All History Has Been Rewritten
It's amazing what you forget.
I went up to see my father today in a private ward of Vincent's . It is the sheer emptiness of the room that disturbs me. Ma is somewhere downstairs. Me and my fella walk into his room. He is tucked up in his bed with a drip and a couple of chairs scattered around the room.
We sit down beside each other
"Hiya son"
"Dad"
He looks past me
"Hello"
My fella, rather cordially says "Hello"
Small talk is made.
I feel sick inside. We natter about nothing, the strain of this clear to me and him, but not to my fella. My da is just waiting for him to leave.
Eventually he does.
"I want you to do something for me. Go to our old house and buried in the ground in front of where the shed used to be is a box. Bring it to me."
"What? Who lives there now?"
"I don't know. Just do it."
I was fifteen again. I caught up with my fella at the vending machine and we left.
~
It was strolling through Churchtown that I remembered things I had blanked out utterly. As you will know from my story, I came to gaydom late, about 25. But walking through the relatively dilapidated street (compared to Dalkey) I remembered.
I remembered being fifteen. When everything took your breath away and your penis was your best friend. ANd there was Deco. 18, tall, rough, handsome, straight as a die. The type of guy you know would be a good fuck just by looking at him. I remember wanking to thoughts of him having me, every night for a month. The straight boy crush.
Somehow by the following year, I was "straight". I'm not sure whether it was the influence of that genetic retread that my father is and what he'd think of me, what my friends would say, not wanting to be the "fag" actor. I don't know. There was also the guy from Wexford who was raped one Sunday Morning early by one of the local groups for walking home. He was a complete mincing queen but incredibly nice. The rape, of course, was never reported.
I really wanted to belong so I tried my best to act as straight as possible. Out of fear. Out of coveting. Out of this dream-scape that turned out to be false and redundant. Walking through my old street I see some of these guys in dirty clothes, pushing along babies or trying to jump-start their cars and they look dead inside. My fella is completly unfazed. He didn't live this life. I tell him to move faster, to just do this as fast as possible. I speed on, forcing him to catch up. He knows better than to ask what's wrong at the moment so just follows, lighting up one of his sneaky cigarettes.
We reach the house and knock on the door. It is Mary McNally. I used to date her when I was 17, for about a month.
I could see the conflict in her eyes: on one hand was her ex-boyfriend who dumped her becoming a fag with another fag beside him, on the other were two rather famous celebrities standing at her door where people, on this street still anyway, were quietly staring from behind the curtains.
She invited us in and made us tea. I explained why I was here, she sympathised, never taking her eyes off my fella the whole time. I asked her if it was okay to go outside and dig. She said sure. Danny smiled smugly and I left.
Five minutes later, using the head of a broken spade, I hit metal. I took the box wrapped in a disintegrating plastic bag and headed for the door, only to hear my fella shouting "Jack, come on, we have to go."
I passed by Mary who looked like she was going to hit the pair of us whilst my fella subtly grabbed my arm and we left, with me thanking her and my fella laughing at me for doing so.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing. She was coming onto me. She knew I was gay and with you but she was still trying to hit on me. Which I figured was fine, considering it would keep her occupied whilst you were looking for the thing, but then she tried to "grab" me and I politely told her I was not interested. I thought it was best to leave."
We were standing on the kerb outside her house. My fella kissed me and Mary starting muttering at us but we were already off.
Kissing my fella on that road.
Fourteen years ago, I was a shy young fag who covered it all up with macho shit-talking. We had been fucking around the street and everyone went home. Deco and I walked away from the road. It was past midnight. His da was being a prick, arguing with him all the time and he didn't want to go home until he went to bed. We went to the playground near us and sat on the see-saw. I was rather tipsy. We drank from a bottle of JD he had with him. He got pretty drunk but I was blotted. He opened up through the haze of alcohol and told me how his Da beat the shit out of him for the most minor of things; forgetting to put the bin out or something like that. Worse still, his Dad was always sober and gave it his complete concentration. He looked so sad and was about to say something emotive and in my drunken state I thought I knew the answer, this perfect synergy of the moment, film us for that one second.
I kissed him and he hit me as a reflex. Because of the alcohol impairing reflexes and judgment, it lasted about three seconds so the punch came as a shock. I fall off the see-saw and he starts shouting at me. I get up and he sees that his ring has cut my face and I am bleeding.
"Fuck. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Deco."
"You shouldn't do that. You shouldn't fucking do that. Any other day and you'd be dead, you know that?"
"Yeah"
"You were just drunk and horny. Stupid fucking teenager."
"Yeah"
"Don't do that again, you hear?"
"Yeah"
He never told anyone but I never got to hang around with him or his group ever again.
~
I relate this story to my fella on the way back to the hospital. He touches my cheek as if there is a scar there (which there isn't). The taxi driver eyes us curiously in his mirror
"You're..."
My fella takes out twenty euros and hands it to him.
"We're in a rush."
The driver takes it and stays silent despite watching us for the entire ride. I'm surprised we don't crash.
"It's weird what you forget."
"Yeah."
"It made you who you are though"
"Oh I know."
"You could've ended up like the guy who got raped"
"I know."
"There's no point viewing it as lost time."
I let my head drop on his shoulder and the taxi driver drives.
~
We get back to the hospital. The tone has shifted again. Dad is breathing through an oxygen mask. Ma is sitting beside him and has magazines and bags spread through the room. There is an empty seat beside him and one the other end of the room by the wall. I sit down near him and my fella goes to move his chair closer to me. My mother waves dismissively at him as if to say "no, no, sit there". He drags the chair across the room (purposely making the screeching noise) and sits beside me. My father takes off his oxygen mask.
"You get it?"
I take the dirty box out of the LIDL bag I had put it in and hand it to him.
"What is it?"
He takes it from me and opens it. Ma is reading Vogue and doesn't look up.
Pictures. A young boy and two stern parents.
"Is that you when you were young?"
"Yeah."
He smiles, rifling through the box. "I needed to see these one last time."
Ma looks up from magazine. "Jim, don't say that."
He smiles at her. "Honey, could you get one of the nurses, I haven't got my pills yet today."
"Sure."
She leaves.
Da looks at my husband. "He ain't gonna leave is he?"
"Not a chance" I say.
"Fair enough."
"There's one thing I need to ask of you."
I pause, as does he, tentative.
I really expect the Hallmark moment after all this time, but then that's what separates me from him. I can't help but hope.
"I need you to look after your mother financially when I'm gone."
"That it?"
"Will you do it?"
"Isn't she loaded?"
"She has some. Just make sure she has enough."
"Please. The word is please, Dad."
A hack emerges from his mouth. It sounds like it has very painfully worked it's way up from the bottom of his throat.
"I don't say please to a faggot."
"Then you don't get."
"And how you could bring him here."
"Mr. Harrison, I..."
"DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK TO ME..."
"How much?"
"Five grand a month."
I get up. "If I have it, I will."
"Thank you son."
I stare at him, willing him to crack, to try and make things better. I can't. I've played that role too many time in my youth without any success. I've been shat upon by this fucker and I'm still looking for something from him at age thirty.
"No problem."
We leave him to his death.
Outside the hospital I take one of my fella's sneaky cigarettes.
"Are you really going to give her five grand a month."
"No. Even though the one thing us irish do is follow people's dying wishes, there's not a fucking chance. She's more money than I do. This was just his way of reminding me of that fact. His final 'fuck you'."
I sob until my rib hurts, everyone passing me at the entrance to the hospital presumes I have just lost somebody.
My fella flags a taxi, takes me in his arms and strokes my hair. We pick up our shit in my parent's over-sized, empty and cold house in Dalkey. I've only stayed one night.
I almost kiss the ground when I hit Heathrow. I never found out the exact time, nobody called me and let me know.
I went up to see my father today in a private ward of Vincent's . It is the sheer emptiness of the room that disturbs me. Ma is somewhere downstairs. Me and my fella walk into his room. He is tucked up in his bed with a drip and a couple of chairs scattered around the room.
We sit down beside each other
"Hiya son"
"Dad"
He looks past me
"Hello"
My fella, rather cordially says "Hello"
Small talk is made.
I feel sick inside. We natter about nothing, the strain of this clear to me and him, but not to my fella. My da is just waiting for him to leave.
Eventually he does.
"I want you to do something for me. Go to our old house and buried in the ground in front of where the shed used to be is a box. Bring it to me."
"What? Who lives there now?"
"I don't know. Just do it."
I was fifteen again. I caught up with my fella at the vending machine and we left.
~
It was strolling through Churchtown that I remembered things I had blanked out utterly. As you will know from my story, I came to gaydom late, about 25. But walking through the relatively dilapidated street (compared to Dalkey) I remembered.
I remembered being fifteen. When everything took your breath away and your penis was your best friend. ANd there was Deco. 18, tall, rough, handsome, straight as a die. The type of guy you know would be a good fuck just by looking at him. I remember wanking to thoughts of him having me, every night for a month. The straight boy crush.
Somehow by the following year, I was "straight". I'm not sure whether it was the influence of that genetic retread that my father is and what he'd think of me, what my friends would say, not wanting to be the "fag" actor. I don't know. There was also the guy from Wexford who was raped one Sunday Morning early by one of the local groups for walking home. He was a complete mincing queen but incredibly nice. The rape, of course, was never reported.
I really wanted to belong so I tried my best to act as straight as possible. Out of fear. Out of coveting. Out of this dream-scape that turned out to be false and redundant. Walking through my old street I see some of these guys in dirty clothes, pushing along babies or trying to jump-start their cars and they look dead inside. My fella is completly unfazed. He didn't live this life. I tell him to move faster, to just do this as fast as possible. I speed on, forcing him to catch up. He knows better than to ask what's wrong at the moment so just follows, lighting up one of his sneaky cigarettes.
We reach the house and knock on the door. It is Mary McNally. I used to date her when I was 17, for about a month.
I could see the conflict in her eyes: on one hand was her ex-boyfriend who dumped her becoming a fag with another fag beside him, on the other were two rather famous celebrities standing at her door where people, on this street still anyway, were quietly staring from behind the curtains.
She invited us in and made us tea. I explained why I was here, she sympathised, never taking her eyes off my fella the whole time. I asked her if it was okay to go outside and dig. She said sure. Danny smiled smugly and I left.
Five minutes later, using the head of a broken spade, I hit metal. I took the box wrapped in a disintegrating plastic bag and headed for the door, only to hear my fella shouting "Jack, come on, we have to go."
I passed by Mary who looked like she was going to hit the pair of us whilst my fella subtly grabbed my arm and we left, with me thanking her and my fella laughing at me for doing so.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing. She was coming onto me. She knew I was gay and with you but she was still trying to hit on me. Which I figured was fine, considering it would keep her occupied whilst you were looking for the thing, but then she tried to "grab" me and I politely told her I was not interested. I thought it was best to leave."
We were standing on the kerb outside her house. My fella kissed me and Mary starting muttering at us but we were already off.
Kissing my fella on that road.
Fourteen years ago, I was a shy young fag who covered it all up with macho shit-talking. We had been fucking around the street and everyone went home. Deco and I walked away from the road. It was past midnight. His da was being a prick, arguing with him all the time and he didn't want to go home until he went to bed. We went to the playground near us and sat on the see-saw. I was rather tipsy. We drank from a bottle of JD he had with him. He got pretty drunk but I was blotted. He opened up through the haze of alcohol and told me how his Da beat the shit out of him for the most minor of things; forgetting to put the bin out or something like that. Worse still, his Dad was always sober and gave it his complete concentration. He looked so sad and was about to say something emotive and in my drunken state I thought I knew the answer, this perfect synergy of the moment, film us for that one second.
I kissed him and he hit me as a reflex. Because of the alcohol impairing reflexes and judgment, it lasted about three seconds so the punch came as a shock. I fall off the see-saw and he starts shouting at me. I get up and he sees that his ring has cut my face and I am bleeding.
"Fuck. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Deco."
"You shouldn't do that. You shouldn't fucking do that. Any other day and you'd be dead, you know that?"
"Yeah"
"You were just drunk and horny. Stupid fucking teenager."
"Yeah"
"Don't do that again, you hear?"
"Yeah"
He never told anyone but I never got to hang around with him or his group ever again.
~
I relate this story to my fella on the way back to the hospital. He touches my cheek as if there is a scar there (which there isn't). The taxi driver eyes us curiously in his mirror
"You're..."
My fella takes out twenty euros and hands it to him.
"We're in a rush."
The driver takes it and stays silent despite watching us for the entire ride. I'm surprised we don't crash.
"It's weird what you forget."
"Yeah."
"It made you who you are though"
"Oh I know."
"You could've ended up like the guy who got raped"
"I know."
"There's no point viewing it as lost time."
I let my head drop on his shoulder and the taxi driver drives.
~
We get back to the hospital. The tone has shifted again. Dad is breathing through an oxygen mask. Ma is sitting beside him and has magazines and bags spread through the room. There is an empty seat beside him and one the other end of the room by the wall. I sit down near him and my fella goes to move his chair closer to me. My mother waves dismissively at him as if to say "no, no, sit there". He drags the chair across the room (purposely making the screeching noise) and sits beside me. My father takes off his oxygen mask.
"You get it?"
I take the dirty box out of the LIDL bag I had put it in and hand it to him.
"What is it?"
He takes it from me and opens it. Ma is reading Vogue and doesn't look up.
Pictures. A young boy and two stern parents.
"Is that you when you were young?"
"Yeah."
He smiles, rifling through the box. "I needed to see these one last time."
Ma looks up from magazine. "Jim, don't say that."
He smiles at her. "Honey, could you get one of the nurses, I haven't got my pills yet today."
"Sure."
She leaves.
Da looks at my husband. "He ain't gonna leave is he?"
"Not a chance" I say.
"Fair enough."
"There's one thing I need to ask of you."
I pause, as does he, tentative.
I really expect the Hallmark moment after all this time, but then that's what separates me from him. I can't help but hope.
"I need you to look after your mother financially when I'm gone."
"That it?"
"Will you do it?"
"Isn't she loaded?"
"She has some. Just make sure she has enough."
"Please. The word is please, Dad."
A hack emerges from his mouth. It sounds like it has very painfully worked it's way up from the bottom of his throat.
"I don't say please to a faggot."
"Then you don't get."
"And how you could bring him here."
"Mr. Harrison, I..."
"DON'T YOU FUCKING TALK TO ME..."
"How much?"
"Five grand a month."
I get up. "If I have it, I will."
"Thank you son."
I stare at him, willing him to crack, to try and make things better. I can't. I've played that role too many time in my youth without any success. I've been shat upon by this fucker and I'm still looking for something from him at age thirty.
"No problem."
We leave him to his death.
Outside the hospital I take one of my fella's sneaky cigarettes.
"Are you really going to give her five grand a month."
"No. Even though the one thing us irish do is follow people's dying wishes, there's not a fucking chance. She's more money than I do. This was just his way of reminding me of that fact. His final 'fuck you'."
I sob until my rib hurts, everyone passing me at the entrance to the hospital presumes I have just lost somebody.
My fella flags a taxi, takes me in his arms and strokes my hair. We pick up our shit in my parent's over-sized, empty and cold house in Dalkey. I've only stayed one night.
I almost kiss the ground when I hit Heathrow. I never found out the exact time, nobody called me and let me know.