Time for one last cigarette. No matter how big the hurry, there is
always time for that. There was plenty of time, anyway; the train 
was not leaving for another hour. Then he'd go. Never to come
back.... Joey sat down on the old couch, and took out the packet
of cigarettes. His hand trembled slightly, maybe from the cold,
maybe from that old sensation he felt beginning to rise up inside him. 
He should have been used to this by now. He had done this so many
times before. It was in his nature to constantly move on, strike
another joint. As soon as he'd settle in one place, he'd get the itch,
the desire to move on again. He could never wait to get out, hit the
road again. And then, when the time would come to leave, the same
thing would happen. Every bloody time! He lit up and blew the smoke
around the room. God, it was so quiet. As quiet as death, the silence
of the graveyard after the mourners have gone, the sense that 
something has died. He could almost hear the smoke soaring through
the air. So silent. So dead. So empty. So long, it's been good to know
you. 

He couldn't help it, he couldn't stop that sensation rising up
inside him, beginning to smother him. He recognised it so well, but still
didn't quite know what it was. It was just that vague sense of finality,
the atmosphere of closure, the shadow of the falling curtain. So vague.
So overpowering. So stupid! He had lived in this bedsit for fifteen
months. Good times and bad, happy days and lonely nights. Fifteen 
months was a long time. A lot of water had passed under whatever
bridge that water passes under. A lot of cigarettes had been smoked
in that time. He could even see where the smoke had discoloured the
walls. Perhaps that was the only trace he'd leave of his presence.... 

No! All around the room there were reminders of him, marks of his
life. Each little fingerprint had its own story to tell. So many stories to
hear. So much silence. So many dead times. So many reminders.... 
The vomit stain on the carpet from the night himself and Peader had
overdosed on dodgy cocktails.... The cracked mirror, reflecting a
particularly riotous New Year's Eve party.... The faded R.E.M. 
poster from the night the old gang had driven back from the Slane 
concert and stayed up all night drinking and dancing.... The dead
rose on the window sill, a reminder of a girl he had brought home 
from a disco..... So many tales to tell.... 

This had been Joey's flat.
It was so Joey. It was so Dublin. It was so Irish. And for all that, it
wasn't. None of it was really his, he didn't belong to it. That was 
Joey's problem. He was born in Ireland. He was raised in Ireland. 
Yet he never regarded himself as Irish. It was never his country. He
was never one of them. No matter where he was, he always felt like
he didn't belong. He was always out of place, the intruder, the
uninvited guest. He probably even felt out of place when he was in
his mother's womb! Nowhere was home. It was at moments like
this that Joey realised this. He had lived here for so long, but it was
never home. He was always different from the other people in the
building. He had fitted in, to a certain extent, by pretending to be
someone he wasn't, adapting to his surroundings like the eternal 
chameleon. Acting as if he was a true blue Dub, fooling no one. 
Always a phoney, so many masks and costumes that he forgot what
he really looked like, who he really was, where he really was from,
where his home was. Always changing. Always moving on. It had
all began in childhood, like most of these things do. 

He had grown up in a little community deep in the Cork country side. 
It was a really tight-knit community, where everyone knew everyone.
Joey never had any time for it; their concerns were not his concerns,
their desires were not his desires. He was not one of them. He went to
the national school in town to get away from them, meet different
people. It didn't work, because he could never become a townie, 
not with his background, not with his accent. They regarded him as
a villager, the villagers called him a townie. 

He went to college in Dublin to escape from it all. New friends, new
costumes, new identities, feeling like the bog-hopper lost amongst the
big lights. The mark of the stirabout spoon was still in his mouth, the 
cow dung still clinging to his boots. Sorry, bud, but you'll never be one
of us! He wasn't a culchie. He wasn't a townie. He wasn't a city
slicker. He wasn't anything. He didn't bloody belong anywhere. Yet
everywhere had its memories for him. No matter how much he tried
to break away from the village, glowing childhood memories,
soaked in the golden sun of nostalgia, would sometimes haunt him,
remind him. The more he was reminded, the more difficult it was to
break free, to deny the past; he had hated it at the time, but it still
clung on to him; or did he cling on to it? Everywhere he'd go, he'd 
drag along these dead memories of the past, memories which
reminded him that he didn't belong where he was. Joey stamped out 
the cigarette on the carpet, and looked around the room. So much to 
hold on to. So easy to leave behind. So easy to be forgotten. 

So easy to forget this place. Nothing to hold on to here.... But there 
was. Those memories were too strong. He knew he would 
eventually begin to miss this place, miss its times, miss its people. 
Yet it would not miss him. Tomorrow he'd be gone, someone
having taken his place. The flat would still be here, but he'd be
drifting off somewhere else. Drifting far, far away. Oh, to drift
away so far, away from all this, away from the past, away from 
all those costumes and masks. To land on some brand new shore
far, far away. Someone unknown, without an identity, total amnesia.
Start off anew, shed off the old skin, become a blank canvas 
waiting to be painted on, a new born void waiting to be filled. The
ultimate second chance! No past. No identity. Nobody! Start 
off from scratch again. Resurrection! Drift away into the night. Drift
into the dark mists. Drift away into the silent waves. Drift away for
days and days across the water, across the silence, across the 
solitude. Drift all the way across the cold Atlantic. Drift all the way 
to America. 

America! Joey had always been fascinated by the
American dream. That's why there was a filthy Stars and Stripes
hung on the wall. He had often thought of going there. To him, it 
represented the total loss of identity, the shedding off of all costumes,
the chance to begin afresh. Cut off from the past, cut adrift in the
new world, no chains holding you back. The complete shedding off 
of the old skin. The land of liberty and opportunity. The land of
hope and glory. So full of promise. So full of possibility. So full of
nothing! Joey snorted in disgust as he looked at the tattered Stars 
and Stripes hanging on the wall. An emblem of shattered dreams,
soiled innocence, and torn ideals. A dream dangling from the 
gallows tree of experience. He knew he would never go to America. 

For one thing, he would never be able to get the money together.
Even if he did, he would never take the risk. He was too conservative
and cautious to make the really big break. He was afraid to cut
himself completely adrift. What the hell was America anyway, he
thought, as the vineyard of Eden turned into a thorny bush of sour
grapes. He would leave Ireland, and go to America, but what
would really change? Ireland was America and America was
Ireland, a tricolour of stars and stripes. The same memories 
haunted you, you were reminded of them everywhere. He grew 
up watching American films, listening to America music, wearing 
American clothes, drinking American minerals and beers, eating
American fast food. Everywhere you looked in Dublin, you saw
America. You saw it deep in the Cork countryside. You grew up
in the American womb, staring up the backside of the American
bald eagle. There would be no new world in America. He knew 
the place too well. He practically grew up there. He even spoke
their language. Yeah, man! Ain't that the truth, babe! 

He could just picture himself in America, an Irishman in New York,
running into the arms of New Ireland. Emigration, the Irish imperialism, 
meant that the Irish had long ago conquered America, planted the 
old sod in the new soil. Everywhere you went, you saw Ireland.
Irish bars, glittering harps, plastic leprechauns made in Taiwan. 
Irish Yanks queuing up to welcome you. My God, hon, a real 
Irishman! Hey man, you're so mystical and spiritual, there's 
definitely a Celtic aura glowing around you. Oh boy, such a
musical, lilting voice, such sparkling, smiling eyes. You're so Irish!
You've got such a way with words. Aw, baby, that's just blarney. 

What then, after the American resurrection, the rebirth after the
American wake back home, after the voyage through Atlantic
purgatory in a coffin ship? For a lucky few, those with that luck of 
the Irish, the American dream could come true. Rise to the top of
any chosen field. Rise to the top of the Empire State Building, and 
not be tempted to throw yourself off the edge. Become the most
powerful man in America. Mick O'Hara-Murphy, President of the
United States of America, addresses the nation- "Begorra and 
bejaysus, a chairde, but 'tis a rare shaggin' ructions they do be
raisin' in the oul' Middle East these days, so it is!" For others, the
American dream ends with an abrupt alarm call, a boot in the face,
waking you up to your frozen cardboard box in Central Park. 
Vomiting up green beer in a Noraid bar to the tune of old rebel 
ballads. Shooting up heroin in the sewers of Manhattan on 
St Patrick's Day. Getting beat up by Irish cops in Boston. The 
dream as shattered as the broken whisky bottles in the Chicago 
alleys. This is so Irish. God bless America. God damn it! 

Joey's begrudgery had turned the bush of sour grapes into a bleeding,
festering, sweating pile of blue mould and fungus. He was too
haunted by the past, a past he never felt really belonged to him,
to make a clean break, enter into a brave new world. He never 
felt idealistic about the future, because he knew he be dragging 
all that crap from the past with him. Joey began pacing the floor,
as if trying to wriggle out of his shell. Once again, he was finding
it difficult to leave. Something seemed to be holding him back. 
He was a caterpillar reluctant to leave the security of his cocoon,
a cocoon he always complained about. Good job he wasn't born 
a tadpole; he'd never get around to becoming a frog. He never
found it easy to shed off the old skin; the operation was never
a complete success, no matter how many times he performed it.
Some of the old skin always clung on. It was always rustling and
rattling away there in the background of his mind, its irregular, 
unpredictable rhythm keeping him awake on sleepless nights, like
some long forgotten beat pounding in his head for hours. The 
more you tried not to cling on to the past, the more it clung on to
you, rattling away there, driving you mental. Remember this, Joey?
Remember that, Joey? Remember? Remember? 
RRRRRRememberrrrrrrrr? Rattle. RRRattle. RRRRRRRRRattle. 

This was Joey's latest attempt to break from the past. Time to
forget all this. Nothing to hold on to anymore. Yet, something 
was still holding him. Memories of the last fifteen months rattling
away in his head. How do you shut out that racket? How do you 
begin thinking a brand new thought, dreaming a brand new dream, 
becoming a brand new person? How do you shake off all that
clinging, rattling dead skin of the past? So many memories. So
many rattles. All those places that he didn't belong to, yet hated
leaving. Forever moving on. Forever looking for somewhere where he could finally settle, somewhere where the rattle would be silenced. Somewhere to escape from all that history which was constantly rattling and distracting him, driving him mental. Somewhere where he could say- "This is it! I've found my home at last! This is where I belong. This is where the phoney past can no longer haunt me because this is my roots, my true past, my origins." He was the travelling Joseph, always looking for an inn to stay in. Always being turned away. Always carrying his suitcase. His suitcase of rattling dead skin.... It really is time to move on. Can't put this off any longer. Cast off the old skin and enter the new. A bigger move this time. Get right out of Dublin. The offer of a job in Galway had been too good to resist. Almost! A new home. A new life. A new person. A new layer of skin. Promises. 
Opportunities. Hopes. Glass towers waiting to collapse! 

Nonetheless, he had to go. He had known for some time that he
had to move on. He had grown out of Dublin, outstayed his
welcome. When the opportunity came to leave, he jumped at it.
He had been itching to move on. The latest skin had become
uncomfortable. It was dying, beginning to flake. Time to peel it 
off. See what lay underneath. A brand new identity? A new home?
A new world? An American dream? Maybe he should say
goodbye to the neighbours...... Good God, is it that time already? 

Got to go now. No time to waste. Write to them when I get to
Galway. Sorry, got to rush, I'll be in touch. Get the hell out of here!
Time to throw off the old mask. Hey, look folks, its the magic
Russian Doll, Joey Maguire! That guy has got a problem. He takes 
off one mask, only to find another one underneath. Mask after
mask after mask. It's been that long since he's seen his real face 
that he forgets what he really looks like, who he really is. He peels 
off one layer of make-up and skin, then another, then another. 
Maybe some day, he'll find his real skin. Maybe some day, he'll 
get rid off that bloody itch. God, he's amazing. How many layers
of skin has he peeled off already? And he's not stopping yet! He's
still itchy! This is amazing! Joey took a deep breath to calm himself.
He was beginning to lose it now. What he wouldn't give for just 
one more cigarette. He had none left. Nothing to stay for. Time for
just one more quick glance round the old flat. Just one look. Just to
remember what it looks like. His eyes did a quick scan of the room.
He was careful not to let his gaze linger on anything in particular. 

He was very careful. So careful..... His eyes fell on the dead rose. 
A reminder of a girl he had brought home from a disco.... That 
had been a great night.... So careful... St Valentine's night.... One to remember.... He saw her for the first time just before midnight.... Blur's "Country House" had been playing..... Got to move on... He saw her standing over by the bar.... What a night.... She had long blond hair and light blue eyes.... She was slim, slightly smaller than him.... One of her front teeth was slightly chipped.... A night never to forget.... Nothing left to hold him back now... Her name was Nuala.... She was studying English in Trinity.... She had a lecture at ten o'clock the next morning.... She had just turned twenty one, but she looked younger.... That was some night.... Time to silence the rattle... She had bought her ear-rings in Amsterdam.... She wore a lincoln green dress and black tights.... She complained that here shoes were hurting her.... She had a Donegal accent, with a slight lisp.... Very slight.... So careful... He
could almost taste the vodka and lime on her tongue.... She thought 
Oasis were brilliant, but hated Pulp.... Her father worked in the
civil service.... The Department of the Marine.... There was a slight 
whiff of menthol cigarettes on her breath..... A night to remember.
.... Knowing that he was being stupid, Joey took the dead rose 
from the cracked blue vase and put it in his suitcase. Something 
to remember her by. Just in case he should forget.... God, these 
cases were very heavy. So much luggage to have to carry all the
way to Galway.... Running out of the flat- God, was it that time 
already?- he slammed the door shut, fumbling with the key in the
lock. Would he make it on time for the train. Where did all the 
time go to? Better get a taxi. He sprinted up the stairs, down the
hall, out the front door. There was a wind picking up. He ran 
down the steps. God, it was freezing. The wind was beginning
to bite into him. As he ran out the gate, he thought he heard the
front door rattling in the wind....