Chapter 1 :: Page 8

played the same songs, about five or six of them. I didn't think he heard them anymore. The teaching of those times were hard to forget. They were good songs and I knew all the words. Did you remember the taking of this corner and damn British doing that, and after a while, yeah I did remember them and I couldn’t believe they wanted to get divorce legalized and then you thought that you had lived it yourself and when they smoked in a movie theater, you didn’t even notice.
   A constable came by from time to time, just in passing, to tell Jackie to keep the music a little lower, to give him a hard time, but it was just fun. Jackie was like everyone’s grandfather, the one who sometimes held on to the old Lazy Boy chair too long and grumbled in the corner all the time. In Dalkey, there wasn't much to do anyways, at least until the tourists started coming in April, mostly Germans at the beginning, followed by the rest of Europe and then Americans filling the hostels. You could smell the bicyclist's shoes in the summer drying from a quick wash over the basin, hiker's feet resting between trips, either coming from the Wicklow Way or going to it. Or from a day walk at Glendalough.
   "Hey there, Jackie Kinley, cuuld ya turn down the music a bit? We're tired of McBride. Jeesus! Let'it, die fer once, will ya?"
   "Have you lost yer Irish heart? Have ya?"
   "Just turn it down." Greg Kearn leaned against his knee, his arms crossed. His Irish accent was mostly Dublin, but the Ulster accent he grew up with died hard, the rising of the last syllables as if he was always arguing with you. Greg was calm and relaxed and played with Jackie. They all had grandfathers like that for the most part. Jackie was so serious, his light skin hidden by the shadows of his frame, blocking out the overhead light just behind him. Greg stood on the Victorian style veranda, Jackie sitting defiantly, swearing he'd take a hammer to the goddamn English porch, but Jesus it had been there for so long he’d hate to do, he said, his father and grandfather had lived there.
   "Why don't you play Avondale or something. That's a lovely one." Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and tossed one to Jackie during their talk.
   "My father knew yours, Greg. Did you know dat?" Jackie's eyes squinted.
   "I knew, I knew," Greg said smirking. A radio hitched onto Greg's belt cackled and indiscernible words chattered like primordial noise.
   "Play something nice for O'Malley." He waved up to my window. He probably couldn't see me, but I nodded back to him. Smoke floated around Kinley’s face, his head hot in the cool evening. He got so worked up about it all. A moth flicked around, joined by another one, and then two large weak stretched across the porch and lawn, the light penetrating the translucent wings. A cricket jumped and settled.
   "The fog's lifting off Howth Head. It'll be warm today." Jackie lit and fumbled around in his dungarees for a light, lit the cigarette, and looked down the street trying to find a piece of the bay.

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