Afternoon in Cork

Sitting outside Hi-B pub, brilliant sunshine, guy playing “Time of Your Life” on acoustic guitar to right of me, old men perched on bench to my left, young women, shoppers, couples, mom pushing two kids, solitary people walking. It’s with an effort I sit down, let go, be here now. Now he’s singing a song I don’t recognize but sounds like Oasis. A man hawking the paper in sing-songy voice, Echo! Echo! Echo! Competing, blending in with singer’s song. Now singer goes into “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. My scalp’s getting sunburned, the sun hot on my scalp. Shadow on page as I write. He’s okay, the singer, not great, a scratchy tenor voice, cheap guitar, solid strumming. But nothing fancy. Basic guitar chords, no fancier or better than he should be on a Tuesday afternoon on Oliver Plunkett St., downtown Cork. My disorientation is utter and complete, as if I’ve a sign on my back, my forehead.

Perhaps just to talk to someone and break the spell. But I can’t, or don’t want to. Earlier I slammed into a woman crossing the busy intersection, streaming with people. She stared at me. I said sorry and moved on.

The singer’s paused now, smoking a cig. Pennies and 5-cent pieces scattered on the ground. I want to like him, not like him. The sun goes in and out of some light, shallow clouds. The Echo man calls again, again, again. The singer leans down to grab a bottle of water out of his guitar case, puts it back, leans again to pick out some coins. Begins singing again.