The Wreck

I swam in the morning and golfed in the evening. In between, I successfully avoided my office (filing, work on a freelance article, deleting e-mails, looking at job ads) by doing lots of little house chores and by sitting down and reading a book--something I have failed to do for months. I tried to convince myself I deserved this luxury--but it is always a difficult conversation with the inner Calvinistic voice that demands productivity.

The book, Eureka Street, was recommended by a friend and takes place in Belfast. I think in the wake of the #metoo movement, I have less tolerance for this type of book--I’d put it in the laddish genre. Two guys in their late 20s trying to get laid. A lot of drinking, a lot of laddish banter, and the anguish of seeing lots of women they find attractive but not being able to figure out how to have sex with them.

I’ll literally open at a random page and share a random excerpt (parenthetical is mine): "That night I sat in the Wreck (his car) and waited for Mary to leave work (waitress he fancies). The bar shut late and it was much unhappiness to sit there while the windows steamed up and to lie to all the cops who gripped their guns and asked me what I was doing. It was madness. For all I knew, Mary’s pugilistic boyfriend might have been on duty and if he’d seen me waiting there he’d have emptied his clip into me just for fun.”

I guess the redeeming feature is that he has an intense love for Belfast, warts and all. Even after a horrific bombing in the city centre, he sees so much in the city and its people that is redemptive.
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