the house, and the house was fast becoming a jaill.
***
The old woman brings him homemade apple tart and cream. No charge. It’s the last slice, she says, was probably going to go to waste. He looks over at the walkers and thinks, “I doubt it”.
He thanks her.
You’re more than welcome, son. She looks at him as if she has something serious to say: “Now, make sure you enjoy every last bit, alright?”
He does. And feels faith in human nature restored. He has been cut off too long. The dole does that. It removes you from the prospect of people, renders your existence fenced in, fearful.
***
Next day, he still feels strong. He rings the recruitment agency; this time he doesn’t apologise for his existence. Rings some of the companies he has mailed his CV to, refusing to be fobbed off by the receptionist. He can hear the lack of authority in his voice, gone.
– Putting you through now.
(Four such lovely words).
OkTrends is original research and insights taken from OkCupid, the best dating site on earth (they say). They have compiled observations and statistics from hundreds of millions of OkCupid user interactions, all to explore the data side of the online dating world. Here are some of their critical findings:
Brian Clown is not the only prime minister under pressure in Europe. Here in Bulgaria, the prime minister, Boyko Borisov is mired in controversy. He currently leads a minority government which came to power in 2009. Known for his somewhat authoritarian, abrupt style he is a former policemen and held senior positions in the Interior Ministry. Just like his authoritarian friend Mr Putin, Boyko has a penchant for oriental sports and is somewhat of a karate expert. Only a few years ago he was linked to many Bulgarian mobsters by the US Government. But then again, who wasn't?
The summer of 1972. I was 14. Three months of holidays ahead. And Alice Cooper's "School's Out" was in the charts. It didn't get any better than that!
