Cash is Dead

‘CHANGE please,’ Cuan called out from under his hood as he watched a pair of heavy docs step by. A single drop of rain hit him on the nose and ran downwards, nesting on his lip. He was cold. The kind of cold that squatted in his bones causing a consistent dull ache. It had rained so much lately his clothes never fully dried. The smell of him alone would keep people away, but that wasn’t a problem these past few days it seemed.

The Drury Street Car Park was a perch sought after. So in demand in fact Cuan had only secured it the once in the last four years and that was after having to scrap a junkie. Cuan smirked thinking back to his now famed victory among the other street kids. The lad was all talk until little Cuan, with all his might, cracked him in the knee and he dropped like a used match onto the concrete. Junkies had no fight in them. The only scary thing about them was their teeth and the desperation in their eyes.

He positioned himself against the by the human entrance to the car-park, a backpack tucked tightly under his arm and a Burger King coffee cup between his feet. His jeans were badly frayed and his converse needed replacing. There was less bounce in the soles and he could feel every crack and bump on the path as he walked. A familiar pain had curled up in his belly that reminded Cuan that bellies weren’t supposed to be empty for this long.

‘Where are all the fucking people,’ Cuan mumbled. The usual unstoppable flow of human traffic on the busy side-street was nowhere to be seen. In two hours only three people had passed him. Passed, not provided. The completely wrong “P” altogether.
Suddenly his head jerked to the side following his right ear. His busy mind hushed by the sound of distant footsteps. ‘Here we go.’ Cuan made sure the gashes on his knuckles were visible and he readied his widest eyes, pushing hard for a tear. As the steps got close he looked up and let his mouth hang open like a dead fish. It was a woman wearing a trench coat and high heeled boots. Cuan couldn’t guess what age she was as she had a mask, the kind doctors wear, over her face. She held an umbrella over her head and he noted she wore blue rubber gloves. The weather was admittedly shite but surely people weren’t resorting to wearing their dish-washing gloves while out in the rain.

‘Change please, Ms,’ he said, peppering his tone with desperation. It wasn’t fake. He was desperate. But people needed that extra push on their conscience these days to part with money. They’d seen too many ads on tv for charities, too many teen dramas, too many disaster movies. They didn’t feel emotions the way they used to. Tragedy didn’t hook hearts anymore. Not only that, but the world was distorted as fuck. People would donate money upon hearing their favourite pop-star was struck by cancer while in the same day ignore a hungry kid on the street.

The woman looked down on him, clutching her handbag. Cuan felt like a stain she had uncovered on her favourite rug and recoiled his gentle smile. His cheeks dropping along with his hope. ‘Feck this,’ he said as the woman scurried away. He picked up his cash-cup and backpack, deciding then and there that he needed to roll the dice.

In this case the dice was The Mucky Duck Pub, where the Head-Chef had a good heart. Once, he caught Cuan sheltering in their recycling bin and instead of turfing him out on the curb he gave him a bowl of stew and a half-pint of Guinness. ‘Why the half-pint?’ Cuan had asked cheekily … ‘I’m not a fecking hobbit!’
‘I don’t think you’re of age either so you’ll take what you’re given.’ The chef responded flatly and went about cleaning the kitchen. Since then, Cuan stopped by time-to-time, wary not to overstay his welcome and spoil a good thing.

Cuan walked through the stink of the back alley and hopped the gate into the little courtyard behind the pub, being careful not to slip or catch his bag. With as heavy a fist as he could muster, he banged on the thick metal door and listened. There’s was some muffled noise and then a loud clunk which signalled Cuan to jump back. The door groaned open and there stood the chef, large and round with a smoke burning between his lips and one eye squinting.

‘Didn’t expect to see you till Autumn little fella.’

Cuan stood silently observing the Chefs attire. He wore the same whites and apron as always but Cuan had never seen them so clean before. ‘Street change is usually better this time of year. Thought I’d take a chance on a feed. There’s not much action in the city and I’m a little peckish ya know.’

‘Jaysus you’re some man for one man aren’t ya. As it happens you’re in luck. We’re locking up for the foreseeable future and I have a plate of leftovers from last night.’

‘Locking up?’

‘COVID, little fella. COVID. The whole country is shutting down till whatever this is passes. We haven’t had customers in days and the government made the call on the lock-down.’

Cuan blinked rattling through his memory. He had read about this somewhere recently or maybe someone had told him. ‘COVID? That new flu?’

The chef nodded and stepped back into the pub. Cuan followed him up the corridor past two large refrigerators and into the compact kitchen which, like the chef, was spotless. The silver counters shone and there wasn’t even a smell of food.

‘You like chicken don’t you?’ The chef rhetorically asked as he dropped on his hunkers to one of the smaller fridges and lifted out a Tupperware container. Cuan ate everything. In his line of work he couldn’t afford to be picky.

As the chef put a box together Cuan let his eyes wonder. He liked being in the kitchen, it was like peeking behind the scenes of something special. Maybe one day if he was lucky the chef would offer him a job. Something small, even as a potato-peeler. Yeah even that would be pretty cool.

‘Here ya go.’ The chef slid a neatly packaged box of grub to Cuan. He always gave a mix of things and the food was always good. ‘Try and make this last. I’m not sure what Dublin’s gonna be like for the next while.’ Cuan ultimately didn’t know how to respond to that. His version of Dublin was already very different to the chef’s, but he appreciated the kind words. Kind words were like keys when you really really need them; hard to find.

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks bud.’ Cuan made to turn, still conscious of wearing out that welcome, always conscious, but the chef called. ‘And here…take this.’ The chef took a fifty from his pants and handed it to Cuan. ‘It’s not much but it’s all I have on me.’ Cuan smiled his most honest of smiles. He’d never seen a fifty before and when he took it he grabbed the chef in a quick hug and ran back out into the rain. Is this what rich people felt like?

The chicken and roast potatoes lasted almost four whole days which he believed was as impressive an accomplishment as his slaying of the black-toothed-junkie. But a bed was becoming impossible to find. The streets of Dublin had become so desolate it was as if he were walking around at four am all day. To pass the time he would play in spurts in the world of his own vivid imagination. For a moment he was like Gene Kelly swinging from a lamppost. Next, a Native American with his invisible arrows zipping across the road into the torsos of the invisible cowboys that hunted him. He sat on a park bench and sang out loud to the music in his head while playing an imaginary piano. He did all this again and again until he didn’t feel like playing any longer.

The following week, news had reached Cuan that Pob had died. Cuan wasn’t sure what age Pob was, but he was old. He was also one of the kind elder street folk who would pass on advice. Like how putting old newspapers under your jumper against your skin would help keep you warm during winter. Pob had coughed himself to death in a hostel and now all the hostels and shelters were observing social distancing. Cuan wasn’t entirely sure what social distancing was but he knew it meant they had less beds than before which didn’t un-pickle his particular pickle. He would miss Pob dearly, but couldn’t stop thinking about being able to sleep indoors again soon which made Cuan feel bad for such selfish thoughts at a time of a man’s death.

A few days after that Cuan came across a chip-shop still open for business a couple of hours a week so the scribbled sign said. He peered through the glass, purposely not being discreet, at the customer inside. Cuan could see him collect his big brown bag of salty, vinegary goodness and tap his card against the machine to pay. Cuan waited eagerly at the door and when the man stepped out made his move.

‘Got any change man. Its been a few days since i ate ya see.’ The man stopped and made eye contact with Cuan which was a welcome change of pace. The man, with an awkward expression of regret, patted his pockets and pointed the other scribbled sign in the window. COVID - Card Only.

‘What does that mean?’ Cuan was a little confused. Why would the new flu mean people would stop using cash?

‘Cash is dead, man. Cash is dead.’

Cuan felt as if a bucket of iced-water had just been dumped on him. Through the hypothermia he flicked through his young mind for wisdom, but the pages were coming up bare. If there was no cash being exchanged between people, what would he beg for? What would he use to buy food or a bed or a bus ticket. What if he needed to use a public phone to call for a doctor; or even his family should he feel the sudden and unlikely urge. The man walked away with his chips and Cuan couldn’t recall if he said anything more. If cash was indeed dead, what would happen to him?

On Dame Street the following Tuesday Cuan walked hungry, having slept the previous night under a sheet of plastic in the park. He was on a waiting list for a shelter, had been for months, and checked in every evening but his turn had not yet come. He still had the fifty the chef had given him. The note felt so precious , like a delicate antique, that he was scared to spend it on something unless he absolutely needed it, and he kept  it in his sock for safe keeping. He searched every bin he came across for food. He walked miles out to the suburbs to check the waste of family homes. He collected pizza crusts and rotten fruit and whatever else he could find. The fruit gave him the shits and he had to wash in a pond but he was happy even just to chew something. He took a kick at a stone sitting by itself on the path. The sound of it’s bounces echoed with the city’s loneliness. Cuan was used to feeling lonely … but not so much used to not having a trick up his sleeve.

‘Ahoy boy.’ Cuan turned quickly, clutching his bag as he did and prepared to dart. With so little to survive on the street folk had turned heavily on each other. People suffered beatings and had what little they had ripped from their trembling fingers. But Cuan was young and quick and could get places those older than him couldn’t.

‘Hey girl.’ She stood across from him almost entirely dressed in black save for the collar of a crimson chequered shirt peeking out from under her coat. He had known her a long time. They started out around the same month as each other but never spoke of why. They were close once. But that changed, probably because of Cuan’s wise-ass humour. She tiptoed dramatically towards him as if she was scared of being heard or breaking the concrete like it were ice, unsheathing one of her smiles as she did. Cuan had always thought this as she had a collection of smiles, each as explosively pretty as the other; each with a shockingly pure beauty that years on the street could not hide.

‘I have found some eyeliner,’ Birdy whispered in his ear. He caught her familiar smell. ‘Want to play?’

‘Always,’ he blushed.

Cuan followed Birdy to the grounds of St Pat’s Cathedral. They hopped the fence, lending each other a hand, and settled in the courtyard. Birdy removed a make-up kit from her dark green backpack and opened it up.

‘Where did you get that?’ Cuan asked. He didn't know a lot, if anything at all, when it came to make-up. But he could tell it was expensive.

‘Hmmmmm,’ said Birdy guiltily. I had to get into a pharmacy and lifted it while I was there.’

‘You broke into a shop!?’

‘I had to. I wasn’t well. Lady issues. You try being a girl on the streets and then you can preach, boy.’

‘ I wasn’t preaching. I was just surprised is all. You’re not one to do something like that.’

‘Corona mah man…Corona. Cash is sparse. Public toilets don’t exist anymore. Doctors seeing less people. A birds gotta do what a birds gotta do.’

Birdy removed the pretty pencil and a small mirror and began making markings on her petite face. Once done she tied back her mighty mop of hair to unveil herself. Her sallow skin was dusted with white and black lines ran from her eyes and lips.
‘Ha,’ Cuan laughed.

‘Ho ho,’ Birdy winked. Her expression an explosion of happiness.

‘What are you supposed to be?’

‘I’m a mime, silly.’

Right in front of Cuan, Birdy flattened her palms against an invisible screen as though she was stuck in a glass box. Pulling monkey faces as if confused about why she was trapped. Cuan rolled over with laughter, frightening some nearby sparrows. Next, Birdy tumbled forward, perfectly rising up on to her feet.

‘Helllooowwww ladies and gentlemen,’ she began. Cuan immediately held up his left hand to his eye as if peering through a scope and at the same time, he slowly rotated his right hand forward like he was operating a very old film camera. Birdy smiled at this and shifted her stance slightly, aiming her performance directly into Cuan’s lens.
‘Welcome to The Nest theatre with me your host, Birdy. Ah .. ahhh … aheeeeemmmm.’ Birdy wiggled her lightly freckled button nose from side to side at the cough that interrupted her monologue.

‘Today we bring to you the play, The Cheesecake and The Goat.’
‘Yahooo….yipeeee….waheeeeyyy…..oooahhhhh,’ carried on Cuan, doubling as the large and eager audience.

‘AhheeeeMMM!!!’ Birdy wheezed.

‘Are you ok?’

‘Just the sniffles. They come with the change of every season. Don’t stop recording. Ahem … the proud cheesecake awoke one morning feeling positively baked. It was a Satur… ah … ah …. AHHHHHEEEEEEMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.’

This time Cuan stopped recording and placed his imaginary camera on the ground. Up he sprang to Birdy’s side and wiped some dribble from her nose with his sleeve. Birdy blinked rapidly at him, as if she were being exposed to the sun for the first while in a long while.

‘That doesn’t sound seasonal Birdy. You shouldn’t be outdoors.’

‘None of us should be outdoors Cu, none of us.’

Cuan exhaled deeply, his breathe the sea against the shores of his mind. ‘Come on ya mad thing,’ he said as he draped his arm around Birdy in hopes of gifting her some warmth. They walked the vacant streets of Dublin finding some sort of unspoken satisfaction in not using the paths, instead trailing up the centre of the roads. Only Cuan knew where they were going, and he gently guided Birdy as they chatted.

‘Why do you think gold is so valuable?’ she asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Gold. It’s pretty. But if someone gave me some gold i’d sell it. I’d far rather the cash.’

‘It doesn’t corrode.’

‘Come again?’

‘Gold. It doesn’t wear down so it lasts a long long time. It’s pretty and can be shaped easily into almost anything the human imagination can devise. It’s not strong, but people … they love it.’

‘You know things.’

‘Maybe … but none of them useful.’

‘You went to school.’

‘Not as often as I should’ve, but I liked to read.’

‘Liked?’

‘It’s hard to find books these days.’

‘Are there books in your parent’s house?’

Cuan nodded. ‘Many.’

‘So why don’t you go there?’

Cuan paused a little before answering. Some things were easy to feel in your heart than to put into words. ‘I’m not the son for them.’

They turned into the old town of Dublin where the cobbles were slick and Cuan walked a little slower so Birdy would not slip.

‘If you could have one thing what would it be, Cu?’

Cuan didn’t need to think, he just needed to find the courage. On the streets you never knew how much time you have left or when you are going to see someone again. And now that cash was dead, this made things that little bit more complicated.

‘I wanna play with you ... like we’re best friends ... to make make-believe and laugh and curl up together. And I want to be able to, without hesitation, roll over and kiss you anytime I want and feel your fingers holding me. I want all of this and more.’

Cuan could feel Birdy shift a little under his arm to look up at him but he dare not meet her brown eyes in case of what he might not see. ‘Oohaa all that? You can be pretty gay you know.’

‘I know this,’ Cuan offered a little snigger. And as he felt Birdy’s grip on him tighten a little, he tried with every ounce of his being, to remain cool.

Castle Street was always engulfed in shadow and smelled of urine. It was one of those passageways regular folks only walked down to piss in when they were thrown out of a nearby pub. Cuan rapped his knuckles against the peeling wooden door of St Jude’s shelter and a pair of familiar eyes peered through the crack that formed.

‘Cuan. Was wondering if we’d catch you.’ The door opened to reveal the white collar and a warm but tired smile.

‘Father this is my friend Birdy. She’s not feeling terribly well and i was wondering if she could take my bed for a few nights?’

‘A few nights?’

‘Please Father. I can get you more money. She really isn’t doing well and may need the help of … of a female … if you catch my meaning.’

Birdy remained silent throughout the negotiations. Cuan guided her over the threshold, past the priest, as if she were weightless. As she moved her big brown eyes never left him, her face scrunched not knowing what to say.

‘I’ll be back in a few Father. Make sure she gets settled … i’ll be back in a few … I promise I will.’ Without giving the priest time to respond Cuan scampered back along the slippy cobbles. Hitting the main roads he kept a light jog, his bag bouncing off his lower back. A misty rain started once again as was the way in Dublin. Rain for an hour then stop and rain again. He’d love to be homeless somewhere sunny … that would be like a penthouse, he mused hearing only the slap of his cons on the pavement.

The petrol station glowed ahead of him like a mirage, one of the few establishments allowed to remain open. Cuan skidded inside and looked around at what an under-the-weather girl could use. There wasn’t much to choose from, most shops were raided on a daily basis. Cuan grabbed a tin of butternut squash soup and a box of grapes. Soup was good for ailments, he said to himself. And fruit was good in general. Taking a pen from the lottery stand he scribbled out the price so Birdy couldn’t tell, knowing the levels to which her pride could soar.

‘You know … if you don’t mind me saying … you will need a can opener for this,’ the cashier politely pointed out. Cuan read the name Dev on his name tag.

‘It’s for a sick friend. She’s staying at a shelter and there is an opener there.’

‘I see,’ said Dev as he scanned the items. He nodded his approval and put the items in a brown paper bag. ‘You know. If your friend gets very ill, take her across the road to the hospital and ask for Nurse Sally. Like you little Sir she has a good heart. You can tell her that Dev sent you.’

Cuan smiled warily, unused to such words.

‘That will be five euro please.’

Cuan held out the fifty the chef had given him and looked into Dev’s eyes. It was hard to know what the man was thinking, half his face covered by a mask. Cuan could see the sign that said Card Only, but he hoped … he hoped. Dev held out his rubber clad hand and took the money, swiftly returning the change with a polite wink. ‘Be on your way little Sir. Maybe I will see you soon.’

When Cuan appeared in front of the priest again, he handed him the paper bag and all the money he had. ‘Let her stay as long as you can father.’

Seeing the look in Cuan’s eyes, the priest didn’t interject. ‘Cuan,’ he began. ‘Come back in a month and I’ll have something for you. My treat. Can you last a month?’

‘Of course father. I can last through anything. I’ll see you then.’ Dusk was smearing itself across the sky as Cuan walked away. He was tired, but happy. A month would fly by, he told himself. But first thing was first … for now, he needed to find somewhere dry to rest his weary head.

https://ichh.ie/
Spare a thought for those who you see on the street during lock-down and the more consistent move towards plastic payment. Major aspects of our lives have been effected, but for many of the homeless any hope of earning from their seat by where we walk has been taken away.

Inner City Helping Homeless is dedicated to helping the homeless of Dublin City , now needed more than ever. https://ichh.ie/about-us/