Concerning an Irishman

The resemblance was certain. It was the point of his life where he thought he was at the outlook looking towards a shambolic rusted train station. This was his escape. His vacation. His vulnerabilities all rolled in to one. He was the Messiah, Jesus, Buddha all encapsulated in one body.

He was a thin man with a pin moustache always dressed in chequered clothing. The first time I met him I didn’t think much of him. We were at the Sheesha Bar as we had often done back then. A haze of smoke clouded the large bar as if it was awaiting impending doom. He was also wearing a barrette.

We sat next to him since he was by himself and the rest of the bar was filled to the rim. He didn’t say much at first. Just puffed away on his hookah (water pipe) quite contently. It was a good half hour before he decided to say anything to us.

‘Hello’
‘Hi, how are you?’ we asked warmly, always interested in meeting new people, hearing new stories, learning things about someone and therefore learning something about your own self.
‘I’m great. Say, you people come here often?’ His accent seemed to be Irish.
‘Yeah of late. We dig the atmosphere. You?
‘Yeah I’m here every second day of the week of late’ and laughed nervously.

This man did seem odd but there was something curiously interesting about him. Firstly, as noted earlier, he was wearing a barrette so we knew that he thought much of himself and that we shouldn't take him too seriously. Anyone who wears a barrette is not worth the attention that they seek. You don’t wear a barrette to NOT get noticed, do you?

He was wearing a dark shirt with purple pants that clashed revoltingly, and then he began to talk about ‘substance’. I will explain.

Once he realised that we were enjoying his company he began to open up and open up he did. He couldn’t shut the hell up! He rambled and ranted, segwaying through four different subjects within the one dizzying sentence. Hair, Russian literature, football, hashish and then ‘substance’.

When he began his whirlwind tour of information that was ‘substance’ we knew we were in for a ride. He crept uncomfortably close to all of us and would rub his thumb and forefinger together, like someone does when they are talking about money and he would say that what he was doing, that very act, was something of substance and that was the only thing that mattered.

We asked him what substance was and he would then rub his two fingers again whilst glaring into our eyes like we should know the answer already. How could we not get it?!

It took four long months to find out.