As a Galway street-performer, I come into contact with a lot of Ireland's interesting characters. I've met fellow musicians, travelers from all over the world and many homeless locals. One particularly cold November night, I met an Irishman named Johnny.
As I stood playing my guitar in front of a dimly lit department store, I watched John set up camp on the other side of the cobblestone street. He laid out an orange fleece blanket and sat down with his back propped up against the wall of a closed pharmacy. He put out an empty coffee cup in front of his bed, pulled a sleeping bag over his head and went to sleep as people dropped their loose change into the cup as they passed by.
I continued performing as John slept and his cup began to fill. My guitar case was set out in front of me and also began to fill with change. It almost seemed that John and I were in competition.
Eventually the Sunday crowds began to disperse. It was nearly midnight and John got up off the street to walk toward me as I played Bruce Springsteen's "The River." His coffee cup was in his hand and his scruffy, tired face was illuminated by Galway's Christmas lights. He stood next to me listening for a while before taking out the few coins he'd received and placing them in my guitar case.
The song ended and he remained standing to my right. "Thank you," I said to him.
"Ah, yer fine, yer fine," he told me.
"What's your name?" I asked, and put out my hand to shake his.
He proceeded to tell me that his name was Johnny, a former boxer from Waterford. "When I stopped the sport, I took up the drink," he said. He went on to be an accountant and a family man. He had three kids, a daughter who became an accountant, a second daughter who became a dentist and a son who became a "scumbag." "Every family has a black sheep," he told me.
I asked him why he gave up accounting and he took no time in answering. "I hated sums and I liked the drink. Poetry, too." He removed his hood from his head to reveal a greying scalp. He scratched at his remaining hair and pondered his statement.
"Poetry, huh?"
"Ay. I write my own off the top of my head. And soon I'll be writing a book."
"What about?"
"Life on the street. I've lived on tons of streets: Australia, the continent, all over Ireland...I call it the Roadside Hotel!" He laughed and I joined him.
I looked down at the coins that he'd put in my guitar case at the start of our meeting. "Do you want a coffee or tea?" I asked him.
"Ah...sure," he replied.
I grabbed all my stuff and went across the street into a McDonald's where I bought two coffees. John and I sat in the cold silence of Shop Street drinking our coffee and talking about his experiences. The cobblestones were wet and everything seemed taller from the ground.
"People think just because you're sleeping on the side of the road you're a fool. I'm no fool. They all go home to their same boring lives while I sit down here and talk to people like you. I don't bother anyone and no one bothers me. I've seen a lot that they'll never see. I'm no fool." John sipped his coffee and put his hood back on to cover his balding head. I shook his hand and left him to enjoy his Roadside Hotel.
