A discourse on living, over ice and coffee.
"Aye, mate, watch where you're going!"
As usual, Jack Driscoll had bumped into another skater. He could not curse himself for clumsiness yet; first, he had to save face.
"I'm sorry," he replied, bending over to help the young man to his feet. His victim was stereotypically Irish, with stringy red hair, a face more decorated with freckles than a pizza is with pepperoni, a thick accent that brought to mind rolling green hills and opaque beer--an accent that reminded Jack of his mother. Jack offered the man a tight, tepid grin along with his apology, his hand hovering uncertainly above the man's coat. "Is there--"
"No, I'm fine," the other man replied. His face was looking down on his worn army green jacket, on which the residue of ice had clung. He brushed himself off and looked up at Jack. Jack was surprised to find a laughing smile on his face. "It happens all the time. I shouldn't have been an ass about it." He extended a hand made of skin that would have been pale if not for the freckles. "Sorry if I was rude."
Jack looked down at the offered hand, confused for one moment. With a nervous, if wider, grin, he grasped the other man's hand in a firm shake. "You had every right to be upset. My name's Jack Driscoll."
"James O'Reilly. Driscoll--that's an Irish name, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It is. My mother's from Ireland, actually--" Jack threw a look over his shoulder to the men, women and children skating on the ice. He looked back at James. "Um, not to be rude but--"
"You'd rather we chit chat on the side? I dig you."
Jack raised an eyebrow; he had yet to adapt to the slang of 1999. He shrugged. "I was planning on leaving soon, anyway. What do you say to a cup of coffee?" He began to skate towards the outer edges of the rink. James followed.
"As long as it isn't that Starbucks shite you Americans drink. I don't want the stuff I could get at the airport on my way out of here. I want authentic local flavor, you dig?"
Jack nodded. "I--dig."
James O'Reilly was a graduate student of film at NYU. Jack took this news in stride. He considered this collision of "artistic types" to be normal for the city. He would likely be attacked by some actress's dog tomorrow. Authenticity seemed James's passion more than film, as he willingly preached against the evils of franchise restaurants and praised the mom and pop shops of the country he said he would leave in a year. He'd have his degree by then. Jack merely nodded as James ranted, sipping at his cappucino, making notes on the man's character. James received a very brief biography of Jack Driscoll: he worked for Mark Cohen as a screenwriter, had gone to Columbia University, had lived in New York City all his life. He could not reveal here what he could at Milliways. Thus the brevity.
Jack and James went on discussing film in a vague manner until James made the following comment:
"I may be speaking out of line, but you seem uptight about something."
"I beg your pardon?" Jack raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, his tongue sticking out slightly, rolling across his lips in an unconscious gesture of irritation.
"I dunno--like you're holding something back."
Like his true story? "I'm holding nothing back."
James nodded, a little bewildered. "Was just a vibe I picked up from you. You seem like you're just living, you know? Like you're going through the motions, doing things that make you happy but they don't."
Jack scoffed. "You gathered that from a very vague story--"
"No, no, not from your story. From you. The way you act. The way you talk, hold yourself together--it's like you're just holding yourself together, like you're afraid to really live. Maybe there's something you haven't told me, and honestly, brother, I couldn't care. We all got stories we haven't told. I know I've got stories I wouldn't tell to a stranger like yourself. But you know--if you're just holding it in, just doing thinkgs that make you feel like you're living, so you can feel good about it, feel like you've done something--don't. Do something extra. I don't know what, but just--go out there, you know? And tear into life."
James finished the rest of his coffee and grinned at Jack. "Thanks for the cup of Joe." He digged through his pocket and pulled out three crinkled dollar bills, then stepped out of the booth, patting Jack on the shoulder. "Hope to see you later, maybe. If not--well. Peace be with you, brother."
James walked out the door.
Jack stared at the crinkled dollar bills.
James was right.
He was holding it all in.
Later that day, as he was returning to his flat, Jack walked passed a store selling musical instruments. There was a classical guitar on display. For sale.
Jack didn't know how to play the guitar.
Didn't mean he couldn't learn.
As usual, Jack Driscoll had bumped into another skater. He could not curse himself for clumsiness yet; first, he had to save face.
"I'm sorry," he replied, bending over to help the young man to his feet. His victim was stereotypically Irish, with stringy red hair, a face more decorated with freckles than a pizza is with pepperoni, a thick accent that brought to mind rolling green hills and opaque beer--an accent that reminded Jack of his mother. Jack offered the man a tight, tepid grin along with his apology, his hand hovering uncertainly above the man's coat. "Is there--"
"No, I'm fine," the other man replied. His face was looking down on his worn army green jacket, on which the residue of ice had clung. He brushed himself off and looked up at Jack. Jack was surprised to find a laughing smile on his face. "It happens all the time. I shouldn't have been an ass about it." He extended a hand made of skin that would have been pale if not for the freckles. "Sorry if I was rude."
Jack looked down at the offered hand, confused for one moment. With a nervous, if wider, grin, he grasped the other man's hand in a firm shake. "You had every right to be upset. My name's Jack Driscoll."
"James O'Reilly. Driscoll--that's an Irish name, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It is. My mother's from Ireland, actually--" Jack threw a look over his shoulder to the men, women and children skating on the ice. He looked back at James. "Um, not to be rude but--"
"You'd rather we chit chat on the side? I dig you."
Jack raised an eyebrow; he had yet to adapt to the slang of 1999. He shrugged. "I was planning on leaving soon, anyway. What do you say to a cup of coffee?" He began to skate towards the outer edges of the rink. James followed.
"As long as it isn't that Starbucks shite you Americans drink. I don't want the stuff I could get at the airport on my way out of here. I want authentic local flavor, you dig?"
Jack nodded. "I--dig."
James O'Reilly was a graduate student of film at NYU. Jack took this news in stride. He considered this collision of "artistic types" to be normal for the city. He would likely be attacked by some actress's dog tomorrow. Authenticity seemed James's passion more than film, as he willingly preached against the evils of franchise restaurants and praised the mom and pop shops of the country he said he would leave in a year. He'd have his degree by then. Jack merely nodded as James ranted, sipping at his cappucino, making notes on the man's character. James received a very brief biography of Jack Driscoll: he worked for Mark Cohen as a screenwriter, had gone to Columbia University, had lived in New York City all his life. He could not reveal here what he could at Milliways. Thus the brevity.
Jack and James went on discussing film in a vague manner until James made the following comment:
"I may be speaking out of line, but you seem uptight about something."
"I beg your pardon?" Jack raised his eyebrows and leaned forward, his tongue sticking out slightly, rolling across his lips in an unconscious gesture of irritation.
"I dunno--like you're holding something back."
Like his true story? "I'm holding nothing back."
James nodded, a little bewildered. "Was just a vibe I picked up from you. You seem like you're just living, you know? Like you're going through the motions, doing things that make you happy but they don't."
Jack scoffed. "You gathered that from a very vague story--"
"No, no, not from your story. From you. The way you act. The way you talk, hold yourself together--it's like you're just holding yourself together, like you're afraid to really live. Maybe there's something you haven't told me, and honestly, brother, I couldn't care. We all got stories we haven't told. I know I've got stories I wouldn't tell to a stranger like yourself. But you know--if you're just holding it in, just doing thinkgs that make you feel like you're living, so you can feel good about it, feel like you've done something--don't. Do something extra. I don't know what, but just--go out there, you know? And tear into life."
James finished the rest of his coffee and grinned at Jack. "Thanks for the cup of Joe." He digged through his pocket and pulled out three crinkled dollar bills, then stepped out of the booth, patting Jack on the shoulder. "Hope to see you later, maybe. If not--well. Peace be with you, brother."
James walked out the door.
Jack stared at the crinkled dollar bills.
James was right.
He was holding it all in.
Later that day, as he was returning to his flat, Jack walked passed a store selling musical instruments. There was a classical guitar on display. For sale.
Jack didn't know how to play the guitar.
Didn't mean he couldn't learn.