More detail than is frankly necessary

Pearse Station, 6 minutes, Behan can wait while I go for a piss. I hate these jacks, the bluest lit in all of Dublin, a lasting tribute to the resident junkies of the surrounding area.

 

There’s an aul fella, raincoat and all, at the urinal. Bastard’s standing right in the middle, ignorant. I glance at the floor of the bog, she’s burst her banks. I’ll have to eek out some space by the end of that stainless steel trough after all.

 

Out pops junior, while my co-habitants stream stutters to my left. Part of me wants to make some quip about his age, bad piping or even feel some sort of sympathy. Maybe I could write a lament for the loss, the thievery, of ageing. But I can’t, because the truth is I won’t be able to get going until he stops stammering, gives up and moves on, or forms a decent flow. The nerves of youth. We’re a pathetic sight, the two of us.

 

So there I am, rooted a little further to the right than I’d like, jiggling my empty rattle in the vain hope of making some noise.

 

He looks over. A strange thing to do. Even stranger not to try and hide it. Downright bizarre to just stare like that. He knows I haven’t started, is he trying to psyche me out? Knacker, I’m not backing down. I feel my eyes harden, shoulders spread, I’m gonna piss and I’m not the type to be intimidated.

 

Then what I didn’t expect. His right hand, following his eyeline, reaches down. For a second I was stunned.

 

I bat it away, button up and turn to him. So shocked, my voice has hit a tone untouched since before puberty, and the pace of a gunshot. “Whaddafuckyoua’?”

 

I’m towering over him now, face screwed up, eyes blazing and fists clenched. He lets out a whimper, a scared old man’s whimper. Not the false sniveling apology of a sex pest. But the frightened yelp of a feeble old man, who’s made a genuine mistake, in the filthiest public toilet in Dublin. All malice in me fades to naught.

 

I walk out, I don’t wash my hands, I just want out of there, fast.

 

I go down to the furthest end of the platform, which to be fair, is where I normally go anyway. And with Behan, I’ve already forgotten the old man by the time they fine me for fare evasion. 

 

Which, incidentally, I felt was a much greater intrusion on my rights.

Tags: dirty old men, fear, filth, gay pickup, helplessness, homophobia, pearse station, pearse station jaxx, sex pests, unwanted advances