Polish Tomas started crying when he told us about his broken heart. His aorta had detached itself from his heart a few years ago and he'd had emergency surgery down at the Mater. Snot was dripping down his beard when he showed us the elaborate crucifix tattoo he'd gotten in tribute to his guardian angel, the heart surgeon. But then he had to go home back to his family in Poland to recover, which ended up being two bedridden, motionless years and when he came back to Dublin his job was gone. Because he'd been away for that long, he's no longer entitled to social welfare benefits and now he's on the streets, despairing over the life he once had, bettering his English with fellow Polish homeless and getting his meals from the likes of me on depressingly gray Saturday evenings. But that was just the beginning of the night.
Pregnant Colleen is almost at full term. The last time we saw her she was sobbing and red-faced and crying into the arms of whom we know to be a first class asshole, an elderly Englishman in a pristine white suit. While he was going on about himself and how wonderful he was for "taking an interest" in Colleen, she managed to get a word in and asked me what her options were. For a minute I forgot I was in Ireland and almost told her to go to the local Planned Parenthood where she would have an actual range of options. But I caught myself and short of alluding to the abortion ferry to England, I had to admit I didn't know what to tell her. But this time she is fresh-faced and alive and preferring brown-bread sandwiches, not white. She looks ten years wiser and five years younger. A boon for the evening.
Young Darren prefers sleeping rough. He says it's more comfortable than the shelters, even when it's raining. I figure him to be 17, maybe 18, my soup run partner guesses early 20s. But he has the voice of a boy and an unusual look of naïveté for a street kid. Darren asks for some chocolate when Hollywood Neil comes along and orders two sandwiches, a chocolate bar and some tea as if he's just strolled up to his local cafe. It's always like this though. He doesn't remember me and so I feign ignorance and ask him where he's from, he mutters "Dublin" in the most perfect mix of surprise and condescension. He wears a clean black wool coat and has product in his hair. He doesn't speak again and we all walk away from each other, leaving Young Darren sitting on the street with his sleeping bag and styrofoam cup.
It's the end of the night and I prepare for a going away at a nearby pub. Friends are miles away though and so I kill some time by wandering the streets straddling the Liffey. The night is darker than I anticipated - summer will be gone soon. There are throngs of drunken Irish, English, Eastern European and the odd American scrambling into reluctant taxis in very unforgiving yellow street lights, half of them half-naked, the other half with death wishes stumbling about in the tiny streets of the North side, just missing cars.
The sum of the evening swells inside me and I want to buy a drink from the newsagent's, like I used to in Korea, but I don't remember if Ireland has open container laws and anyway, friends will be here soon. I'm river-bound and wondering what drinks will be on tap at the pub when I see a dark figure wearing a familiar-looking threadbare hat walking toward me. It's Michael, one of the service users I see on Wednesday night Social Club and whom I sometimes see on the Ha'Penny late at night. One of the most sincere people I've ever met. He looks in a bad way though and I feel awful when I have to lie and tell him I'm on my way home when he asks me what I'm up to. He might have asked to go have a can with me and rejecting him would've been worse.
His eyes are glassy, though not from substance. He looks sad and dreadfully tired. I can tell he doesn't want to hold me up, though I would've been glad to talk with him for much longer. I ask him if he's alright and he says "You just get fed up, you know?"
