Hey man, I’m still at least 15 minutes away. A thick Dublin accent cutting through one of the first chilly evenings in Dublin. Yeah, sorry. Someone fucking pissed on the Luas. The three of us looked at each other with the look that says, another day, another slay on the red line Luas and then we burst out laughing because of course someone pissed on the red line, but how did this random guy know about it…he wasn’t on the Luas so how’s he getting this insider info? And if it was only a fib to get his mate off his back about being late…why on earth did we believe him so wholeheartedly? The red line: more likely to be delayed because someone isn’t potty-trained than mechanical problems.
You may be wondering why this is important to the Dubless in Dublin series. Trust me…it is. But before we get to the bad date I have more red line Luas stories. Many morning commutes are packed shoulder to shoulder in which the only way to explain is to say that I am fighting for my life. But there are some mornings that it is not so busy and instead of fighting for life I am witnessing other people fighting…with each other. One morning, as a man across from me just can’t get enough of his smelling salts(?) and a group a few meters away gets onto the Luas. They get right into it. The mother pushing the buggy with an infant, pacifier, and a couple small blankets is arguing in full voice with the teenage girl next to her. To paint a more vivid image, the baby pulls out her pacifier and is waving it around as if trying to get the attention of the woman pushing the buggy. And the teenage girl? The typical dirty Balenciagas and jacket straight from Juicy Couture and the leggings of which you can’t help but fully see her thong as she bends over to grab the pacifier the baby has since thrown on the floor, as if to say please stop fighting! And in what I can only describe as red line manner, the teenager hands the pacifier back to the baby…the pacifier that’s been on the floor that other people treat like a toilet.
On another occasion, my friend was asked to give up her seat by a girl who looked to be around twelve years old. Thinking she was injured, my friend stood up and let her have the seat. As the young girl sat down she said i’m pregnant. And then they all started laughing. This is another instance where you wonder the truth of this claim but are more concerned with the fact that it could be true. And yet another time, my other friend arrived home looking a bit shaken up and smelling like a 14 year old boy who has just discovered axe body spray. With a little bit of prying she shared that she was the victim of those 14 year old boys spraying her down on the Luas platform, as if they wanted a pretty girl to smell like a teenage boy.
And you might think these would be particularly special days, smelling salts and dirty pacifiers, axe body spray, and pregnant 12 year olds but I’d say this is on the tamer side, along with the dog shit under some of the seats, bad lip filler, vape juice being exhaled in your face, and babies reaching out of their stroller to grab the unsuspecting butt of some woman who didn’t think they’d be groped by an infant.
Yes, these are the days that can drift off into the monotony of commuting on the red line but there are days that convince you waiting for a bus that may or may not come is better than one more ride on the red line. When these instances happen it usually takes about a week to feel brave enough to take on the red line again. There have been a few of these instances that really make you question how much more you can take before you too are donning a Juicy Couture tracksuit, beat up Balenciagas, a fruity vape, and patchy self tan. No judgment for those who choose that life. I would just like to be recognized by my mother when I return home, that’s all.
Anyway, the most recent incident that made me love the 13 bus that much more was when my dearest friend and I were on the way into town around 1:30pm. It’s at this hour that it’s usually a solid mix of tourists feeling proud of themselves for using public transport, students on their way to class, and those who do not have the privilege of access to food, showers, a bed, four walls, and a roof. It must remain clear that I do not blame a single individual who arrives on the Luas just looking to rest their feet. The issue of unhoused individuals in Dublin is out of hand and exacerbates issues such as drug abuse, particularly of the public use type.
It was on this day that my dear friend and I were lucky to find two seats next to each other. She was on my right and there was an empty seat to my left. As the Luas filled up, Heuston station brought us the red line’s finest. Four people stumbled onto the tram looking unwell, to say the least. Two were wearing all black, two were rail thin, one was wearing an old fur coat. The one in the fur coat sat to my left and there was no escaping being fully pressed against them. And to make matters worse, another one of them sat on their lap with her legs overlapping mine. I couldn’t escape. I was becoming intertwined in the legs of someone who clearly had no concept of personal space and was on the phone with her dealer discussing where and when they would get off the Luas to meet him (or her?).
It doesn’t stop there. The two men wearing all black were across from us and speaking to each other in sentence fragments, as if that’s all they could muster. The man with a cigarette between his lips dropped his lighter and didn’t seem to notice. Turns out he did, his world was just happening at 0.25x speed and he slowly knelt to the ground, making sure to remain steady enough so any sudden movements the Luas driver made would not topple him over. As he stood back up, we expected him to tuck the lighter back in his jacket pocket and the cigarette behind his ear. Instead he slowly raised the lighter to his mouth where the cigarette still dangled, quivering, evading the small flame from the lighter.
I grabbed my friend’s knee as we watched, in slow motion, what we never considered to be a possible reality on the red line. His friend reached over and I thought for a split second that he was going to help his friend, telling him he could wait ten more minutes until they got to the Jervis stop. Well, he helped him for sure. His hands being a little steadier, he grabbed the lighter and flicked just close enough to the man’s face that he could’ve scorched his upper lip. Instead, the cigarette caught and the steadier man held the lighter to his own cigarette and suddenly the red line is Dublin’s newest smoking lounge.
There’s usually a moment as we round the corner from Heuston to Museum that we wish for the Luas ride to be over, even though we are only halfway from our house to college. This feeling as we pulled away from the Museum stop had increased ten fold. But we were stuck. I was stuck underneath two junkies and my friend would be late for class if she bailed early. We’d have to weather this one.
By the end of their ride, I was squished next to the man in 0.25x speed, which as this story has unfolded, happened sloppily and invading the space of the people around them, but I will spare you the details. Once all four had stumbled off the Luas and we were sitting with what must have been a look of absolute shock and confusion, a man asked is it normally like this? And all we could respond was well, something like that happens about once a month. And, we should’ve known we were due for some excitement, it’s usually only a little more tame than this. How do you describe to a tourist that, while this is perhaps a caricature of the red line and that besides the designation of a new smoking lounge, this was a pretty average day on the Luas.
Please don’t think too hard about the implications of this story because it just makes a crazy story a lot more sad and trust me, I’ve been there. The drugs, poverty, disregard for social rules, and a distinct emptiness in their eyes that some could argue are tied to British colonization, but certainly linked to a government that is unwilling to take care of their people.
I had to tell you this story because I don’t want to become the girl with bad botox and a Juicy tracksuit and a crippling nicotine addiction and more daddy issues than the day is long. And I know that I am bred of privilege of the white, wealthy, and Protestant type, but it’s best not to draw attention to yourself on the red line lest you become a ferocious text home to an innocent bystanders’ housemates who will have to spend twenty minutes unpacking your commute, as we have spent so many nights doing.
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I think you’re ready for the real story to begin now. I know it took us a while to get there. But I need you to understand the utter importance of keeping a low profile in and around the red line as it is important to the next story. So we begin in our first weeks of being on Hinge when the feeling that Hinge wasn’t really made to be deleted is not yet on the horizon and the app is quick to reward you for engagement.
It’s the first guy I’d met up with from the app and we were going on our second date. Notable things I’d learned on our first date: he works for Amazon (fuck Jeff Bezos), he somehow subtle flexed about the college he went to (my college had a lower acceptance rate), and he openly didn’t think he’d be able to run a 5k without stopping. Now, this last one…I realize this might be shallow, or maybe it’s just biology, but I’m not super stoked about a potential mate being 1) physically unable to keep up with me, 2) unable to challenge other mates in a footrace, and 3) eaten by the lion he couldn’t outrun.
But remember, first guy from Hinge. Hope was in my eyes. So on the second date we went to a restaurant with good food but lights that were too bright and tables that were so close that I found myself listening to the couples next to us instead of him. The list was getting longer of reasons why I was becoming less and less interested in a third date with this guy, not to mention the ‘romantic’ gesture that is a man’s hand on the small of your back as you cross the street, enter the restaurant, and as cars pass you by. The only thing running through my head was get your fckn hand off me buddy before i literally run away (Paul Mescal style). At least I know I would’ve been able to get away. But jeez, must he be touching me all the time?? I am not a possession, get your grimy paws off me.
At the end of the date he insisted that he walk me back to the Abbey St. stop, which for those who don’t know, is the epitome of the red line Luas. The Abbey St. stop where I had once witnessed a small boy shout to a group of teenage girls that they were a bunch of lesbos. And trust when I say, they were most certainly not giving lesbos. As if shouting homophobic things across the Abbey St. platform wasn’t enough, this boy, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, grabbed a few bags of trash that had yet to be picked up by the bin man. He grabbed them and he ripped them open and started kicking the garbage all over the platform and shouting as he did it. The best part of this story is that his parents were standing there watching him.
Walking me to the Abbey St Luas stop is sweet in theory but patriarchal at the root of it. Because hun, if you can’t run a 5k do you really think I’M the one at risk of getting jumped on the red line. Pleeeeeease, I can handle myself better than most people think. But seeing as I can be annoyingly self-confident, I thought I’d put on a brave face and let this guy walk me back to the Luas. He doesn’t need to know that I’d be the one protecting him. He can believe that I’m into this.
Well, my performance was a little too believable. He thought I was into him, this guy I’d met only twice…that’s some healthy self-confidence on his part. And as the fluorescent lights illuminated the Abbey St tram platform and people milled about waiting for the Luas to take them out of city centre, this man leaned in for the kiss. Shocked and confused, I did not give my best performance. But no performance on my part could have saved this kiss from turning all the tiny icks into one big giant ick. As he pulled away from my face, clearly proud of himself, the fluorescent light flooded between us bringing a welcome barrier, and I caught the eye of a man just waiting to go home and had to witness that. And it struck me, I am now part of the red line in ways I had hoped I never would be. So, not only had I gotten the ick, I had just become the ick.
That Place Between Sleep and Awake: That Place Where You Remember Dreaming 
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