I shoot the Aislings. That is, I film them as they join the queue in Penney’s and smile at a black woman in front of them.
–Fantastic value, says one Aisling to the black woman.
–Love your hair, like, says the other.
I press ‘Pause’, then ‘Stop’, and slip the camera into my pocket.
My new bud, Antanas, is beside me. He nudges my elbow.
–No more recording? he says.
–No, I say. –I’m done.
–But I have an interesting observation to make, he says.
–I’m guessing here, I say. –But is that your boss over there?
We look at the man across at the escalator who seems to be wearing his 12-year-old son’s moustache. He’s staring hard at Antanas.
–Yes, says Antanas. -It is.
–He doesn’t look happy.
–I share your opinion, says Antanas. –And I can suggest an explanation for his unhappiness.
–What?
–He is a prick.
I like Antanas.
–His mother died when he was a boy, says Antanas. –But, in my professional opinion, he was a prick before that sad day.
–Here he comes.
–Excuse me, says Antanas. –I will return.
He steps forward.
–All under control here, Gregory, he says to the unhappy moustache.
Meanwhile.
Things have gone very quiet. It’s as if we’re in a cathedral, not Penney’s. There’s a hush. Shoplifters and shoppers are whispering and moving as if they don’t want to wake the baby. The Aislings’ conversion to civilised behaviour – it’s as if we’ve just witnessed a miracle.
And we have.
–Thank you very much!
An Aisling has just thanked the woman at the till, without being forced to, or encouraged – or even bribed. It’s the birth of a brand new culture.
Generation Thanx.
Both Aislings proudly clutch their Penney’s bags, and walk out of the shop. One of them holds the door for a couple of Travellers, coming in.
–Hi!
The news crew has stopped following them. So have the Guards. My camera stays in my pocket. There’s no point in filming this.
It’s boring.
Brigita is standing beside me.
–What have you done? I ask her.
–Done what, like?
–The Aislings, I say. –What did you say to them?
–I told them they were ridiculous, like.
–Is that all?
–Yes, says Brigita. –More or less. But, like. I told them their behaviour hurt me deeply, like. Like my mother always did when I was a teenager.
–I still don’t get it, I say.
–I made them feel guilty, she says. –That is what mothers do.
–It’s as simple as that?
–It seems, says Brigita, –But I admit, I am surprised.
–So, I say. –All this.
We’re back out on O’Connell Street, and I wave at it and everything else around me.
–All the Celtic Cub stuff, the obnoxiousness of the average Irish guy or girl. The mothers of Ireland are to blame?
–Yes.
–For all of it? I say. –Because they didn’t do their job?
–Yes.
Antanas Bukantas MSc is suddenly standing between us.
–The influence of the mother must never be underestimated, he says.
He’s wearing his jacket – bought in the shop behind him, is my guess.
–Finished for the day?
–Yes, says Antanas. –In fact, I have been fired. By Gregory.
–Whose mother died when he was a kid.
–Correct.
–So, he wouldn’t have sacked you if his mother hadn’t died?
–I think he would have given me the benefit of his doubt, says Antanas.
–Is it really that simple?
Antanas shrugs.
–The Irish mother is famous, he says. –Her influence on Irish society has been quite profound, I think.
Brigita is staring at Antanas.
–Who is this guy?
But Antanas is on a roll.
–The Irish mother has given Irish society its two outstanding features. Niceness and misery.
–But, I say. –But. The Aislings looked fine when they were leaving.
I can see them at a bus stop across the street, chatting to an old bag lady.
–It is temporary, Antanas assures me. –Misery will very soon catch up with them.
–Who is this guy? says Brigita. –Who are you, man?
–Brigita, I say.
–What?
–You’re nice.
–I know this.
–Are you miserable as well?
–Of course.
She gently pushes me aside.
–Who are you? she asks – she interrogates – Antanas.
I get the camera out. Brigita is going to slap Antanas, and I don’t want to miss it. But he ignores her. I don’t know how he does it, but he does. I keep the camera ready.
–I prefer the old Aislings, I say.
–Yes, he says. –I did not know them but I am certain I would still be employed if it hadn’t been so quiet in there when Gregory decided to terminate my employment.
–Let’s save them, I say. –Before it’s too late.
–We can try, says Antanas.
And Brigita slaps both of us.
Continued next month
© Roddy Doyle 2011
