Excerpt from Meggs

Ailish had seen it in many big cities, particularly in the US. The small, slightly tacky, dishevelled shopfront. Aluminium window frames showcasing a variety of equally tacky, dishevelled product. Budget Crimplene and poly-cotton dresses; a haberdashery, perhaps. The pavement outside is grimy, pock-marked with hardened, grey gum, and an ammonium smell of piss hanging in the close, heavy air of the city.

The door has a standard-issue, yellowing 'We are open' sign hanging crooked on the door. The window features a veneer of smudges, smears, a vain attempt at an inviting shopfront,and metal bars should anyone decide they want Crimplene dresses as loot. A cloak of dust, the odd corpse of a fly decomposing on the cheap, red fabric swathing today's specials.

This is New York. Upper East. A shabby shop in a not-so-shabby 'hood.

Ailish would never have ventured through the door; nothing in the window, nor the window itself shows the promise of anything that could possibly meet her needs or desires. But here she is, clutching an airmail envelope in her fist, wandering through the hangers of bargain basement summer dresses and kiddies' polyester sweaters and playsuits. “Who wears these summer dresses?” she ponders incredulously. They're upholstered in a great-aunty-like easy chair print. “Someone clearly wears them,” else how does the proprietor pay the rent in this upscale neighborhood?

She'd scribbled the approximate whereabouts of the shop on a Post-it note as she grabbed her bag to leave her Downtown office that afternoon: 3^rd Ave, between 84^th and 85^th. It had taken some doing to find anything on the internet about this man she'd made a post-humous promise to her mam she'd unearth. He was not of the age or inclination to have any type of profile on the web. Ailish found that quite astounding; that there remain people in the world with no internet presence.

Whether this address was the right one, she couldn’t be sure. She knew nothing of his looks, his full name, but she knew he'd been special to her mother. They'd taken very different paths in their lives – that's all her mother had written on the front of the airmail envelope. Quite for whom the note was intended wasn't clear, either. As well as the short note, just a name on the airmail envelope: Meggs, dress shop, Upper East, on or near 3^rd Ave.

The inside of the shop is dark, hazy with dust specks, stale and musty on the nose. Ailish hears a shuffling of paper - some invoices, a shadow becomes obvious in the back of the shop.

She smiles and chirps, “ 'Morning.”

“ 'Mornin' Ma'am.”

His voice is gruff, a wet, phlegmy cough follows shortly thereafter. Then silence again; no offer of “ Something I can show you today, Ma'am?” or “Today is the last day of our specials”. If she did want anything in this strange pit of a shop, it was up to Ailish to find it. “How does he make any money?” she wonders again, as his heavy, labored breaths carry through the darkness.

At once, he eases himself from his stool, leaning fully on his left arm to haul his solid frame to stand. Grunting, a painful effort draws lines across his features.

Ailish guesses the figure stands about six feet two and he doesn’t seem full height. Stooped, his broad chest caves. Moving towards the back office, she notices the left leg drag slightly behind the right, like a small dog trailing behind its owner. Crab-like, he scuffs towards the black curtain that hides God-knows-what. It's only when he gets to the curtain that the body re-assembles itself, reaching full height and breadth. He is strong, or at least, once was.

As she moves toward the counter, a black-framed photograph on the wall catches Ailish's eye. The frame is beaten and chipped; like the rest of the shop, a film of dust rests there. Inside, a black and white image of a young man, perhaps early twenties, dark skin, dark eyes. He is surrounded by high-quality leather goods; briefcases, fine men's shoes. The suit is perfectly cut, Italian styling, Ailish reckons; the quality of the fabric shines, casting shadows against his well-made body. He wears it minus the jacket, as if he's been hard at work all day, but maintaining that 'urban style' magazines favor.

The beauty of the model is astounding, causing Ailish to gasp. Noble, proud, statuesque and damn fine. It was a literal response – her breath had been truly taken away.

“Who's that?” she asks on the out-breath.

From the curtain, the raspiness speaks, “That's me,” matter-of-factly.

Ailish's cheeks flush uncontrollably – this man was fine in his day.

“Wow!” the exclamation clears a path through the dustiness; embarrassment continues to rise in them both.

“I used to model back in the seventies; in the days of Studio 54. Crazy times”, he scratches, a reminiscent smile forms on the corner of his lips.

Ailish surveys him, “Well - you still got it!”

Sheepishly, he replies, “Thank you, Ma'am.”

“You must have seen some really crazy things in Studio 54. I've only ever read about the place – celebrity legends creating legendary tales, the way I understand.” Ailish felt she was trying a little too hard to impress him with her knowledge, hoping her eagerness wasn’t as obvious to this slightly crumpled but majestic man as it was to her.

His chuckle is deep, gravelly and full of catarrh, “Oh, I'm tellin' ya',” his head shaking slowly, as images of the urban wilderness return to him.

Words take their time to form and be heard, the accent still strong with a Southern lilt, nurtured along the Mississippi's abundant banks with the cotton and sugar cane.

“Yeah, I seen some sights no God-fearing son of a cane toad should see. We tore up Jake in those days.”

“Were you always a wild child?” Ailish teased with a crooked smile.

“Hell, no! Damn near lived out my years in a seminary!” A high-pitched giggle escapes like a child let out in the yard after the rain. A slow shake of his head again, “The choices we make...”

At that point, Ailish feels disoriented, synthesizing the snippets of information she's just heard, comparing them with the small amount she knows from her mam. Unclenching her fist, she unwrinkles the airmail envelope, catching the spidery writing, again. Recognition finally spreads across her face, her eyes widen as she looks back at the shopkeeper.

“Meggs?”

“Yes Ma'am.”

Ailish hesitates, opening her mouth to explain who she is, why she is in this funny little shop in the Upper East, when she stops. Fumbling in her handbag, she pulls the Hermes scarf out; it floats to the counter.

“I...”, she starts.

Meggs stares at the scarf, crumpled and beautiful on the counter. His eyes grow glassy with memories, a warm smile gathering pace. He simply nods slowly.

“I'm Ailish, Caoilinn O'Riordan's daughter.”

A Bad Place

The sweet, sleepy silence of early morning had been shattered. Sara lay cosy under the duvet hiding, but unable to get away from the obtrusive incessant shouting of the television presenters – so loud and 7 am.

Soon after, the sickly stench of cigarette smoke drifted under her bedroom door.

It had been the right thing to do at the time.

“Umm...I feel really bad but, honestly, I've got nowhere to stay and I'm not working. Things are...tight”. Grant felt embarrassed to take Sara up on her offer some weeks previously.

“Not at all. You're welcome to stay - at least for the interim.”

Sara considered herself to be fairly flexible – accommodating, not set in her ways like so many people who had lived alone for years; but Grant's presence was testing this belief. Sky News, soap operas and cigarettes were his diet, and it grated on her.

Sara delayed getting up so she didn't have to face Grant, getting pulled in to sitting on the couch to watch moving pictures. She found she'd even run out of things to say to him.

“So – what are you going to do today?” Sara asked chirpily once she'd extracted herself from her bedroom – probably sounding like an annoying parent to Grant. She didn't care.

Grant screwed his face up and let out a huff of air, signifying “absolutely fucking nothing again.”

Sara quietly harrumphed, “Well, that sounds like fun...” as she grabbed her handbag to leave for work.

“OK – well, have a good day,” she said brightly as she flung the front door open, striding out into the fresh air. She filled her lungs. She fully knew she'd find Grant there on the couch eight or nine hours later on her return.

“I don't know what to do, Karen – I mean, he's been there for almost four months now. I can't shift him!”

“You need to tell him – simple.”

“He's clearly in a bad place. I have no idea whether he is actively looking for work. He tells me nothing, and I don't want to sound like a nag.” Sara could feel herself getting worked up about the situation.

“Look – he's taking advantage of your good nature now. As long as you make it easy for him, he's not going to rock the boat.”

“Ah, yes, my good nature,” Sara pondered as she gazed down at the cream on her coffee. She is what psychologists would describe as a nurturer. Despite being a direct expressive person at work, in her personal life the nurturer would coddle and comfort, causing large chunks of herself to be sacrificed.

Sara felt genuinely bad for Grant – it's true, he was in a bad place right now; but he had got himself into this situation, she had to remind herself. Previously a big spender with a decent job, Grant was smug in his squandering ways. He was a good time; cocktails and coke till 4 am, superb suits and shoes, perfectly styled hair.

Grant would never have presented himself the way he is now.

What had led him to this situation, she couldn't quite tell. Grant said nothing, but she suspects drugs and fraud might have had something to do with it.

There was an upside to all this – Sara was spending longer hours at work getting more done, and accepting more social invitations than she ever had, just to avoid going home.

Sara typed into the search field, 'my friend won't move out'. Google worked its magic, returning pages of advice, both dubious and trustworthy.

Legal remedies, suggested conversations, tips and advice.

She steeled herself, “Right, tonight I have to tell him.”

She was right. There he was on the couch, ashtray full, coffee stains on the table, East Enders shouting at each other. Grant hadn't moved an inch.

Sara placed herself tentatively on the other end of the couch.

“How was your day?”

Grant shrugged. He'd been wearing the same trousers every day for...she didn't know how long.

She persevered, feeling ridiculously nervous.

“How is the job search going?”

“The agencies are all wankers. They're full of shit.”

“OK – this is not going quite to plan,” she quietly assessed.

Sara paused a moment.

“Look, Grant – I know you're finding it tough at the moment, but I really need my space back. Is there some way we can agree a date that you'll move out by?”

Grant looked at her shocked, “So you want me to go? Where, exactly?”

“Do you have another friend you can stay with for a while?”

“No, Sara! That's why I've been here for the last two months!”

“Umm... four, actually...”

“Four, whatever! Where am I supposed to go?”

Sara calmed herself before continuing, “I really don't know, Grant; but you can't remain here forever.” She felt so guilty. Was asking for what you want in life always this hard?

“Why? Messing up your nice little lifestyle, am I?”

She ignored his sharpness. “It was understandable he should respond this way”, she rationalised, followed closely by, “Is this really him?”

Sara drew on Karen, a short, fiery Glaswegian lass. She wouldn't stand for this.

“OK, well, look – I've said what I need to. I am here to help you as much as I can, but it is time for you to find somewhere else to live.”

Grant simply turned back to the television screen.

Two days went by and nothing much was said between the two of them. Sara quietly hoped that this time in his life would teach Grant the lesson he needed, but she wasn't so sure. Her own lesson over recent years with various troubled friends was that there was no point offering 'you should...' statements of advice. It had to come from them.

Day three since The Conversation. Sara had to push hard to open the front door of her apartment. “That's weird.” A pile of plaid plastic carrier bags blocked the entry.

“What's this?” she exclaimed.

Grant didn't speak for a time as he pushed more carrier bags out of the bedroom with his feet.

“Doing as you asked.”

Her face dropped.

“Stop! Just stop!” How could this be happening?

“Just fuck off.”

Passing the tube station entrance, Sara sees a homeless guy - it's his preferred perch - wonders as she frequently does, what leads people to this situation; substance or physical abuse, mental illness? She wants to understand more and pities in equal measures but normally keeps a safe distance like millions of other Londoners. He lies near his shopping trolley, stacked with plaid carrier bags full of a jumble of clothes.

This time she shuffles in her pocket for some loose change. As she looks down, she catches his toenails - chipped and black, and he has shit on his trousers. His stench is homeless rank. As she drops the two pound coin in the used Costa coffee cup, her eyes move up to his; they wander aimlessly from side to side, his lids blinking slowly; a beard knotted and ginger.

Grant simply sees a blurry vision of a person in front of him as the coin jingles to the bottom of his cup.