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Watch Your Step
These Streets Are Not Paved With Gold
Can you believe I fell for it? Fell for every word out of the mouth of my brother, Jerry, the bragging prick. He’s back in Tralee brimming over with stories about streets paved with gold. For weeks every man-Jack in the pub has stood him a pint to hear about the magic of New York City.
Stupid old eejits. Not a man among ’em doesn’t have a brother, son, sister, or four cousins in New York right this minute. Hell, around here we think of New York City as a bit of a suburb, ya know? Can I tell you how many New Yorkers come around here looking to find their “roots”? It’s a cottage industry hereabouts, guiding tours to cemeteries and making up family histories.
So you ask, and well you should, what was my excuse for falling for that wide load a crap coming out of my big brother’s yap?
In a word: desperation. I’m running out of time.
There’s no prospects for a young man in Tralee and hasn’t been in a generation or more. Don’t talk to me about the Celtic Tiger, either. That “tech revolution” was over before it started around here. About all we got out of it was higher housing costs and fewer decent-paying labor type jobs. If you couldn’t code or weren’t in finance or real estate, forget it. I’ve been on the dole now for six years and live back with my parents…
