Things Will Not Be Grand

John Joe Malarkey wakes up in Dublin to a leaking ceiling, broken appliances, dead buses, failed Luas machines, impossible clocks, and the growing suspicion that the city itself has turned against him.

Everyone keeps saying the same thing.

Things will be grand.

They will not.

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:38

John Joe Melarkey woke in Nylonbridge to the soft domestic catastrophe of a ceiling drip. It wasn't a flood, not even any kind of leak with ambition, only a patient bead forming above the bedroom light, flattening, glimmering, dropping onto the floorboards with the moral certitude of a district court judge. He lay there, staring. Things will be grand, he said, though there was mounting evidence to the contrary. Plink. The kettle refused him next. It clicked, hummed, warmed itself privately, and gave no heat to the water. The toaster accepted the bread and returned it on to him in a plume of smoke. His telephone declared it had 37% battery, then died with the theatricality of a bachelor uncle at a wedding. Outside, the morning had the greasy sheen of a pan not properly washed. The Liffy moved past with its usual expression, carrying secrets and shopping trolleys eastward, out to the sheening Irish sea. It happened to be full tide. Through an alarm clock related incident and an unplanned cold shower, he was late. At the bus stop, a woman in a purple coat told him the bus had come early. Early, he said. Early, she said, as if reporting an unprophesized event. The next bus came full, paused beside them, opened its doors, exhaled warm human misery, and drove on. Things will be grand, said the woman. John Joe felt the phrase pass between them like a small counterfeit coin. He walked to Houston, where the Lewis machines were all displaying, out of service in a blue light so calm it felt vindictive. A man in a high vis vest said that there was a temporary system issue. How temporary? he said. The man looked at him with pity. Temporarily. So John Joe crossed the city on foot. His arches were aching. Past buses breathing diesel on the curbs, past cyclists wearing the expression of saints being betrayed by infrastructure, past tourists photographing buildings with the innocence of people who don't rent nearby. At Christchurch the bells began to ring, though it was not the hour. One bell struck seven times, then three, then eleven, then a single note that seemed to hang in the air and sour off to nothing. A pigeon fell dead at his feet. He stepped over it. Things will be grand, he said, but quieter now. By Dame Street he noticed that every clock disagreed. A bank clock said eight twelve. A phone shop said fourteen oh three. The old public clock, which had not worked in years, said now. That was unnecessary. A college green traffic stood still, not jammed, stood. Drivers sat with both hands on the wheel, looking forward. No horns, no shouting. A cyclist dismounted and wheeled her bike slowly through the stalled cars, whispering apologies to each one or to herself. John Joe saw in the dark window of a bus, not his reflection, but a man like him walking in the opposite direction, carrying the same satchel, wearing the same tired coat, but smiling. He turned. No one. A gull laughed overhead with a hard, bright cruelty. He went down Westmoreland Street and found the river missing. Not gone entirely, the bridges remained, stretched across a long trough of shining mud. At the bottom lay bicycles, coins, a pram, hundreds of umbrellas, and a green Dublin bus half submerged at an angle, its destination sign still lit. Grand. People lined the quays looking down. A man beside him said, Low tide. We're miles from the sea, said John Joe. Ah, said the man, you know yourself. The river returned while nobody watched. By Conley, the sky lowered. He could smell hot metal, rain, frying oil, old stone, and underneath it something sweetly rotten, like flowers left out too long. His shoes had begun to pinch. His left sock was wet, though he couldn't remember stepping in anything. He bought a coffee from a kiosk. The cup had his name written on it before he gave it. John Joe Mullarkey. Under that, in smaller letters, things will not be grand. He asked the girl at the kiosk about it. She looked at the cup, then at him, then passed him. Next, she said. The day had developed a system now. Minor nuisances still arrived, but with ceremonial force. A traffic light stayed red until he apologized aloud. His leap card was rejected by a reader on the grounds of insufficient character. Three different strangers asked him for directions to streets that had never existed, but sounded plausible enough to make him doubt himself. Near Drumcondra an old man on a bench called him by name. John Joe Mullarkey, he said, You're late. For what? The old man smiled, showing teeth too numerous for the space provided. For the day. I'm in the middle of it. No, said the old man, and left it at that. A bus roared past, and when John Joe blinked, the bench was empty except for a damp newspaper dated tomorrow. He didn't pick it up. There are limits to curiosity, even in a city that discourages wisdom, actively. By the time he reached the north side road where he worked, his nerves had become thin and musical. The building stood ahead of him, ordinary, brown, functional, with automatic doors and windows reflecting a sky that had turned the colour of old cutlery. He checked his watch. It had no hands. He checked his phone. It was still dead, but warm, as if recently used by someone else. Inside, the receptionist looked up. You're grand, he thought. He heard her say. No, said John Joe. She smiled. Sorry? I don't think I am. Behind her, the wall clock ticked off its beat once, very loudly. Everyone in the foyer turned to look at him, not accusingly, expectantly, as if he had finally said the line they'd all been waiting for. Then the lights flickered, the automatic doors opened behind him, and from far away, from Island Bridge, perhaps, or under the river, or from the bedroom ceiling where the first drop had formed came a small sound. Plink. John Joe Monarchy stood there with one wet sock, cold coffee, and the terrible clarity of a man who had discovered that the city had stopped pretending. Things would not be grand, and somehow, somehow that seemed to satisfy.