by Tom Lennon
Water was hissing through the overhead pipes, and the faint sounds of people on the beach drifted through the vent in the concrete wall. Ignoring the pungent odors, Neil started to read the graffiti. It struck him how sad most of the comments were. Notes of desperation. Presumably sane people organizing dates on the back of a toilet door. After he had read the complete toilet-door works, he flushed the toilet and opened the stall door. His heart jumped when he saw that Bushy Mustache was still in the rest room, now pretending to wash his hands in a dingy hand basin that looked older than himself.
“You wouldn’t have the time, would you?” Bushy Mustache asked in his suave voice.
“Eh, it’s just past three o’clock,” Neil replied, avoiding the man’s lingering look. His face felt like it was on fire as he walked out of the rest room. He stayed out of view while a DART train, packed with happy day-trippers, shuttled past. Then, as he was unlocking his bicycle, Bushy Mustache appeared at the doorway of the rest room.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yeah.” Neil’s hands were trembling as he fiddled with his combination lock. He felt the man’s eyes burning right through him. He kept his head bowed, certain that with his luck, someone he knew was bound to be passing at this embarrassing moment. “Hey, Neil, saw you chatting to this bloke outside the bog in the park. You’d want to watch it, you’ll get a bit of a name for yourself.” Don’t worry, Neil reassured himself, you’d fob them off with a grin and a joke. “Oh, he was some goer,” you’d say with a mock sigh, “me arse was sore for a week after.” They’d laugh, and all suspicion would be dispelled immediately.
“You don’t have a light by any chance, do you?”
Oh shit, he’s not giving up easily. Maybe you’re giving out signals without even knowing it.
“Sorry, don’t smoke.”
That’s it, up on your bike now and cycle away back into your safe little world, Neil thought. Leave the toilet fiend to his own devices. God, what a life, spending your Sunday afternoons in a stinking toilet. Imagine if his mother knew. Imagine if the doctor delivering the screaming baby said, “Oh missus, this boy of yours is going to spend every Sunday afternoon in a dingy toilet, attempting to lure younger men into the cubicle with him.” Aaaah, she’d scream, “Murder him! Drown him like a kitten. Slit his throat from ear to ear. Gag him till he suffocates. Just get rid of him.”
Quickly Neil squashed any thoughts of what his own mum would say if she could see her little fellow now.
Later that evening, Neil crossed the road as he cycled past Hollywood Nights. He didn’t want to be spotted by any of the rhyming couplets who went there most weekend nights. Anytime he did go there, Neil ended up standing at the edge of the dance floor with Mal and Tony, two cynical guys from his class who spent their nights commenting on the ugliness—and the sexual availability—of the female talent. Two cynical guys with whom no self-respecting girl would dance even if they did have the nerve to ask. It was Mal who, during one of his more inventive moments, had coined the phrase “rhyming couplets.” Neil hated himself for fraternizing with them, but it was better than feeling completely left out.
After locking his bike to a railing in the carpark of the Stillorgan Orchard, Neil skipped up the steps that led to the cinema. Quarter to nine. Good, he thought, he wouldn’t have to stand in line and pretend he was waiting
for someone.
“Neil!”
Neil’s heart sank. All the people in the line turned to look at him.
“Hey, Neil!” It was the unmistakeable voice of his sister Jackie. Neil turned around and saw her and her boyfriend, Liam. There was no escape.
Neil grinned as he joined them. “How’s it going?”
“How’re you, Neil?” Liam beamed his friendly smile. Both Liam and Jackie were wearing odd shoes again. It was their latest craze. They had started off wearing odd socks, before graduating to odd shoes. One day Neil had bumped into the pair of them on Grafton Street, when they were wearing one running shoe and one Doc Marten each.
“Who’re you here with?” Jackie asked, searching around for her younger brother’s friends.
“I’m supposed to meet Gary and Tom,” Neil lied, “but I’m a bit late. You haven’t seen them, have you?”
Jackie and Liam shook their heads vaguely. Then Jackie’s eyes lit up as she grabbed Neil’s sleeve.“ Did the old pair say anything about me not coming home last night?” Both Jackie and Liam were second year science students at UCD. Liam had a flat in Rathmines and Jackie often stayed the night there. She would phone home after the pubs closed and tell her parents she had missed the last bus and was going to stay with her friend Michelle.
Neil shrugged. “Nah, just the usual martyr act from the old dear.”
“Oh, what have we reared?” Jackie was doing an exaggerated mimicry of their mother.
Liam smiled. “Which film are you going to?” he asked, flicking his long hair back from his face and jangling the huge collection of love bangles on his wrist. Both he and Jackie gave each other a bangle to mark each new week of their relationship.
“The Crying Game,” Neil told him, wishing he had someone to wear bangles for.
“That’s what we’re going to,” Jackie said. “You might as well sit with us, looks like the lads have gone in already.”
The line had started to move. Neil sensed that Jackie knew that he had come alone. She was probably wondering what was wrong with her little brother. Why didn’t he hang around with the crowd? Neil saw a flicker of the same look of pity that he’d seen on his mum’s face earlier. He wished he had hidden away with his books as usual, invisible to the world.
Chapter Two
A carnival atmosphere swept through the Sixth Year classrooms as the end of term drew closer. Everyone knew that it was the end of an era, a benchmark in their lives, and a strange aura of camaraderie and goodwill pervaded. Fellows who had hated one another’s guts for the past six years exchanged pleasantries. The coolest bloke in the class, Mick Toner, who had behaved like a rock star for the past few years and made a particular point of not speaking to anyone who played rugby, now dropped his guard and babbled away like an excited kid on Christmas morning. The two cynics of the class, Mal and Tony, were barely recognizable without their sneers. Even despised teachers were treated as friends.
But a great cloud of nervous anxiety hung over everything. Neil smiled to himself; he and his classmates were like unborn infants reluctant to leave the womb, afraid of the great unknown that was beckoning and that they had all been looking forward to escaping into for so long. Now, even the classrooms that had always been seen as torture chambers suddenly became appealing. They personified safety and certainty. All decisions were made there for you. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad place after all, he thought, but it was like something he had read somewhere once, that most people only realize how good times were when they are over.
“I don’t like saying good-bye,” Father Donnelly, flanked by all the other teachers, was addressing the Sixth Years, all of whom had assembled in the hall, “so I’m not going to say good-bye.”
“Say au revoir.” The voice from the back of the hall was clearly audible, and a ripple of amused laughter filled the hall.
Up on the stage, Father Donnelly smiled benevolently, biding his time, waiting for the noise to subside. Then he pointed down at the grinning culprit. “Keep that sense of humor, Mr.Toner, God knows you’ll need it.” This was greeted by a burst of laughter, as every head turned to look at the now-red-faced Mick Toner.
Father Donnelly rambled into his end-of-term speech.
He reminded them how fortunate they were to have been educated at Blackrock Academy. This was met by low mumblings of protest from the back of the hall. He told them that they must show compassion to those less fortunate than them, that they must take Christ’s message out into the world with them.
“His rule is simple…” Father Donnelly paused.
“No baseball hats in the classroom,”
a deep voice at the back of the hall interrupted, and this was greeted by another burst of laughter.
Father Donnelly chose to ignore the comment, “…Love God and love thy neighbor.”
“Even Mal and Tony?” The deep voice was again followed by sniggers, quickly silenced by Father Donnelly’s icy glare. Neil felt sorry for Donno; it was obvious that the ceremony meant more to him than it did to his students. He had admitted as much to Neil and a couple of others on the Co-Operation North weekend. He had told them that summer was the saddest time of the year for him. The graduating class, which he had known since they were twelve-year-olds, would walk out the school gates, and very few of them ever came back to see him again. Neil decided that he was definitely going to drop in and visit Donno regularly.
Father Donnelly signaled for attention. “Now, all that’s left for me to do is to open these envelopes here in front of me and announce the winners of this year’s prizes.”
The tension in the hall mounted. Father Donnelly didn’t lift his eyes from the gathered assembly as he tore the envelopes open. He seemed to enjoy watching them squirm. There was a prize to be awarded for each subject and each recipient had to suffer the long walk up to the stage to collect his prize. Drops of perspiration trickled down Neil’s rib cage, his heart pounded. The prize for English was about to be announced and he was one of the hot favorites.
Big deal, he thought, who gives a shit if I win or not. It’ll all be forgotten about by tomorrow anyway.
But try as he might, he still couldn’t ease his anxiety. No point in fooling yourself, Neiley Nook, you’re a competitive fucker and you want that prize.
Father Donnelly held the piece of paper up in front of him. Half an hour seemed to pass before he revealed the winner’s name.
“Neil Byrne.”
Neil froze. Everything went hazy.
“Yo, Byrner!” someone shouted.
Gary hugged him in congratulation. All around him his classmates turned their heads to look at him. He was a popular winner. Thunderous applause, piercing whistles, and the din of stamping feet rang in Neil’s ears as he walked the seemingly endless distance to the stage. Arms reached out to slap him on the back and punch him as he passed. Even ice-cool Mick Toner was applauding wildly, and the sneers were strangely absent from Mal’s and Tony’s faces. Neil struggled to fight back the tears of pride. But he felt uneasy as he turned to show the crystal bowl to his admirers. Would their adulation be so enthusiastic if they knew the truth about him? What would they be shouting at him then?
His parents’ delight turned to silence when Neil broke the news to them. He picked at the little specks of dirt lodged beneath his fingernails while he waited for their response. He realized that it would come as a shock.
“Liberal Arts?” His dad almost spat the words out in disgust.
“Well, English and history…”
Another long silence followed. The martyred look creased his mum’s pinched face. His dad’s face was red with anger.
“I mean, that’s what I’m interested in,” Neil pleaded. “I won the prize for English, didn’t I?” he added.
His dad stood up, rested his backside against the draining board, and stared intently at his son. Through the kitchen window behind his dad, Neil counted seven magpies perched on the thick branch supporting the tree house. “I’m interested in classical music, Neil, but I’d never be able to make a living out of it,” his dad replied calmly.
Neil bowed his head and stared at his feet. He knew the line his father’s argument was going to follow. You’ll get a job anywhere in the world with an engineering degree. Liberal Arts is for rich kids who can step into Daddy’s company when their fooling-around days are over.
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for…Neil’s mind went blank, he couldn’t get past four in the rhyme his mum had taught him as a child.
“English and history books should be read as a hobby, in your spare time…An arts degree isn’t worth tuppence when it comes to the jobs market.”
“You need one if you want to become a teacher.”
“A teacher?” His dad’s voice was laced with incredulity.
“You want to become a teacher?” his mum asked in surprise.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind it,” Neil lied. He had no idea what he wanted to do after college; he never looked that far into the future.
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’re more teachers in the unemployment line this country than there are working,” his dad snorted derisively. And once again, Neil felt like breaking down and telling them all about the monsters that stalked him. About the sadness, the despair, the hopelessness, but worst of all, the horrible loneliness that he kept hidden deep in his heart. Try to understand, his eyes pleaded. Hug me and tell me that you’ll love me no matter what.
His dad prodded his shoulder. “Are you listening to us at all?”
“Yeah.” Neil swallowed to clear the lump in his throat.
“Look, just do your bloody exams first. We’ll discuss this again some other time,” his dad said, and left the room. The front door slammed shut behind him.
Neil remained seated as his mum started to clear the dishes off the table. Eventually, she broke the awkward silence. “Your father isn’t too pleased with your sudden change of heart.”
“It’s not sudden.” Neil’s reply was sullen.
“Well, it’s very sudden to us, Neil…I don’t know, but d’you have any idea how much it costs to go to college these days?”
Neil said nothing.
“I mean, we’re not made of money, your father only has a limited salary,” she sighed. “With both you and Jackie at college, things are going to be very tight…”
Neil dug a teaspoon into the sugar bowl and stirred the white granules around slowly. How could she worry about such stupid things at a time like this? Why didn’t she understand?
“But we don’t mind making sacrifices if we know that you’re going to have a chance of getting a decent job at the end of it.”
“Well, if I get a Morrison Visa, I won’t need to go to college at all, and you won’t need to spend a penny on me,” Neil countered cruelly. This sparked a brisk upsurge in his mum’s work rate. She got down on her hands and knees, shook some Vim onto a scouring pad, and began her assault on the greasy interior of the oven. “Martyr overload” was what Jackie called their mum’s habit of diving into her least favorite chores when she was upset. But America was a particularly sore point. Both of Neil’s older brothers, Paul and Joe, had got visas a couple of years before, and the pair of them now lived in New York. She never admitted it, but Neil knew that their leaving broke his mum’s heart, and the last thing she wanted was for her youngest boy to emigrate.
But this silent suffering angered Neil. Why didn’t everyone just say what they felt? Instead of listing off a million-and-one reasons, why didn’t his mum just admit that she didn’t want him to leave because she loved him? How could she expect him to be less secretive with her if she wasn’t prepared to be open with him?
“I better do some studying,” Neil muttered, standing up. He needed to have a smoke and listen to some music. His mum kept scrubbing, ignoring him as he crossed the kitchen. Neil lingered at the door a moment, smiling inwardly as he watched his mum’s furious scraping. But then the unexpected happened. His mum spoke. “Your friend Becky phoned for you earlier.” “Oh really, what time?” Neil asked calmly. “Earlier, I don’t know what time,” his mum said, resuming her scrubbing at a slower pace.
Neil left the room. As he dialed Becky’s number, he grimaced. He had finally recalled the last lines of the magpie rhyme: Five for silver, six for gold, seven for secrets never to be told.
Neil and Becky went on a spree using Neil’s English prize as their excuse. Neil couldn’t stop talking once he went over two pints. The words tumbled out so fast that he sometimes had trouble understanding what he was saying himself. But Becky was obviously enjoying his company. She kept
rolling back on her seat in laughter. Neil always felt relaxed when he was with Becky; she was different to all the other girls. To her, he was simply her friend Neil and not the Blackrock winger who scored a goal in the Schools’ Cup final. He could be himself with her; there was no need for his usual game-playing.
After their fourth pint he made the most difficult decision of his life. The secret never to be told. The time had come, he decided; someone had to be told before he went mad.
He held Becky’s hand and beckoned her closer. “Becky,” he slurred, “if I tell you something, will you swear you’ll never tell a soul as long as you live?”
“Of course.”
“No, you’ve got to swear.”
“Neil, you can trust me.” There was a hint of indignation in her reply.
Neil held his head in his hands. “Oh God, I don’t know how to say this.”
Becky eyed him patiently. Neil put his lips up to her ear and purposely made his whisper incomprehensible.
“What?” she muttered.
“Got a problem that won’t go away,” he said, and an anxious look crossed Becky’s face—the type of look that people give when they’re told that someone is terminally ill.
“No, it’s nothing like you think. Like, I’m not sick or anything,” he added quickly. Then he took a blurred look around the half-empty pub to ensure for the hundredth time that no one was within earshot. He had to go through with it; he couldn’t live with this secrecy any longer. He had rehearsed this moment countless times in the privacy of his bedroom. Again he put his lips up to Becky’s ear and whispered, “I think that…I’m gay.”
As soon as the admission had passed his lips, he wanted to retract it. He watched Becky’s face closely. Tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He was crazy. She was going to shriek and run out of the pub and tell everyone. His life was over. He’d definitely have to go to America now.
