Home, Part 1

“How long have you been here?” he asks every time I go into that bloody shop, Irish On Grand, in Saint Paul, Minnesota. I see his lips moving and I hear the words he is slurring but in my head I hear his real question; “When are you going home?” I’m not going home. This is where I live. This is my home. This is my life. This is not temporary. I will die here. I want to die here.

I walk through the door of the place and I just know what he’s going to say. I should just roar it as soon as I walk in. “When are you going home ye cunt?” It would save him the effort. Or maybe I could have it printed, font size 72, bold, on a piece of paper, laminated to prevent flaccidity, and as his mouth opens I just hold it up and say nothing. Perhaps eating out of a box of a Lucky Charms too. 

Very reluctantly and infrequently do I go there to buy overpriced rashers, sausages and white pudding (never black) that I could probably just buy online. It’s much worse than the fools who greet me on the way into Home Depot with the old “What are we working on today?” We? We? Are you coming over to cut plywood or mop up shit in the basement or build a fucking birdhouse with my kids? No? Then fuck off and let me shop in peace. Christ! It’s easy to hate people. It’s too easy. They set themselves up for it.

Home. So many memories come to mind when I hear that heavy word but I’m always surprised by the huge periods of my life “back home” that rarely occupy my thoughts.

Galway - Lived there for five years, from the age of 18 to 23. Made some of the greatest friends of my life… and now maybe talk to two or three of them once a year. Blacked out a few too many times. Many the midweek spontaneous bender that would cost me my job/marriage now. Didn’t break any hearts but had my own broken a few times. A late bloomer. Barely ever give it much thought. Great city. Great time.

Orwell Park, Templeogue, Dublin - Lived there for 10 years, from the age of 5 to 15. Lived next door to a lonely bachelor who dedicated an entire downstairs room to a collection of empty milk cartons sorted chronologically by expiration date. His kitchen was sad. A shitty black and white TV with rabbit’s ears. RTE1 and RTE2 only. Original cabinetry with all the doors half open. For illumination a bare 60W bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling sans shade. Food packaging all over the carpeted floor. Carpet, in a kitchen? The people whose house adjoined his (semi-detached houses) sometimes heard him crying at night. They invited him over for a drink each Christmas. He must have either dreaded or lived for that late December knock on the door from the good people who lived only a wall thickness away from him. The headboards of their beds literally separated by the width of two cavity blocks and things we can’t measure. Time must have fucking crawled for him. He wasn’t a drinker. And if he was he never let it show. No pissing in the front garden at dusk. No stumbling home from the pub and ramming the key everywhere but the keyhole. His only visitor, maybe once or twice per year, was a nun. Rumor had it that it was his sister. What does it matter? He vanished for years; allegedly back to his point of origin in Co. Mayo. Then he was back in Orwell Park and nothing was different. Weeds were growing in his ancient VW Golf (LINK). The same car that had remained at the house during the hiatus rendered immobile due to four maliciously punctured tires. It wasn’t me who relieved them of pressure but I was present during the crime. We often called his phone number but he never answered. We rang his doorbell too. He was as private as the pope.