A Christmas Tale or How I Learned to Love Bono
It was late and I was on the bus going home. The bus stopped and a family of shoeless, homeless, emaciated, wretched fools climbed on to the bus, but they didn’t have the fare and so the bus driver sent them back out into the snow – it was snowing. A lady next to me tapped me on the shoulder and softly, coquettishly said, “Well tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you!”
The bus stopped and I climbed off the bus. Behind the bus was another bus. On the other bus were junkies, whores, pimps, thieves, hooligans. They were on their way to prison. They looked miserable. Each flicker of the neon Christmas lights was matched by a tear. A dog stopped, stooped, and pissed. After pissing the dog looked at me and said, “Well tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you!”
The homeless had built a city on the wasteland out of cardboard boxes. There were small houses, and mansions, and towerblocks. The city looked much better than the real city. I stopped and admired the new city made out of cardboard boxes. I was shocked. The snow was lying heavy on the cardboard and the snow was melting and the cardboard was disintegrating under the water. Under the moonlight I could see the homeless. They were weeping. A cockroach stopped by my shoe and said, “Well tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you!”
I hurried past the old people’s home. The lights were out. Two ambulances almost made mincemeat out of me. I found safety and stared through the gates. An inmate appeared out of the darkness. He stood close on the other side of the fence. “What’s going on?” I asked. “The electricity went out this morning and the old are dying off with hyperthermia. I looked at him. He looked as though death would soon be visiting him and so I said, “Well tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you!”
Where my house should have stood there was now a raging fire. I stood behind a police car and watched the firemen try and kill the fire. Their water was ineffectual. The fire was at its zenith. A cop stood next to me. “A mother and three children,” said the policeman. I told the policeman that the mother and three children were in fact my wife and three daughters. The policeman looked at the raging fire and then looked at me. He said, “Well tonight, thank God it’s them instead of you!”
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Paul Kavanagh is the author of The Killing of a Bank Manager.
