Patrick Horgan

Outside a pub on the corner of Brendan Street, Cork City, a man stood playing the banjo. A group of us who were huddled together beneath an umbrella as the rain lashed down for the fourth time that day watched in silence. There was no great enthusiasm for him to stop, but there was little enthusiasm for him to continue either.

The song he was playing, if you could call it that, was discordant and barely recognizable. It was his own composition, and he sang in a voice that grated. He looked up and saw us watching him, and for a split second, his eyes locked with mine. I looked away quickly, as I would when I caught the eye of a drunk.

That look of his stayed with me when we eventually moved indoors. We ended up in the upstairs of a pub across the road and ordered pints, telling ourselves that we would wait out the rain. The rain outside was so heavy that it sounded as if it were being poured over the roof from a giant bucket. Still, we didn’t mind. The pub was warm, and we were safely ensconced away from the elements.

The pub was almost empty. The only other people there were three oul lads sitting at the counter, each with a newspaper spread out in front of him, and a group of students sitting in a corner. Several of them had laptops in front of them, and they were chatting amongst themselves. We sat down at a table and started talking about the best way to get home. We discussed taking taxis and buses and the possibility of walking.

• We didn’t really want to talk about the banjo player, but someone brought him up. When I looked up I saw people nodding their heads in agreement. We all felt sorry for him, we said.
• We wondered if he knew how bad he was. We wondered if he would ever know. It would be cruel to tell him, we said. Even if he were to ask us, we wouldn’t tell him. We would just smile and nod our heads and say what a great song that was.

We talked about other things, but we kept coming back to the banjo player. We talked about how we would feel if we were in his position. We talked about how we would never have the guts to do what he was doing.

The rain had eased off by the time we left the pub. We said our goodbyes and arranged to meet again soon. As I walked home, I thought about the banjo player. I wondered if he was still outside, playing. What I wouldn’t do to have the courage to be that bad, I thought.

The next day, I walked past the pub where the banjo player had been playing, but he wasn’t there. I asked the barman if he knew what had happened to him. The barman said he had packed up and left a few hours after we had. He said he had seemed depressed.

I felt sorry to hear that. I had meant what I had said. I didn’t know why I hadn’t gone over to him and told him how much I admired his courage. I would never know now.

I walked on, thinking about the banjo player. I hoped that he would find what he was looking for. I hoped that he would find someone who would appreciate his music, even if it wasn’t very good.