The Get Out Triplicity

 

I

 

My earliest memory. In the beginning, there was silence. I had just been flushed out of my intrauterine panic room, and my still gummy eyes were trying to adjust to the rather intense light. Where I had been until only a couple of minutes ago, there was no light. And I had no intention to get out, at all. But now that strange person was holding me by my shrivelled-up feet. Upside down. I could tell, even with all the light and the state my eyes were in, that the woman wanted to raise me higher, but there was the cord. So, she cut the cord and lifted me up a little bit more. The loss of connection to my previous supply system and, of course, the slap on my behind made me scream at the top of my lungs. But I suppose that was the purpose of the whole thing all along, to see if my lungs were working properly.

II

 

“Please come out of there, my darling.” I say to my three-year-old daughter, still calm. She’s in there again. But she doesn’t want to listen.

“I’m as sweet as they are, daddy! You said so yourself!” she says, pouting now.

“Of course, you are! And you are even sweeter than they will ever be! That’s why you don’t need to go in there with them, my sweet little munchkin!” I try to reason with my little stubborn girl.

“See, you even call me by the same name!” she now screams in her high-pitched voice.

“No, I didn’t.” I defend myself, still trying very hard to remain a sensible and responsible parent, “And now, be a nice girl and come out of there!” She, however, pretends not to have heard any of this.

“Please, let’s finish this here real quick before mommy comes home. Because if you are in there, I can’t put them inside to bake them.” I say. But she instead goes into a huff, turns around and crawls deeper inside.

I’m on my last leg with my parenting skills, and I shout, “Get out!” As a last resort, I grab her by her little legs and try to pull. But she gets hold of something inside and her body is hanging in mid-air; inside her little hands cling to the rails for the baking tins while I hold onto her legs, outside. I, somehow, manage to peel her sticky little hands off the rails and pull her out.

Now the violently shaking bundle is sitting in an armchair, sobbing hysterically, just because I didn’t allow my sweet little munchkin to be in the oven with the sweet little muffins she helped to make.

III

 

To tell you the truth, you’re stuck. It’s nothing personal. It just happens to the best of people, sometimes. I mean, there can’t always be progress. Sometimes there is also regress. However, thinking of regress here is like only thinking in categories of black and white. Thinking only in a rather limiting duality. Good and evil. High and low. Up and down. And of course, progress and regress.

            You’re stuck. That means that there is neither progress nor regress. Or there rather shouldn’t be. Because otherwise you will force a tragedy to unfold around you, involving you. Just imagine watching a Shakespeare play in the theatre, you get an idea what tragedy means: Every possible solution is wrong. The dramatic hero doesn’t get to choose between good and evil, but whether to make this mistake or another one. In a catastrophe of this magnitude, every choice is wrong.

            What does that mean for you? It means that you must lie low for a bit, until the tide has turned. When your actions are unsatisfactory, gather information; when information is insufficient, sleep. That’s how you’ll get out.

Saved by the Bells

There’s a knock at the door. I open. He puts his foot between frame and leaf. I push against it. He pushes me into the wall, effortlessly. Then he walks in. Goes straight to the fridge in the kitchen.

I don’t know his real name. They call him crazy Ivan, because he apparently looks like those stereotypical Russians from the movies. Ham-fisted and heavily built; that kind of guy, you know. But he isn’t Russian. To me, he sounds like he is from the mountains and lakes of Connemara, west of the city. A big and burly ginger. He works for the landlord. And I’m a couple of months short on the rent.

“No beer, eh?!” he says and takes out a can of peach halves instead. He pulls it open by the tag, just a little, walks over into the living room and lets himself fall into the sofa, making the frame graunch. There’s also a loud noise in the bedroom. He stares at me.

“The cat.” I say, wiping my wet palms off on my outdoor trousers. He’s satisfied with the answer, though.

“Know why I’m here?” he says, then puts the can to his lips and slurps the cool syrupy juice out of the can through the small hole. “Ahhh!”

“I’m so sorry, I got laid off three months ago. And I …” He puts his index finger slowly across his lips and I fall silent.

“That’s another issue that needs to be addressed, but for now …” he smirks, and focuses on the can again, pries it completely open, takes out half a peach and puts it in his mouth. The juice is running down his chin, dripping on his shirt. “Ahhh!” He takes a cushion and buries his face into it.

“Heard about the old man’s daughter?” he says, after he’s wiped his face clean with the cushion.

“Not since we broke up a few months ago, no. I’m sorry! Why do you ask?” I say convincingly enough, having a look at my backpack leaning against the armchair next to the sofa, and then quickly back at him.

“The old man didn’t want to let her go to Australia.” he says. I say nothing, because I didn’t want to let her go alone either, as I didn’t have the money to go with her. And see, where am I now?!

“A bloody nurse in fecking Australia, can you believe it?! We need nurses here in Ireland more than they do in rotten down under, the boss told her. But she wouldn’t hear it.”

“Yes, I know, she wouldn’t. But she had saved quite a bit of money for it.”

“She with her pale Irish skin would burn to a crisp in no time, he said to the lassie, taking the piss, the old man.” Then he takes another peach out of the can and puts the whole thing into his mouth. “Ahhh!” he goes, and wipes his mouth dry on the cushion again.

“Anyway, she went down to Kerry with that new fella of hers, that eejit. I mean the girl is such a ride and this moron has a face I wouldn’t want to ride into battle with. I don’t know what she saw in that gobshite, honestly?!” he shakes his head, “Probably the money, though. He comes from money, you know, he’s a McNamara!”

“So, they go down there to hike up Carrantuohill. Two climb up the mountain, but only one comes back down again.” he says, and I’m shocked instantly. I just look at him; my eyes are a blank stare. “Hey, you, do you understand what I am saying?”

“What happened to her? What did he do to her?”

“What? … He didn’t do nothing. That dipshit got himself knocked out on top of the mountain.” he reaches for the can and fumbles another peach out of it and shoves the juicy piece into his mouth, followed by another “Ahhh!”

“So, she knocked him out, then?!”

“No, at least not the way he sees it.” This time he doesn’t use the cushion; this time he sucks his syrupy fingers clean.

“How does he see it?”

“How does he see what?” he says, focussing on his sticky fingers.

“How did he get knocked out?”

“Ah, the fella! Yeah, he says that they were alone on the way up to the peak. She was way ahead of him when he heard something behind him. He said, he turned around, but before he could see what it was, he got kicked right in the face.” He looks around in the living room, then asks, “You wouldn’t have any wet wipes for my fingers, would you?!”

“Give me a second, I get some for you!” I say. On the way into the hallway, I kick my dirty boots out of his sight, get the wipes from the kitchen and return to the living room.

“Anyway, nose broken, some teeth poked out. Pretty bad. I mean, he wasn’t exactly a beau, you know; but now, a face like a sack full of spuds, that ugly son of a bitch!” He just drops the used wipes on the floor in front of him, and goes on, “When he woke up, he’s alone and it’s dark. He climbed down to the lodge. The landlady told him that she hadn’t seen her coming down to the lodge. He checked his stuff and found the money missing.” He chuckles to himself and shakes his head in disbelief.

“Just imagine this, that ugly bastard took twenty kays out of his bank account to run away with the lassie to Australia, fecking Australia again! She is missing, the money is missing. And you say that you haven’t talked to her in what … months, is that right?!” Then suddenly the bells of Big Ben chime out of his pocket, and he answers the phone.

“I got to go now.” he says after the call has ended, “Have to be down in Shannon real quick. Fecking Shannon Airport, my arse! But a good friend of the boss knows somebody who works down there who said that she’s on the passenger list, and she’s flying out to Melbourne in two hours.” He jumps up, grabs the half empty can of peaches and the wet wipes and leaves as quick as he came.

I go over to the cupboard and from behind the dusty pint glasses I get the two tickets for Dublin to Auckland. Then I step into the bedroom, knock at the closet and say, “Honey, get ready, we only have three hours to get over to the Dublin Airport!”