Identity Crisis

Derek sits in the front of the taxi, fingers drumming against his thighs as he stares out the window on a dull February day. Six beers down and it’s not even tea time. Five winners from five in the three o’clock matches, the adrenaline is pumping. The taxi pulls up at the corner of Poolbeg Street. He jogs the twenty metres to Mulligans in the drizzle. Eamon will be inside with a pint of black ready and his favourite bar stool under the TV. Good feeling about today, and especially the evening match about to start. Can’t look too far ahead, to the winnings. He’s been here before more than once, so close only for it all to unravel. The cruel beauty of sport. Today feels different somehow. He sprints the final few metres as a strong gust suddenly picks up on the narrow street. The betslip, flapping half exposed in his back pocket, is set free and floats down to the wet kerb just as he opens the bar door. No one sees this save for the homeless man across the street who calls after him, voice croaky and weak. He goes unheard as the bar door swings closed. The homeless man gets up and crosses the street, progress hindered by a slight limp. He glances up and down the street as he picks up the paper, its corners now wet and the writing smudged but legible. He glances momentarily at the window of Mulligans. Then he folds the bet slip into his pocket, hobbles back across to his spot on the low wall. He takes a sip from the can of cider and takes the bet slip from his pocket, now studying it closely as the wind picks up and the city darkens.

***

He warms himself with porridge and a cup of tea in the drop-in centre, after a rough night. The storm hasn’t let up and still rages outside. He shivers as he sits looking out at driving sleet, and gets up to make another cup of tea. He makes small talk with a few lads that he drinks with now and again up at the Liffey boardwalk. Sitting back down at the bench, he leafs idly through a Sunday paper on the table. He pauses on a headline that catches his eye. ‘Pensioner injured in unprovoked assault in city centre bar’. He looks at the photo of the man arrested and recognises Mulligans in the background. He reads the article again, witnesses in the pub describing how a man drinking in the pub suddenly seemed to have a fit of rage and attack another punter after a short verbal altercation. The same man had been seen to buy drinks for others only minutes before, after bragging about a big win on the football. The homeless man paused in thought before reaching into his pocket. The €50 betting slip lists six results and all were still legible. He flips to the sports results at the back of the paper, hands starting to shake as confirms each result. He glances at the clock, another hour until the betting shop opens.

***

He walks into the betting shop at quarter past, not wanting to look too keen. After another cup of tea in the drop-in centre to settle his nerves, he had spent time in the bathroom carefully washing his face and hands and smoothing his hair. He had used wet tissue to clean his battered boots, trying to put a little shine on them. Now in the shop he looked around at some of the screens, odds for upcoming events flashing up and constantly changing. He blinked and moved to a sidewall with pages from the Racing Post pinned up, faking interest in his attempt to look casual. The bet slip burned a hole in his pocket. A few punters were queuing to place bets, a young woman working one till. He joined the queue and within a minute he faced her, her hand pushed out to take the slip as she barely looked at him. She studied the docket, punched in some instructions. ‘One moment please’, as she stepped away into the back room. The homeless man fidgeted, eyes drawn to a blinking screen listing golf odds. Within a minute she reappeared with her manager, who punched some keys before nodding and walking away without even registering the man. ‘Sir, just to confirm that your €50 accumulator has won €4,450.’ The homeless man stood stock still, staring at the woman while leaning on the counter for support. He held his breath while trying to regain composure. ‘I’ll just need to see some identification and then we can pay out.’ The man let out a long breath, and continued staring at her. His hands fumbled unseen in pockets empty save for a few euro coins. Finally he put out his hand, saying nothing. The woman looked at him bewildered before eventually handing him the docket. He turned and started walking to the door as she gazed after him. Outside, driving rain had since replaced sleet. He started in the direction of Poolbeg Street and as he did so he held out his right arm, releasing the betting slip into the wind. It swirled high up into the air, dancing this way and that. Then the wind abated for a moment. The paper quickly dropped to street level , landed in the middle of the sodden street and quickly started to disintegrate.