It’s a bit early for Christmas jumpers but I sat beside a man wearing one the other night.
I have seen him out and about and he always wears strange clothes. He is a bachelor who lives alone in the hills: ageless, and though not in any way attractive, I imagine he could scrub up.
Not vagabond make-over level, but it would be fascinating to see the end result. The audience whooping and oh my goshing; a smart outfit, a hair-cut and a shave.
He wanders around Tyrone, hitching lifts at all hours or perching on a bus sailing past.
He is called Knievel, or Sitting Bull – nicknames of course – and I’m not sure if he knows why or if he even knows he’s called them (behind-backs nicknames are prevalent down here).
He has a bony face and lanky hair and a far-away expression. I have stood beside him in shops and sat close to him in the library but I had yet to hear him utter a word.
Like Harpo Marx, he would just open his eyes wide and nod vigorously when asked if was this the tobacco he wanted or the magazine he had ordered.
Silent up to now.
You may remember I auditioned to be in a local am-dram production of Philadelphia Here I Come!, and though I got the part I realised I couldn’t commit so pulled out – the rehearsal schedule would put the Lyric to shame.
Avril Beggs, the director, not only was gracious when I let her down, she invited Fionnuala and I to the opening night.
“Sit you there.” She placed Fionnuala in the front row of the jammed theatre and I saw it was a single seat.
“And you, Fabien, follow me.”
I smirked at my wife, who was trapped between two women notorious for jabbering away, and was prodded up to the very back and ordered to sit in the corner.
Quite brusque I thought, but she was gone.
That’s when I turned round to see Sitting Bull in his Christmas jumper, staring at me.
“Hiya,” I said, but he just opened his eyes wide, turned away, and started into a bag of crisps.
His teeth were snapping together as he crunched and he even turned the bag inside out to lick up all the crumbs.
I offered it up to the Holy Souls as I tried to focus on the acting, but once he had finished, he began sighing ostentatiously, indicating huge boredom.
I was stunned by his lack of tact and as soon as the interval came, he was up climbing over the people beside him and away like a fugitive, looking back at me as he lumped down the stairs. Like a yeti.
At least I can watch the second act in peace, I thought, but when I returned to my seat, there he was with a plastic bag, taking out a pint of milk.
He slurped that, took out a bag of chips which he began to wolf down, and as the house lights dipped and the stage lights revealed the two Gars, turned to me and said, “Jesus Christ, not these two again.”
And he sighed and ate chips and slurped milk and stared at me and rustled in his bag loudly, and not one person said to be quiet.
He was a chief all right – of God knows what – and during the father’s heart-breaking scene when he remembers his son as a child in the sailor suit, he gasped and whispered to me at the top of his voice, “Hi, this is cat.”
He then turned around, his flimpy hair flapping, filthy fingernails flashing, rustled one last time in the world’s loudest plastic bag – and fell asleep. Sitting Bull, snoring loudly.
“What’s your verdict?” Fionnuala was filling a hot water bottle back at the house.
“Wish I had been in your seat. At least you got a bit of peace to watch the show.”