A Night on the Town

I'm sitting in a doorway, in the rain, in the dark. Damp, wet, drenched, sodden. It was only two hours ago when I was sitting in the hotel bar in Stephen's green. The barman with his vintage Brylcreem demeanour didn't embarrass myself as to where my jacket and tie was, nor embarrass himself by lobbing such an insulting question at me. Normally it would be a pint of Beamish on account of it being marginally more affordable, but when you visit The Shelbourne, the pot of tea for one is marginally less affordable than that. I'm sitting at the bar. Not to worry.

It was an exercise in voyeurism. I wanted to get an insight into opulence. I had decided when passing the front door, that I needed to learn the secrets of the rich. Maybe I would learn something that would change the course of my life thus far. Opulence is a pompous word that doesn't echo much except in contexts of extreme disdain or arrogant gloating. It almost describes the sentiment of being or not being wealthy as opposed to, actually being or not being wealthy. The candelabra reflected brightly on the silverplated teapot, and I suppose the barman didn't embarrass himself to assume I would embarrass myself by stealing the pot and its accoutrements. I sipped.

The room had a few couples, a few financial times, and a few elder ladies of means. You wouldn't think it was twenty-twenty four as you could almost sense the East India tea boxes still being unloaded off a cart at the side entrance on Kildare Street. I needed a piece of this. Not the tea, obviously. I was still on the lookout for my big break. What could that bar man be earning as the steam from the barista blows intermittently in his face. Fifteen euro an hour? Does that include the anecdotes on what stocks and shares might be burgeoning, that he might overhear as he places a brace of macchiatos on a table?

Excuse me?

Yes, can I help you?

Can I order a supper?

Certainly, what would you like?

The surf and turf.

Do you have a room number?

Yes, 214

Take a seat Sir, I'll bring it over.

What he made up for in his lack of manners and civility, I can't tell you, but he was providing a good case study for my research. He looked at me with my hot tea pot. We made eye contact, so he was forced into having to start a conversation about the cabbages.

Miserable night.

It is.

I pity the poor beggars who have to rough it tonight.

Maybe he did have civility, I apologise, though not directly to him for that aspersion. Not wanting to embarrass either himself or me.

Must be hard for them, I said.

Do you know, I just had a meeting with the minister, and he was telling me how he thought that homeless people are just an unfortunate collateral for modern society.

Is that so? How did he come to that conclusion? I wondered out loud.

I'm not sure to be honest, but I don't think he was threatened by tonight's orange status rain warning.

Surely he is misguided? as collateral is merely a pledge of your wealth. His metaphor betrays his ambivalence.

Learned words, my friend.

I was wrong with both my aspersions so. Another lesson in opulence. Being economical with words in financial transactions doesn't infer lack of manners. Not immediately anyway, but you may have to dig deeper to clarify a rich person's manners.

So the minister? Is he what they say he is?

A politician, yes, he is that.

And are we getting close to Utopia?

That depends on what your expectations of Utopia are?

Good answer, I said because I couldn't answer.

Ah, my dinner, it was a pleasure talking to you.

Likewise.

Back to my tea. I wouldn't mind a surf and turf as well, but back to my tea. I wonder what had him in the minister's company. I imagined how the surf conflicted with the turf on your palette should you be conducting such a study. The room was politely architected though, such that you politely couldn't hear other conversations, so I was left to looking. Obviously there was no television over the bar, though, had I never darkened the door, it is something that would not have been obvious to me about opulent establishments. So I was left to be looking around. I couldn't set my eyes down though, as that would then be voyeuristic, and while I admit, that's why I came in, I knew it would cause problems. I'm not sure why I cared as I didn't expect to return. This was another chapter in the book of the rich. Affluence can regard the frugal, but not the other way around.

Is everything to your satisfaction?

Thank you, yes.

I knew the same tea bag in Mr Burger would not have left me with just the dirt of my fingernails in my pocket, but I couldn't call into question, the pot of tea for one, nor the manners in which it was served. I noticed a collection of unclaimed newspapers hanging on ornate mahogany bars over the other side of the counter and inquired as to if I could borrow one, as a device to not embarrass myself by staring at people.

Certainly Sir, which paper would you like?

The Irish Times, I knew it was a safe bet.

I go to the letters page, imagining that I could write some responses on theme or themes contained within that I had yet to read. Was it that I had something to say, or that I wanted to be heard? Being without a phone, I had no echo chambers to validate my existence.

Dear Sir,

A three sentence essay, where brevity trumps insight.

Dear Sir,

A two sentence essay of the same.

Dear Sir, Dear Sir, Dear Sir,

I stare at a sentence until my eyes un-focus. It's like a narcotic hallucination which I didn't have to risk a night in the cells for. The words mutate and wobble. They don't have the Irish Times in Mr Burger. As my un-focusing focus mutates, conversations become audible. That compensation of the senses lets me hear what the architecture tried to muffle. I listen. An affair. I listen more. Problems with children. Changing the tuning frequency of my radio, I stumble on a channel discussing the purchase of a house. I change direction of the antenna and pick up a station with business woes. This affluence and opulence case study is starting to take shape. Rich people have problems and lives too. I'm not getting drawn in. Maybe they count their shillings privately. What was I expecting? That the Shelbourne bar provides for the use of machines to count bundles of large notes? I can hear the clanks of the cutlery as they negotiate the surf and turf supper. Perhaps I was right in my aspersion and that the cabbages and wind warnings were indeed merely a ruse to conceal that lack of civility. A five-star meal and a five-star bedroom and a concern for the homeless. Maybe he was seeking to validate his existence with the acceptance of being a common man with common concerns, and I being in the vicinity, was the echo chamber. Another page for my case study.

Would you like to order anything else?

No, I'm fine thank you.

I clearly didn't exude the wealth or the status befitting an expected customer of this place, but by God, I had spent pretty much most of what I had left in this world until dole day at the end of the week, so I will bloody well sit here and finish this urine-coloured water, no matter how cold it gets. And you can rest easy, Sir, because I'm not going to fall into the trap of being caught stealing this bloody tea pot. And despite what you might think, I don't need to steal the teaspoon either. I knew he couldn't hear my thoughts, yet I could tell he probably knew what I was thinking. Case study, chapter four, caveats: both rich and poor hostelries don't like you hanging around if you are not splashing the cash. I wondered how long I had left? Could I somehow get the keys to a bedroom surreptitiously and without notice or repercussion. I'll bet room 214 had electric blankets. And an ensuite for a shower and to relieve the surf and turf in the morning.

I could just ask. Excuse me? You wouldn't be able to make a sandwich and I'll come back on Friday when I have my dole to pay you? No. I have my dignity. I won't have them looking down their noses at me. Mind you, Mr Burger wouldn't serve up on credit either, though he would let you use his toilets, which you probably wouldn't want to unless it was an absolute last resort. I think I'll use the bathroom.

Excuse me, where are the bathrooms?

Go back out to reception and they are in on the left.

Thank you.

I get up and go casually out of the bar, casually observing both the affair and the house purchase as I pass. The door to the bathroom looks fit to be the door to a monarch's chamber, and not a fingerprint on any of its fittings. Walking in, I encounter possibly the most sterile room I have seen since I had my appendix out at the age of twelve. The air of perfumed soap. Touching the symmetry of folded towels gives me some of the closing remarks in my case study. And that is: experiencing opulence is not the bad, but denying opulence is the true problem. I have my dignity. I'm not going to steal no bathroom towel either. No matter how soft, fluffy and warm it may present itself to be.

I stand at the cistern, what with tea being the diuretic it is, and within moments tarnish this five-star crapper. Sod them! I may be a bum, but I have the same bodily functions as Mr room 214. Is it a skill or even a trait of the opulent to not spill a drop. I'd better leave the scene of the crime, so I douse my hands under the tap with a bit of warm water, I shake them and then wipe them on my trousers so as to not disturb the towels. I don't want them thinking I'm a complete disgrace. With relief, I get to exit the bathroom before anyone comes to see my mess.

I go back to my pot of tea, but it's now a pot of tea for none. The Brylcreem barman has cleared my place and hung the paper back on the rack. The final words in my thesis. If you are going to be opulent, you will have to put your money where your mouth is. He doesn't even grace me with a glance, and as a matter of clarification, I turn to see an empty chair with the nearly finished surfing turf, complete with discarded napkin resting atop.

I leave and go out into the night and wander to where I am now, educated in opulence. I'm sitting in a doorway, in the rain, in the dark. Damp, wet, drenched, sodden.