Out There
by Kevin MacAlan
I smacked the tail of my long canvas coat against the rough wood bench. Dust clouded the air momentarily to resettle a few feet away from where I had placed my cardboard tub of food. A guy in his twenties I think, was sitting opposite me. Maybe he was even younger, it’s hard to tell when they’ve been on the road and only eaten MacDonald’s health foods.
Orla climbed into a space on the crowded bench next to him. She glanced at me. The dust had robbed the sheen from her hair but added extra sparkle to her eyes. She flashed a smile then, sensing my anger at her recklessness, concentrated on opening her sachet of ketchup.
The steam from my vegetables both warmed and moistened my face. The dry cold remained on the Alanstown streets. The restaurant was noisy; those streets, silent. The restaurant bright; the streets, dark. Rows of loners huddled together eating individual dinners. They had twenty minutes before leaving to evaporate in the blanket of day.
To my right, a fat solicitor-type stood to leave, a skinny Garda took his place. The momentarily unopposed push on my left shoulder by an old-timer, moved me, very slightly, away from Orla. She looked anxious.
“Miss?” The Garda spoke!
I kept my eyes on my food. If he asked Orla why she had looked at me that way, then I would attempt escape.
“Excuse me... Miss... the salt?”
Relief! He was talking to me. What a cretin! Only a Garda or a psycho would talk to a loner at mealtime. I passed the plastic bowl of salt sachets. He tipped it out onto the table. A pile of small white paper packets sat in a heap of black dust. He smiled at me.
“Eat...” he said. “Then go.”
As I sucked the warm food, I studied Orla. Feigning unfocused eyes, I watched her timid face. Black dust highlighted the paleness of her skin. She had loosened her parka. Just protruding from the collar of her sweater, I saw the end of a rolled-up magazine. Damn that magazine. Four pages filled with photographs of the light world. I could see it. I knew better than others what it was but, if I could see it, then so could they, if they looked. But who would? Not a Garda. They’re bold, but untroubled by the misdemeanors of individuals.
The young guy opposite me cleared his carton and stood to leave. A gaunt, Boss-suited executive took his place. Thin rimmed glasses outlined his eyes. His jacket collar was turned up against the cold. His face, recently shaved, glistened with Vaseline. The ends of his hair were burnt together, crusting in a clumpy fringe above his painted eyebrows. A fashion freak. In my book, an admission of not wanting to be a loner. He was as immoral as Orla and me.
He turned down his collar, and I just caught sight of his eyes looking upwards. He looked into the eyes of others! He even grinned. On his lapel, a badge, ‘Hi, I’m Kyle Meera’. My God, a psycho!
He caught my glance. I took another spoonful of food and sucked it to nothing. I daren’t look at him. I daren’t look at Orla. I only acknowledged my carton of vegetables. Twenty minutes would soon be up. Someone else would want my seat.
The old-timer stood to go. I leant into the Garda to keep the gap open. An arm flashed across the bench. Kyle Meera took the remains of the old-timer’s food and, in one movement with the same hand, took salt and dust from the pile on the table. His sleeve dragged across my food. I didn’t react.
He ate noisily. Two minutes and we would leave.
“What’s your name?” Kyle spoke to Orla.
I sensed the Garda tense. Orla didn’t respond.
“What’s this?” Kyle grabbed the magazine. Orla froze. Half-chewed vegetables fell from her mouth, and tears welled in her eyes. The Garda wasn’t eating anymore, but he sat quietly and appeared to be uninterested.
“I’ll have that,” the psycho stuffed Orla’s magazine into his pocket.
I sucked another mouthful. One minute and we would leave. Without the magazine. I was afraid of my own cowardice.
“No!!” snapped Orla. “Give it back.”
The Garda, rising to his feet, spoke into his radio. The world knew no-one heard. “I need to take you miss,” he said to Orla.
Orla collapsed in resignation. No-one looked on. Some stood to go. Others took their place. I stood to leave.
“You’re guilty of acknowledgement miss. I need your name.”
“Sophie,” said Orla. It was the last time I heard her speak my name.
* * *
I smacked the tail of my long canvas coat against the rough wood bench. I kept my collar turned up about my neck. Fine dust hung in swirls before resettling. A guy sitting opposite was careful not to react to the dust which landed on his food.
Orla climbed into a space on the crowded bench next to him. She glanced at me. The dust had robbed the sheen from her hair but added sparkle to her watering eyes. She flashed a smile then, sensing my anger, concentrated on her food.
I placed my own carton on the Formica-topped table. Moths droned about the flickering neons, and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played too quickly on a crackling public address system.
The steam from my vegetables both warmed and moistened my face. The dry cold of the silent streets held at bay by the bustling restaurant. The dark world of Alanstown families and couples left at the door, except for the reckless few who between street-clearings peered into the bright windows from outside.
Children, too young to pass as loners, whose parents had converted to solitude, sometimes begged openly in the foyers and cart parks. They were taken by the Gardai. Notices explained that this was for the comfort of diners.
The loners huddled inside, shoulder to shoulder at tables seating sixty at a time. They ate health food. They had twenty minutes of air-filtered warmth, before the sands of mealtime ran out, forcing them back into the blanket of day.
I sat with an old-timer to my left and a fat solicitor-type to my right. Old-timers knew the past. Most had never converted to solitude but were delivered to it by loss of partners.
The solicitor stood to leave; a skinny Garda took his place. The momentarily unopposed push on my left shoulder by the old-timer, moved me, very slightly, away from Orla. She looked anxious.
“Miss?” The Garda spoke!
I kept my eyes on my food. I was worried. Worried that he would ask Orla why she had looked at me that way. If he did, then how would we escape?
“Excuse me... Miss... the salt?”
Relief! He was talking to me. Only a Garda could be so stupid.
I passed the plastic bowl of salt sachets. He tipped it out onto the table. A pile of small white paper packets sat in a heap of black dust. He smiled at me.
“Eat...” he said. “Then go.”
As I sucked the warm food, I studied Orla. Looking as though I wasn’t looking, I looked at Orla’s timid face. Orla Avir. Daughter of a dreamer. Street grime on her pale skin. That soft firm skin that drove me outside the law. Tempted because our coupling would be more easily disguised by our gender.
Orla loosened her parka. I saw the end of a rolled-up magazine protrude from the collar of her sweater. Orla’s mother had given Orla the magazine. Four pages, filled with photographs of the light world. I could see it. I knew better than others what it was, but if I could see it, then so could they.
No wonder mothers were reviled, synonymous with families. But Orla’s mother had been my friend. She claimed to be an old-timer. I was never sure, for she also claimed we shared the same mother. I remember no mother.
The young guy opposite me cleared his carton and stood to leave. A gaunt, vintage-suited executive took his place. Thin rimmed glasses outlined his eyes. His jacket collar was turned up. His face, recently shaved, glistened with Vaseline. The ends of his hair burnt together in a clumpy fringe. He turned down his collar, and I just caught sight of his eyes looking upwards. He looked into the eyes of others! He even grinned.
On his lapel, a badge: “Hi, I’m Kyle Meera.” He caught my glance. I fixed my eyes on his and turned down my collar, displaying my badge: “Hi, I’m Sophie Stree.” I took another spoonful of food and sucked it to nothing. No-one interrupted psychos for being psychos.
Twenty minutes would soon be up. Someone else would want my seat. The old-timer stood to go. I leant into the Garda to keep the gap open. An arm flashed across the bench. Kyle Meera took the remains of the old-timer’s food and, in one movement with the same hand, took salt and dust from the pile on the table.
His sleeve dragged across my food. I looked up in annoyance. Didn’t camaraderie count for anything? Wasn’t there honor among psychos? He sneered. I shrunk from his look. Two minutes and we would leave.
“What’s your name?” Kyle spoke to Orla.
I sensed the Garda tense. Orla didn’t respond.
“What’s this?” Suddenly, Kyle grabbed the magazine. Orla froze. Half-chewed vegetables fell from her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. The Garda wasn’t eating anymore, but he sat quietly appearing to be uninterested.
“I’ll have that,” the psycho stuffed Orla’s magazine into his pocket. He looked at me. I showed signs of amusement, afraid of appearing afraid. One minute and we would leave. Without the magazine if necessary.
“D’you like this?” Kyle waved the magazine at me. “D’you want one? Mebbe she’s got another...” Kyle grabbed Orla’s arm. He ripped at her parka and elbowed her in the face. She spat blood, helpless and stunned. He tugged at her sweater until a soft pink breast was exposed. Kyle cackled and drooled.
“No!” I snapped. “Leave her alone!’
The Garda spoke into his radio. I knew no-one heard. “I need to take you miss,” he said, rising to his feet. Orla collapsed, and Kyle fell on her. No-one looked on. Some stood to go. Others took their place. I had to leave.
“You’re guilty of acknowledgement miss. I need your name.”
“Sophie,” I said. It was the last time I spoke.
* * *
I smacked the tail of my long canvas coat against the rough wood bench. I kept my collar turned up about my neck. Fine dust hung in swirls before resettling. A guy sitting opposite ignored the dust, which landed on his food.
Orla climbed into a space on the crowded bench next to him. She glanced at me, then sensing my anger, concentrated on her food. I placed my own carton on the Formica-topped table. Moths droned about flickering neons, and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played haltingly on the public address system. The smell of food thrilled me.
The steam from my vegetables both warmed and moistened my face. The dry cold of the silent street, and the dark world of families left at the door. Inside, loners, huddled shoulder to shoulder at tables seating sixty at a time. They ate health food. They had twenty minutes of air-filtered warmth, before the sands of mealtime ran out, forcing them back into the blanket of a dark Alanstown day.
The fat solicitor to my right stood to leave, a skinny Garda took his place. The momentarily unopposed push on my left shoulder by an old-timer, moved me, very slightly, away from Orla. She looked anxious.
“Miss?” The Garda spoke!
I kept my eyes on my food. If he asked Orla why she had looked at me that way, then I was ready to do what had to be done.
“Excuse me... Miss... the salt?”
Relief! He was talking to me. I passed the plastic bowl.
He tipped a pile of small white paper packets and black dust onto the table. He smiled at me.
I returned a saturnine stare. “Eat...” I said. “Then go.”
As I sucked the warm food, looking as though I wasn’t looking, I looked at Orla. Street grime on her face highlighted the paleness of her skin. The thrill of food was now matched by the thrill of Orla.
She had loosened her parka. Just protruding from the collar of her sweater, I saw the end of a rolled-up magazine. Four pages, filled with photographs of the light world. I knew better than others what it was but, if I could see it, then by looking, so could they. But who would look?
The young guy opposite cleared his carton and stood to leave. A gaunt, pinstripe-suited executive took his place. Thin rimmed glasses outlined his eyes. His jacket collar was turned up. His face, recently shaved, glistened with Vaseline. The ends of his hair burnt together in a clumpy fringe.
He turned down his collar, and I just caught sight of his eyes looking upwards. He looked into the eyes of others! He even grinned.
I leant forward, taking my weight on my legs but never quite standing. I reached out and caught hold of his matted hair. With surprise in my favor, I slammed his face into the tabletop. Near to unconsciousness, he struggled to raise his head. Blood smeared over the Vaseline, glass from one of his lenses had pierced an eye. Resistance left his body early, as I used both hands to take a firm grip of the back of his head and smashed his face against the table. I repeated the action until I felt his frontal bone stave in.
I turned down my collar, displaying my badge: “Hi, I’m Sophie Stree.” I took another spoonful of food and sucked it to nothing. No-one interrupted psychos for being psychos.
Twenty minutes would soon be up. Someone else would want my seat. The old-timer stood to go. I leant into the Garda to keep the gap open. I sensed the policeman tense, but he sat uninterested.
I thought of Orla. I thought of that time at the end of being awake when she and I stripped to our skin and shared each other. I took more of my food. One minute and we would leave.
I thought of being weak, and the thought frightened me.
I stood to leave. Orla stood too. She zipped up her parka and tucked her magazine out of sight into her sweater.
A nurse took my seat. An old-timer took Orla’s.
From outside, we could see a Garda waiting to take Kyle’s seat. He spoke into his radio. The world knew no-one was listening. Some stood to go. Others took their place.
Copyright © 2025 by Kevin MacAlan
