As I’m sure you guys know there’s never a dull moment in Dublin city, particularly when sitting in a street-side beer garden. Our banter was interrupted a fair few times by the stream of homeless people walking by, asking for a couple of euro to pay for a hostel. Mostly we obliged, never giving a second thought to how these people’s lives became so desolate.
Our perspective definitely changed after a (poignant) near-death experience. Just as I had returned from the bar with the next round, we were approached by a burly looking brick of a man who demanded money for a pint. I wasn’t too enthused by his intimidation tactics, so we unconsciously went for the ‘ignore him and he’ll go away’ ploy. His dark eyes darted erratically around our small table. With no encouragement from us, he began to rant angrily about the unfairness of life.
“People’ll always let you down, I don’t cry over nobody ‘cos who’d cry over me, yeah?”
He rambled on and on while we sat tense and uncomfortable in our chairs. Clara, trying to lighten the atmosphere, agreed with him heartily. “You’re dead right!”
He turned and gave her an intense stare, as if he was sure she was making fun of him. I could see his pride and his sensitivity to any perceived insult. Clara met his gaze, and I wondered how long it had been since another human being had made eye-contact with him. He continued speaking, still in his harsh angry tone.
“….it’s nice to be nice, ya know?”
“That’s what my dad always says!” I piped up. I think I was so frightened that I was subtly trying to remind him that I had a family – as in people who would care if he did anything to hurt me. He turned to me and said, “Does he?” I saw the shock in his eyes as he seemed to mull over what I said.
“I have to show ye girls something” he said. He began to grope inside his overcoat pocket. My friends and I looked at each other in panic. My immediate thought was “gun”. I froze to my chair. I learned that day that I don’t react very well in pressure situations. My mind went blank and I couldn’t move.
“It’s not a gun.” He smirked, reading my mind.
I wasn’t convinced but Hazel exhaled and smiled. “Gosh I’m disappointed!” she joked.
He leered at us and muttered “We could all die together.” I have to admit I thought I was going to die that day. This was a madman.
I didn’t expect what happened next. He pulled out a big bundle of paper and asked “Will you read my poems?”
Clara, still wary, told him she didn’t like reading. Eventually Hazel consented to read his poem aloud. It was called ‘The Sometime Man’. I wish I could remember all the words to his poem. It was a description of all the pain he had suffered in his life. Of all the times he had ‘nearly’ achieved his goals until his life led him down this miserable path. Yet there was hope in his poem.
I thought to myself that if anything ever happens to him, all that will be found with him is his precious bundle of poems. ‘Sometime’ he will achieve his dreams, even if he never lives to see his poems published. It doesn’t matter that he isn’t the most educated writer because his poetry is real.
“You’ll remember me” he appealed to us as he was hustled out of the beer garden by our large hairy bar man.
It just goes to show that everyone has a story to tell, something to offer, if only they decide to tell it. And we choose to listen. Oh and if you ever read this Mr. Sometime Man, The University Times would like to hear from you.
