Wake up with Jimi McDonnell and Galway. Or is it more of a wake?

Awake

The smell of the McDonalds, familiar, perfected in laboratories to tempt the masses, drifts out on to the street. But Galway isn’t hungry this morning. Outside a chemist’s clinically cold white edifice, a bunch of orange twenty-somethings queue, yawning, checking their make-up in mirrors or texting. ‘Triple-points on all tanning products today!’ declares a poster in the window.
Down a bit there’s a café, a place of no consequence that somehow manages to stay open. The chairs sit around the tables, whispering fondly to the sugar bowl. ‘And then this fat Yank sat down on me, I thought he’d never leave!’ The demerera chuckled. The chair was plain, simple, sturdy but had a sense of humour that those stuffy Laura Ashley ‘feature pieces’ could only dream of.
The smell of shit rises out from under the paving stones on Shop St. The rats are down there, singing. ‘Welcome to Galway, did ye enjoy the boat race?’ A bunch of kegs line up outside Taffe’s. ‘This country will never progress,’ says one, ‘until it deals maturely with its dependence on alcohol. Our culture runs deeper, surely, than a few pints, having the craic.’ Then, there is silence amongst the other kegs until one of them clears his throat, farts, then says ‘now for ye.’ The other kegs roar in approval and collectively launch into Willie McBride.
Galway is waking up; you can see it in the bleary eyes of the drunks. Where Shop St. forks into High St. on one side and Mainguard St. on the other, a scrawny, bearded man channels into this waking madness. He beats his hand hard against his chest, letting out incoherent roars mixed with snatches of Pink Floyd lyrics. ‘You are only coming through in waves!’ he tells a bewildered pair of American tourists.
Behind him stands the placidly yellow health-food shop, benevolently bearing witness to the unhinged ravings before it. There is an ad in the window for vitamin supplements featuring a smiling couple. It suggests wellness, equilibrium, serenity―the man who stands in front is having none of it. His fingers click incessantly as if trying to light a spark from short-circuiting wires.
The three -storey pub across the way is imposing and quiet, recovering from the bout of indigestion that had caused it to spew last night’s charges on to the street. The building knows it is tied to these young bucks, and anticipates neither their coming or going. It faces winning goals, spilt pints, sloppy kisses, assembly-line cover bands and vomit with the same stony silence.
Further down, on High St, the red and white fishmongers seems to be beaming today. Red peppers, cauliflower and courgettes are on display, but they are mere trailers to the main feature of monkfish, salmon, squid and bream. In spitting distance of chain stores it is resolutely upbeat, open and smelly.
The street here gives way to confusion. A barber’s; a pub with fishing tackle and Zippos in the window; two shops selling overpriced jumpers to obliging tourists; an internet café nearing extinction; a boutique clothes shop; a charity store. They stand together, unwilling teammates in an unconvincing scrum.
At the end of this street a road emerges uncertainly, an unwelcome strip of tarmac between two pedistrianised streets. Cars seem to soak up this trepidation, stalling as people pass blithely in front of them. On the corner is one of the town’s most popular pubs, adopting a casual lean. ‘Coming in for a coffee later, are ya?’ it asks. ‘Fine. But there’s pints here too, just so you know, no hassle.’
This is Quay St. Slowly coming to life. The toy shop opens its small door, welcoming curiosity but not robust enjoyment – these are handcrafted toys, and the place feels like a museum. Next door the vintage clothes shop haughtily sniffs, and dresses and blouses wait; weary from being tried on but never bought. A few doors down, past three snoozing restaurants, is another bar. It plays host to countless stags and hens and seems to inhale people but right now it is dormant, sure of its place and happy to enjoy this respite.
A tiny newsagents is anxiously open for business, sending cigarettes, newspapers and chocolate bars on their way to anonymous offices and cluttered apartments. Nearby, at the end of the street, the fish and chip shop sprawls like an overfed cat, happy and satisfied with itself.
Meanwhile, the river moves on, under the bridge, past the Spanish Arch. The Claddagh is quiet, eight hours before high tide.

Jimi writes:

I’m Jimi McDonnell, a native of Tuam, Co. Galway. From 2007 to 2011 I was the music correspondent for the Connacht Tribune. I have been writing fiction and poetry for the past three years.

When it comes to my own voice, I’d like to have something as distinct as Ian Rankin, Seamus Heaney, Bjork and Springsteen (and a thousand more – I’ve a voracious appetite for inspiration!)

I chose to submit my poem “A to Z” to Upstart because I liked the idea of someone looking up at election posters and seeing something that told them to dance.