To tell you the truth, I knew exactly what I was doing when I took the place of the baby Jesus in the crib.
I hopped over the low trellis and hid between Mary and Joseph. It was just before the sacristan bolted the heavy oak doors and banished the cold wet night. In the darkness, the red chancel lamp flickered and slow danced on the marble altar. I undressed and soon fell to sleep. I’d sleep on a clothesline, me.
I was found just after first light. The early faithful horrified to see a grown man sleeping half naked on the hard, straw strewn floor. Two big Guards swaddled me in a blanket and herded me away, kicking and screaming. At the station, I wouldn’t answer their questions so they belted me with wet towels. That’ll teach you a few home truths, the fatter of them said, over and over. I was flung into a cell for the night with two smack heads. Two sound lads, as thin as the greyhounds chasing the hare in Harold’s Cross. They’d been caught stealing bars of chocolate in Dunnes.
This morning after the breakfast we were all brought by paddy wagon to a special sitting of Dublin District Court. When it was my turn I told the judge straight out I wanted no solicitor and pleaded not guilty.
He’d to be forced out of the church. The people coming in for early Mass didn’t know where to look, your honour, the fat guard told the court.
The sacristan, parish priest and some of the parishioners were also called on to give evidence. The usual stuff. As much as we are sympathetic to the plight of the homeless, we do our bit, we’ve penny dinners, charity dos and soup runs, but this kind of carry on, upsetting good people just can’t be tolerated. Of course, “Things like this never happen around here” was thrown in for good measure.
I could tell from the get up of the judge that he had never seen a hard day in his life. He rolled the jowls of fat under his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he spoke. He told me that the charges of trespass were very serious ones and asked me if I had anything to say.
My hands were jelly. I grabbed on to the edge of the dock. As I did, I remembered something from the days when I was called to the training college. O’Brien the teaching practice instructor told us that if we were ever nervous speaking to a class, we should focus on the back of the room and pretend that you were speaking to just one person.
I began. I don’t drink nor smoke. I don’t take drugs. I’ve been sleeping out for over 12 years. I had a lovely wife and family and a good job as a primary teacher, but the truth is, I just couldn’t cope. The nerves were never great. I was in and out of the Gorman by the new time.
One day, I just left a note on the Formica kitchen table and walked away, like Matt Monro. I haven’t spoken a word to my wife or children since then, although I did see them the one time in town going in to Arnotts. I turned my head away, hoping they wouldn’t recognize me. That broke my heart for a long time, so it did. But I know they’re better off without me.
I was sleeping on the streets, until two nights ago. I know some good doorways and shop-windows. The odd time in the very cold weather, I might chance sleeping in a skip. In spite of things, I try to keep myself to myself and as clean as possible. I stay out of the hostels. There’s so much robbing and drugs you’d never get a night’s sleep.
Most mornings, I hide my sleeping bag and stuff and after having tea and a cut of bread over in Bow Street, I cross the river and head to the reading room in Pearse Street. For the newspapers and books.
On a good day, the walk takes about a half an hour, but I take my time. I have lots of it. They’re very kind to me in the library and leave me alone to read in peace. I read all the papers, even the English ones.
At best, I suppose, the people in Dublin town treat me as if I’m invisible. But, a few months ago I was sitting on the Beckett Bridge one evening during Snap Apple and a brat from the Southside – from one of them rugby schools, I’d say – tried to kick me in the neck. He’d have broken my neck if I hadn’t blocked his size 10 brogue. He lost his balance and landed on his backside. I’m not the first homeless man to be attacked like that, you know. You might have heard on the news about that young fellah whose rabbit was thrown into the Liffey.
I try to keep up with what’s going on in the world. That’s why I read the newspapers. I have a little transistor radio as well. I listen to it at night with my earphones to block out the noise and the mad thoughts that sometimes run around in my head. Some nights there are people ringing in to the talk shows and saying the homeless and refugees are all chancers and scum.
My hands steadied and I addressed the judge directly. I am sorry, your honour, if I have upset anyone. But I did what I did to make a stand. It was to bring attention to all of the empty houses in Dublin and Ireland. I did this to protest for the people sleeping in doorways, under bridges, in Lidl tents above in the Phoenix Park.
I did this to tell the journalists that homelessness is not just a Christmas thing. They drop in like parachutes to see us eat our charity Christmas dinner, once a year. We’re wheeled out on the television news with our bottles of stout and Cadbury’s Roses to make the rest of you feel good about yourselves on Christmas Night. Don’t even talk to me about those journalists who sleep out for a night on Grafton Street, once a year to see what it’s like. They’re nearly as bad as the posh schools sitting outside Brown Thomas in expensive sleeping bags singing Christmas carols rattling their buckets.
I did this to complain about the number of families living in hotel bedrooms. Families have to go in the back door of hotels. They’ve to stay hidden in their rooms. Children are embarrassed to tell their friends where they live. They can’t even have a birthday party. I did this to protest against all of the people being made live in those Direct Provision places. Eating food they aren’t used to. Sleeping eight to a room in dormitories with only a few euros a week. The big companies making huge profits out of misery.
Most of all, I did this to tell the politicians to stop making empty promises about the homeless. Last year, the Taoiseach said that it would be the last Christmas ever that anyone would have to sleep on the streets. Many of that shower in Leinster House are landlords themselves, of course, and don’t want to rock the boat. And you know, the worst thing about all of this is that it’s a problem that can be solved easily enough. I’ve never met a homeless man or woman who was looking for a palace. All they have ever asked for is somewhere small and safe where they can sleep for the night.
The judge raised his hand to interrupt me. Now, Mr Lloyd, I’ve heard enough. You will not use my court as if it’s Hyde Park Corner. While I sympathise with your situation, it’s obvious to me and to every good taxpaying citizen here in this court that you are not right in the head. These kinds of protests can’t be tolerated. This court must be seen to uphold the values of public decency. However, as you have not been in trouble before, I will try and be fair with you. I am sending you for psychiatric assessment before sentencing. Guards, take him down to the holding cell.
They brought me down and now I am waiting to be brought to the mad house for the once over.
I’ve no regrets. I am glad I did what I did and I hope it’s in all the newspapers tomorrow. It might do some good to hear about being homeless from someone who actually lives on the streets. We get enough of the over-fed college professors and social workers giving their opinions.
I know what lies ahead of me. More prodding and poking by doctors. There’ll be more nerve tablets for sure and maybe even the hot wire. And to be honest, I don’t really care if I am sent to prison. At least I’ll have a bed for a while. Prison or madhouse, I’ll soon be out on the streets. Back to hiding my sleeping bag and radio every morning and wandering between Bow and Pearse Street, just putting down time.
Eoin Devereux is a Professor at the University of Limerick. He writes short fiction and poetry and has been published in Wordlegs, The Bohemyth, Number Eleven, and Boyne Berries. His poem, The Bodhi Tree, was published in The Irish Times Hennessy New Irish Writing page earlier this year. A flash fiction version of his story Mrs Flood was broadcast by RTÉ Radio 1 in 2014 and subsequently published by the O’Brien Press in 100 Words, 100 Books.
