Endings & Beginnings

Hi fellow Steemians! These are extracts from a novel I am currently working on. I would be very grateful for any constructive comments and feedback you would be happy to provide. Thank you in advance, David B @davidbrogan

Foreword:

I have been very blessed in this lifetime. As a token of my daily gratitude to those selfless individuals that continue to inspire and help me, I should like to share my story, in the hope that my experience may perhaps prove of some benefit to others here on Steemit.

As has been said: "When the student is ready, the Master appears."

Chapter One: Endings & Beginnings.

April 22nd, 2001. Dublin, Ireland.

In order to be born to a new life, one must die to the old

I was beat and I knew it. The spark that briefly flamed, had flickered once and finally died. Two days previously I had journeyed down to my deceased mother's maiden town with high hopes to rekindle fond childhood memories from a better life. I had traveled alone. My marriage was over. My wife had recently left, taking our two children with her. No tears, no histrionics, no lingering last looks. We were beyond all that. Just numbness and emptiness. Exhaustion. There may have been a last cool handshake, a mumbled goodbye, maybe not. The death of our once happy union had been like a long slow drawn-out breath. I was battered, bruised, and broken. Like my pale skin, as white and as cold as death, my emotions were completely frozen. I only half-listened to soulful 'Blues' songs crackling through an other-worldly radio reception on the road south. Cold comfort.

I hated myself so much, what I had become, I used to 'joke' that when my wife left me I wanted to go with her. Poor sick joke. Poor sick me. I was a never-ending pity-party no-one wanted to go to. I was tired of my own constant story of abandonment, adoption, blaming others and a remote ever-silent 'God' above, exhaling excuses, I was sick of being sick. My story was a book with no readers, not even me.

Bone-tired and weary, I had determined in one of my semi-sober sojourns to start again. Dear Lord... how many times had I made decisions to start over? That it would be different this time? Yet, this time I knew it would be different! This time I wouldn't fuck it all up. This time! My self-deception knew no bounds. I was only fooling myself, but I knew no better. Resolved to show others and myself that I wasn't some complete failure, that I could resurrect the old me like a phoenix emerging from the flames, I had been dreaming of the 'good times' from a past life.

Trips to Dublin hadn't always been this solitary, nor as smooth. Bumpy roads, counting sheep, Are we there yet?, I spy, coloring books, "She'll be coming round the mountain" and other favorites...sung in and out of key, so long as it was loud on the choruses.. waiting for what seemed like hours at the border, I need the toilet, Mum or Dad shouting "Stop Fighting in the back!" to me and my brother. Our younger sister usually had to sit between us as the Peace-keeper. No-one liked the middle seat. You couldn't see out the window.

I remembered Sunday ice-cream in my granny's house after Mass, sing-song voices, summer sun, laughter and love, playing with my city cousins, 'Rounders','Kerbsies', picnics in Phoenix park. Such are my childhood memories of dear ould Dublin town.

Back to reality! How would I support myself? Well, the easier the job and money the better! Wasn't I a cut-throat junior stock-broker in London in my 20's? Hadn't I out-performed all the other wolves and competition in my first semester based at Hatton Gardens?... But maybe let's just gloss over thinking that I was 'Superman' as I attempted to try and fly over Kensington Gardens from a fourth floor hotel balcony at the company's Christmas Dinner, smacked out of my head on a cocaine-fueled cocktail of alcohol and assorted other drugs. One of many close shaves. Saved by... what? And why?

But then again, wasn't it a good time? Wasn't I the life and soul of the party? Didn't everyone laugh and say how crazy I was as they pulled me down from the railing ledge? And isn't 'crazy' just another way of saying what great fun you are? Hmm... Possibly airbrush that one out of any anecdotes or in response to any questions with the investment Bank tomorrow morning on O'Connell Street at 9am sharp!

Yes, I had resolved to re-enter the Lion's Den of investment banking one drunken night as I filled out the application form. Even though a friend warned me that Daniel never went back for his lunchbox once he had escaped the den, it was "Easy money"... and the show must go on!

I arrived in Dublin on Gardiner St. at approximately 8pm on Friday evening. My sister, currently on holidays in America and arriving back early on Saturday morning (party-time!), had said I could stay in her apartment that she shared with two other girls, only one of whom was still there on the Friday night. The other had gone home to the parents' homestead for the weekend.

So, Friday evening, Dublin town, interview not until 9am in the morning... What's a poor country boy to do?
Ok! No drinking I told myself. You need a clear head for the interview in the morning. You can't arrive late and smelling of alcohol. So what then? I know! A nice leisurely stroll after dinner to access the route to the interview and know how long it will take you to get there in the morning. That way, you know exactly what time to rise, you won't be guessing, and therefore you won't be flustered or rushed. Brilliant! That's a plan I told myself, and off I duly went.

Oh, the best laid plans of mice and men! I strolled casually down Lower Gardiner Street, feeling good about myself for the first time since I couldn't say when; enjoying the carnival of sights and sounds, the musky smell and clammy heat of a late April evening, pretty semi-clad city girls peacocking in high heels, hustling together for warmth and safety, arms interlinked, laughing a little too loudly as they ceremoniously clanked their way along the sidewalk towards destinations unknown, all the hustle and bustle of a capital city, catching snatches of conversation as I passed open pub doorways, approaching the Liffey as it silently flowed its constant course to Dublin Bay in the dark near distance only two streets away.

I reminisced about being serenaded by buskers to the sweet choral aroma of Bewley's Coffee on Grafton Street, the cornucopia of Temple Bar, Trinity College, Leeson St nightclubs and ladies, breakfast in Jury's Hotel after an all-nighter, but more often the Burlington where I could loudly play "I Don't Like Mondays" on the piano to appreciative guests at 6.30a.m. until abruptly asked to stop by staff...the tone-deaf heathens!...hungover Cider sing-songs in lockups on the Quays of a Sunday afternoon with the Dub lads, Oysters and Guinness, staggering home with new brothers-in-arms over Ha'penny Bridge... Ah, sweet memories.. I had definitely made the right decision!

I turned onto Talbot Street thinking it was Pearce Street down by Trinity College, a mental mistake I still make to this day,... another few hundred yards... and onto O'Connell Street itself.. right at the big needle, or 'Monument of Light' to the politically correct among us! Easy landmark. Ok, turn right and another 200 yards and there it is! The Gresham Hotel, my morning interview destination! Fantastic! Why hadn't I thought of moving to Dublin before? What a magical place! Oh, that's right...you were married and had responsibilities! Anyhow, mission accomplished. Time for home and bed. Early to bed and early to rise, makes a dude healthy, wealthy, and wise... or something like that.

So I began to retrace my steps. Only I needed to do something first. It would only take a minute. I needed a bathroom, and quickly. I wouldn't be able to hold it until I got back to my sister's place. It was just all the excitement and energy of being in Dublin and a fresh start just around the corner! But where does one go to the loo on a capitals main thoroughfare on a Friday evening? A fast food palace or a coffee shop? Of course not! No... A pub! Of course, how silly of me. Just nip in, spend a penny, and home in ten minutes! Still time for a chat with my sister's flatmate and a coffee before bed.

So I entered through the old wooden saloon doors of Madigans and was greeted by the familiar sounds, scents, and atmosphere of a bustling Dublin city center pub on a Friday night. Everyone looked to be having fun. God, the Dublin girls never looked lovelier. Focus... bathroom. Of course, anyone familiar with a drinking establishment knows that the toilets are never beside the front door. Rather, they are tucked away at the farthest point possibly possible to tuck a toilets in.

I walked the Green Mile. The old oaken wood floor thundered beneath my every footstep. Everyone was looking at me... watching me, waiting... I was sure of it. I was a stranger in a strange land. It was obvious I was sticking out like a sore thumb. A Northern import in a Southern town. Could I really be hearing a fiddle player in the corner starting to play "Dueling Banjos?" Boom! went a boudhran. Boom! again. It was measuring and matching my footsteps. What was I thinking? What bad manners of me to think of using this fine establishment's toilets without buying anything. Was the head barman giving me a dirty look? I knew I could fix this. It was still early. I would just enjoy a quick coffee after relieving myself and then straight home. I was going to have a coffee back at the flat anyhow. Thus resolved to do the right thing, I entered the men's cubicles.

Somehow and somewhere in the full minute it must have taken between entering and leaving the twilight zone known as the 'Gents'; my idea of the quick coffee was completely lost and transformed itself into a quick pint. It was only manners when in Dublin, and my mother had always taught me to have good manners. After all, It was her city I was in I reasoned. When in Rome. I would drink a toast to mum's memory and celebrate tomorrow's successful outcome! The interview was only a formality. Whoever heard of an Irishman drinking a coffee in a Dublin pub on a Friday night anyhow? Slainté!

My sister was shaking me awake....

(T.B.C.)

A quick shoutout to @stellabelle for inspiring me to finally put the ghosts and fears to rest and start writing. It definitely is therapy. Thanks Leah for the copy of your book Uncrap your Life Essential reading for all true Steemians!

P.S. It's good to be back.