He hides his tent and sleeping bag, and his bag of clothes. It is raining, and cold. He feels very stiff. He imagines that being old is something like this. He must walk a while before he can feel loose and young again.
He leaves the park and walks along the river. He does this every morning. It takes an hour to reach the bus station at the other end of the city. The rain is not too heavy. He passes men sleeping on the benches on the boardwalk, and men awake, some drinking cans of beer or paper cups of coffee, men like him from Poland, and other countries, and Ireland too. He used to ask them if they knew where there was work. But he stopped. It made no sense, asking men who slept on benches if they know where there are jobs. He knows the answer.
But he likes to talk. He nods at those who look at him as he passes. They know – he thinks they know: he also sleeps outside. He is tempted to stop, to sit and talk. To take out his remaining can of beer.
He keeps walking.
He feels like a criminal. That, perhaps, is the worst part of this life in Dublin, and the most humiliating thing he has ever had to endure. At first he could pretend that he was camping, that it was temporary – and funny. He would find a job and a place to live, and then he would tell Kasia that he had slept in the park for a few nights. They would laugh about it when he went home at Christmas.
He has reached the bus station. Busaras. He can wash here, and shave. He shaves every morning. He goes down to the basement, to the ‘Gents’. The turnstile is open today, so he can go through without paying. There is blood on one of the sinks. There is someone moaning in one of the cubicles. But the water is hot.
He removes his jacket and shirt. He takes his soap and razor from his rucksack, and a small damp towel. This is his last blade. He feels its bluntness pulling against his skin. New cartridges cost more than €14 here. Disposable razors are cheaper, but not good. He will not grow a beard. He will rub his chin against a cement wall every morning if he has to.
He goes back upstairs and sits for a while. He envies the people coming and going. He would like to be getting onto one of the buses outside. Another man sits beside him. They have spoken before. The man is also Polish.
–Hi.
–Hi.
–Have you good news for me this morning? he asks, in Polish.
–No, says the other man.
He shrugs.
–My name is Filip, he says.
–I’m Jerzy.
Jerzy stands. It is time for him to go, to look for work. And it is not a good idea to do this in the company of another man, especially one who has not shaved recently and whose jacket sleeve is torn.
He says goodbye.
–You have money? Filip asks.
He doesn’t look at Jerzy.
Before he can say no, Jerzy takes his money from his pocket. He gives €5 to Filip. It is about one quarter of his total.
–Thanks, says Filip. –I will repay you.
Jerzy shrugs and leaves the station.
He is hungry but he will eat later, at the Capuchin Friary. The rain stops as he crosses the river. This part of the city has many building sites, along both banks of the river. He can see the tall cranes, from everywhere he goes in the city. But, he thinks, it is some time since he saw one the cranes actually move. His feet feel swollen. They are tight in his boots, and sore. But he can walk. And, somehow, he feels the swelling and soreness would go if, today, he found a job.
He does not speak English. Just a few words and phrases. He knew this would be a problem, before he left. But the newspaper articles had said that men just had to turn up at the site gates and there would be jobs there waiting for them. He has done this every day, for months. But, so far, only shaking heads have waited for him.
One day, Jerzy pointed past the foreman, at the growing apartment block behind him.
–I do, he said, in English.
The foreman laughed. Jerzy noticed another man nearby and guessed that he was Polish.
–Why does he laugh? he asked.
–In English, the man told him, –it means you have just agreed to marry him.
Jerzy laughed. They all laughed. But, still, there was no job.
That was two months ago. Today it might be different.
© Roddy Doyle 2008
Roddy’s story continues next month in Metro Éireann
