Colm Brady

Recession on the Prom

Many people came through the door of McNamara’s pub seeking something. Some were after enlightenment, while others sought oblivion. The pub was a dark repository of grime located beside a block of flats that had seemed like a good idea in the sixties. On the other side was a German discount retailer. Some found the place depressing but McNamara liked it. He liked it because it made money and he positively adored money. He didn’t do food, no paninis or roast dinners, because there was a perfectly good chipper up the road. There was a busy bookmakers there too so McNamara had splashed out on a chipped digibox so his customers could track their losses and plan the next big win. McNamara lit a cigarette behind the bar and surveyed his dominion. The place was sparsely decorated, the furniture had been used as weapons on too many dole days and there was a pervading stench of drain cleaner and stale beer. He was no economist but he reckoned his business was recession proof. People came to celebrate events in their lives: the christening of a child or the end of a tough day at work. Likewise they came to drown their sorrows when the child ended up in court or the job went pear shaped. Either way McNamara was the winner. Even this morning he had three regulars in, one of whom had been a customer for a lifetime.
Skipper Dunne had been at sea at some point in his long life and liked to tell rambling stories of his adventures in Phnom Penh and Broome. Just as the smoking ban was suspended in the pub, so too was the law outlawing dogs so Banjax the collie sat at his feet. Skipper drank slowly from a glass of Smithwicks, his first of the day. He was planning on making the drink last until 2.15 at which time he had to go to the bookies to make an investment on the favourite at Lingfield.
“Any tips Skipper?” asked a tall figure at the bar. Prometheus Michael O’Reilly had no interest in the horses but it was a good way of getting Skipper talking.
“Ah Prom, the whole thing is falling apart. I lost on the fifth leg of an accumulator yesterday would you believe?”
The Prom nodded in sympathy. There was a time when he had so much tiling work on that he barely had a chance to talk to the regulars here. Now the day stretched to infinity marked with races, the news and closing time. The Prom was disqualified for another four months so he had Naoise the student driving the van. Naoise was reading a book by some lad called Kierkegaard and was showing no interest in his employer’s conversation.
“Will you ever go up to the Centra and get us a breakfast roll like a good Naoise?” asked the Prom as he handed over a tenner, “and brown sauce this time; not ketchup.”
Naoise headed for the door as the Prom looked into his lightening wallet. His wife did the accounts and it was becoming obvious that things weren’t going well in the business. He spent his days chasing lads for money and whenever he got any he went for a pint, most days he went for a pint anyway. Some days he did a bit of work but the thundering torrent of building work had dried up long ago.
McNamara spotted that the Prom’s glass was in the last quarter and started to pull him a replacement. The door opened on its squeaking hinges and two Guards walked in. The force weren’t usually seen here unless it was to search one of the young lads who hung around the jacks or to threaten McNamara for serving after hours. Neither scenario was relevant today so McNamara greeted them with a broad smile.
“Well Garda, what can we do for you?”
“Do you do coffees?” asked the guard. His female colleague said something and he clarified the request. “Make that an Americano and a skinny latté will you?”
“Sorry, we don’t do those.”
“What do you do then?” asked the guard. McNamara was revelling in this.
“Maxwell House or Tay is all we have.”
The female guard shuddered and the Prom looked up from his paper. He recognised the guard as having been involved in one of his drunk driving exploits but he supposed the man was just doing his job. The guard planked his backside on a stool beside the prom, this community policing idea was a pain in the arse but he had to go along with it. He picked up his cup and breathed on it.
“Well Prom, have you much work on?”
“Fuck the much, guard. How are things yourself, have they robbed your pension yet?”
“It’s desperate, I never saw anything as bad. The banks are foreclosing all over the shop.”
The Prom heard this conversation several times every day but he was surprised at how downbeat the guard was. The female guard went to the toilet, he wished her luck. Once she was gone the guard leaned over to confide in him.
“There was a time when a man could rely on his job, when a man could have his own place,” said the guard. The Prom knew for a fact that the guard lived in a huge house on the Dublin road and had a string of houses rented out. He asked himself what the fuck was wrong with the whining bastard.
“I thought you lads were in the clear. After all there’s always crimes to, erm, solve like.”
“Well you know I had a couple of houses?”
The Prom smiled in encouragement, this was starting to get interesting.
“Well I re-mortgaged one of them and bought a place in Portugal, a holiday home like. Well the next thing I rent out the place in Portugal and buy two apartments off the plans in Bulgaria. Some lad buys them after two weeks and I buy a floor of an apartment complex on the Black Sea.”
The Prom nodded in agreement, so far so good.
“I bought sites in Cape Verde off an Irish developer and he starts telling me about using my houses here as leverage to buy a load of property off him.”
“Leverage?”
“Yeah, so I could borrow more. I start getting these statements that I own a share in a fertiliser factory in Murmansk and a housing development in Burkina Faso.”
“Burkina what?”
“It’s in Africa. Anyway the statements stop coming and the red letters from the bank show up. I had to take a job community policing to get the overtime to pay the Fuckers. I’m buggered, totally and utterly screwed.”
The Prom tried desperately to think of something positive to say. Maybe things would pick up, maybe all the greedy grasping bastards in the country would use this as an exercise in humility, and maybe not. In the end he said nothing, maybe little things would build up to worthwhile things over time. The female guard returned from the toilet looking traumatised, her definitions of hygiene and those of McNamara were quite quite different. She stood over the guard, eager to leave. As they stood up Naoise returned with the breakfast roll.
“Did you get brown sauce?” demanded the Prom.
“Yup”
“Little things.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” said the Prom as his pint arrived and he unwrapped the roll, “get Skipper a pint there while you’re at it.” The prom threw the hard end of the breakfast roll to Banjax the dog, who gulped it down.
McNamara busied himself with the Smithwicks. Celtic were playing tonight so he would be busy. Tomorrow was dole day, a red letter day for people around here. Tomorrow he would open the doors and people would come searching as usual. He just hoped the guards would stay out of the place in future, which reminded him that he needed to clean the ladies.

posted by Colm Brady @ 7:43 PM