Dublin was more of a circus than a city. It was lit up by an array of carnies. Tourists from around the globe came to Dublin to experience Ireland while freaks, musicians and magicians filled Grafton Street.
Their profits were made off pure amusement. Typical street performers juggled knives while riding a unicycle. Some amazed the crowd as they breathed fire. Bands always played at night and gathered large crowds. The streets created their own economy.
Human statues were painted from head to toe in black, wearing a solid black suit with a disturbing caricature mask. They stayed still as stone for tedious amounts of time. It must be sweat dripping work. I imagine their muscles urging for movement, but they were tight and tense. They stared out at the tourists walking by, but did not acknowledge their presence. It was as if their souls had ascended from their body and left nothing but an empty vessel.
One man was missing half of his arm and held up his pan flute with the nub and blew a tranquil tune. He probably got half of his money for sympathy and the other half from talent. There was one man with a set-up of a leprechaun body. Tourists laughed hysterically as they poked their head-on top and took photographs of themselves as “leprechauns”.
All of the bars in the Temple Bar District lured foreigners in with their “Traditional Irish Music.” After seeing the same act twice, I was over the show Dublin was putting on. Every day had the same routine. I felt like I was the only one catching on. Maybe it was my red hair and Irish blood that sensed the artificial world Dublin portrayed for their thriving tourism industry.
I met Gary at Doyle’s Pub, the most “local” pub I could find. He was pale with short blond hair and accentuated his light brow bone with a spiked piercing. He had a baby face. It was smooth, without a single hair on his chin. He said he was Irish, but was always told he looked Polish.
Gary told me about a club that the locals go to. I couldn’t say no to an opportunity to get out of the tourist traps.
He talked a mile a minute and walked fast. His accent was thick and he had been drinking. It was pure Irish rambling, with a “Jaysus” here and there.
“Fuckin legend man. This man’s a fucking legend,” Gary said amid his rambling while patting my friend Aaron on the back.
He paused occasionally to take a long drag from his store-bought cigarette, holding each breath for a moment to savor each puff before exhaling.
“Jaysus! This man’s a FUCKING legend!”
We nodded our heads and laughed along, pretending to understand what he was saying.
Once in the local club, I ordered a Jameson and ginger before searching for the bathroom. I walked down the narrow stairwell to the basement of the club.
In the bathroom’s bright light, I noticed the eerie imperfections. It looked as if it were filled with dirty sex and even dirtier drugs. At that moment I came to the realization that I was in a different country. A sharp chill raced up my spine.
We left the club after I finished my drink.
Gary took us on the scenic route and gave us the tour of the dark side of Dublin. He pointed out a broken rubberband in a dark corner that was used to shoot up heroin. He rambled on about “fucking junkies” and their constant begging for money while pointing out where junkies linger.
Gary stopped and pointed at a building.
“That bank was fucking robbed,” he said and then pointed to another building, “That bank was robbed and that Starbucks,” he turned and pointed to the Starbucks, “That used to be a bank there and that was robbed as well.”
He rambled some more before taking a drag from his cigarette.
“All that shit,” he waved his arms in a circle toward the city, “is to distract you from this.”
I remembered the statues I saw during a tour of Dublin. They were dedicated to the lives that were lost and the suffering encountered during the Great Famine. The motionless figures seemed to slink down the streets of Dublin. Their bodies were frail with hollow cheeks, but life was in their eyes. With their bony hands they held their excessive tax to the British, bags of food. One struggled behind. His knees bent together while a lifeless body was draped over his shoulders and a dog struggled behind as its rib cage poked through its fur. Their baggy clothes hung as if their bodies were a wire hanger. The haunting statues were an endless reminder that the past was real.
Dublin was haunted by a terror far more alive. Irish people filled with greed instead of gratitude. They chose this life and this demise, despite the metal ghosts that remind them of the deadly starvation and the dark world—where a starving man would not accept a bowl of hot soup, if that meant professing his loyalty to England. The ghosts of today walk the streets each day, begging for a hit.
