"Dreamin' Dreams" by Eddie Stack
A Special Event
A Special Event
Irish Short Story Month Year III
March 1 to March 31
Eddie Stack
Dublin
In an act of supreme generosity Eddie Stack has sent me 22 short stories to post for Irish Short Story Month. I offer him my great thanks for this. I intend to share all of these short stories with my readers. He is a master story teller with a deep understanding of Ireland.
Press comments on his work
Press comments on his work
Praise for Eddie Stack’s writing
"Mr. Stack's fiction is versatile and engaging...a vivid, compassionate, authentic voice...securing (him) a place in the celebrated tradition of his country's storytelling.”
New York Times Book Review
“This second collection of short stories by Eddie Stack has a wonderful sense of unreality, of weirdness among Irish characters and of downright fun.”
Irish Emigrant
“Eddie Stack’s stories jet back and forth across the Atlantic, contrasting small town Ireland and big city US. Every time they land, the author seems to test the borderline of what might and might not be possible in downtown bars, crumbling dance halls and drizzly farms. The result is a remarkably consistent collection of short stories.
Ian Wild, Southword
"Dreamin'
Dreams"
by
Eddie Stack
Just days
after MJ celebrated his thirtieth year in America, the foreman gripped his hand,
muttered that things were slack-the recession had bitten and the building boom
had burst. Known as the Hound, the foreman looked MJ in the eye and said he
wished he had better news: sorry, there's no more work after Friday.
“And I've
been with the Hound since '82, you
know,” MJ says as he tells his story in the bars, “I put out a lot of sweat for
that man.”
MJ is
fifty something, a small stocky bachelor with big blue eyes and a red porter
face. America hasn't made much of an impression on him, fortune-wise or other
and he's the same today as the morning he left
Ballysollock. Years of work trying to get somewhere and now he realizes
there's nowhere to go to. Digging, digging, digging. Day and night. Seven days
a week, digging through life in the hope of going back to Ireland with a bundle
of money. Now there is no digging and no money. Just time; years of it fell
into his lap and he wasn't ready for it.
New found
time is tough to live through, he says. The days are long and he does his best
to keep out of harm's way by staying in bed till noon. He relives his life in
patches. A silent movie of faded dreams, might-have-beens if life went
different. There's no blame, just mysteries. He's alone in a one roomed flat in
San Francisco, awake in bed at noon with nothing to fill his day but dreams.
Life shunted him into a railway siding, he's been retired.
MJ hadn't
bargained for this twist of fate and always thought he'd be back living in Ireland long before his working
life was over. He had hoped to get enough money together for a small cottage -
nothing hectic, with just an acre or two,
a few miles outside of some town in the West. Once he had a roof over
his head, it would be easy to keep everything else in order. Odd jobs would
bring in bread and butter and the dole would buy the beer. That was the plan he
came back with after a holiday in Ireland in the nineties when things were good
in America and he had cash. It was his
only trip in thirty years. It's hard to go back without having made a fortune,
and if you've made it you don't want to go back.
Every
afternoon around three, MJ saunters down Geary
Boulevard, regular as a train. Neatly dressed in shirt, slacks and low
grade sneakers, he graciously salutes familiar faces and waves his newspaper at
Irish workers in shamrock splattered pick-up trucks that hoot as they pass.
Some days MJ has a cup of coffee in the Chinese diner in the Mall, it's
something to do, a way to pass the time, kill those extra hours in the day that
burden him down like a visiting aunt he can't get rid of. Later he sits on a
low brick wall outside the Wells Fargo bank and gently taps the unread
newspaper against his knee.
Most days
he's joined by Red Carty, a Galway man who came to San Francisco in the sixties
and never went home. Red hasn't worked in years-he's on the Social Security,
sleeps late and drinks early. He's delighted to have company, MJ is new in the
hanging-out world and Red subtly shows the way.
Their
conversations dance around jigs and reels and ceilli bands from the past.
Memories of good times make thirsty talk and soon they move to The '98, a long
narrow Irish bar with a red tiled floor and green Formica counter. MJ has to stretch the dollars and returns to
his flat after a couple of pints, stopping on the way for a can of beans, bread
and eggs, milk and potatoes. He cooks a big feed and falls asleep watching
wrestling on TV. Next day it's the same routine.
Saturday
is the exception. Mid-afternoon Red and MJ meet in the '98 to watch videos of the previous Sunday's sport
highlights from Ireland. They keep up with the teams and players, just like
they did at home. In many ways they've never left. They're dressed for drinking
as if returning from a funeral: MJ in
blue suit and white open neck shirt; Red in porter-brown pants and dark brogues, tweed jacket and cap.
When Red
has enough drink supped he talks Irish. A few more down and he cries on MJ's
shoulder, sobbing that he left a good farm of land behind when he set sail to
make his fortune. Now he has nothing. Nothing here, nothing over there. MJ
stares gloomily at him and says,
“We'll go
back sometime Red.”
Red makes
contorted, painful faces and shakes his head slowly,
“No MJ,”
he mumbles, “we'll never go back now, we're gone too long.”
By nine or
ten o'clock Red has collapsed at the
counter and MJ falls into company with long-time immigrants Heart Attack Jack
and his brother Milo. When Johnny Foley
is tending bar they are allowed sing and Milo opens the evening with “South of
the Border”. Next up: Heart Attack Jack with “Silver Hairs among the Golden.” MJ
listens in silence, stares at the floor. He's on the town tonight, he's put
down another week of unwanted time in a foreign land.
Mrs. Lally and her husband Topper join them
around ten thirty, and the smell of
perfume and talc reinforces that it is indeed Saturday night. Mrs. Lally corners MJ against the counter and treats him
to a monologue on menopause. Head down, eyes on two pennies on the green
Formica, MJ lets it in one ear and out the other. Now she's whispering, coming
closer and he feels her hot breath and hears the tobacco wheeze as she rambles
on. There's nothing to do but drink. Block it out.
After a
half-hour MJ excuses himself to go to the bathroom and when he returns, Mrs.
Lally is singing “Nobody's Child” staring straight at a neon light above the
bar that flashes-Budweiser, Budweiser. She's on center stage, thinking she's
Madonna, getting passionate about being alone in the world. Red snores at the counter dreaming about milk
cans and the cocks of hay he left to rot in the rain. Outside, cop cars scream
up and down the street, ambulance sirens waw-waw, waw-waw in the distance. But all the noise and commotion in the world
won't wrench Mrs. Lally from her song.
“It's as
close as we'll get to home,” MJ mutters, counting out money for another round,
just to keep the show on the road.
Red wakes
before closing time, half-sober, sore and thirsty. He wants drink and demands
entertainment.
“For God's
sake,” he cries, “it's Saturday night in San Francisco and this place is like a
shaggin' morgue.”
MJ stares
at him, puzzled, as if wondering where he has been until now. Heart Attack Jack
and Milo don't need much encouragement and oblige with a duet of “Galway Bay”.
It's mournful, but not mournful enough for Mrs. Lally, who edges in between
them, holds their hands and strangles the song.
It's nerve
fraying stuff and a couple of young Paddies playing pool howl at the singers.
Red shouts at them to shut up. They shout back. Red knocks over a stool and
Johnny Foley the barman, who has suffered enough all night, screams at
everyone,
“For the
love of Jaysus will ye all fuck up! Now!”
The
singing and the shouting stop. Red shrugs his shoulders and MJ whispers to hold
easy. There's a hush for a few minutes, glasses clink, pool balls click-clack.
The Foley pours himself a large shot of whiskey and slips a tape into the music
maker. Barman's revenge, it's the Pogues.
The volume is boosted until every glass and bottle in the pub rattle and
rocks to “Dirty Old Town”.
Two verses
on, The '98 is singing its head off, dreaming dreams by the gasworks wall.
Heart Attack Jack and Mrs. Lally are dancing. MJ looks puzzled. Young Irish
boys and girls are doing a funky waltz around the pool table. Red is
whispering,
“We'll
never go back, MJ.”
“Ah we
will,” mumbles MJ, “next year, with the help of God. Next year.”
He pulls a
handful of crumpled dollars from his pocket and asks the barman for two
whiskeys and a pack of Camel. Things to pass the time and soothe the soul while
dreamin' dreams about going home.
End of Guest Post
I offer my humble thanks to Eddie Stack for is wonderful generosity in allowing me to post this and 22 other stories for Irish Short Story Month. Stay tuned for a short story a day for the next 20 days from Eddie Stack, one of the masters of the form.
This story is covered by international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online without the permission of the author, the sole owner of this story.
Author Bio
This story is covered by international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online without the permission of the author, the sole owner of this story.
Author Bio
Eddie Stack has received several accolades for his fiction, including an American Small Press of the Year Award, and a Top 100 Irish American Award. Recognized as an outstanding short story writer, he is the author of four books —The West; Out of the Blue; HEADS and Simple Twist of Fate.
A natural storyteller, Eddie has recorded spoken word versions of his work, with music by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. In 2010, he integrated spoken word and printed work with art, music and song to produce an iPhone app of The West; this was the first iPhone app of Irish fiction.
His work has appeared in literary reviews and anthologies worldwide, including Fiction, Confrontation, Whispers & Shouts, Southwords and Criterion; State of the Art: Stories from New Irish Writers; Irish Christmas Stories, The Clare Anthology and Fiction in the Classroom.
A natural storyteller, Eddie has recorded spoken word versions of his work, with music by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. In 2010, he integrated spoken word and printed work with art, music and song to produce an iPhone app of The West; this was the first iPhone app of Irish fiction.
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