The Changeling

The Gray Streets of Dublin

Dublin was gray, wet, and unimpressive when Neil's cab driver dropped him off in front of Trinity College. The air was full of mist and moisture, and Neil, in his long sleeves and overlapping T-shirt, was chilled to the bone. Ireland didn't appear to be too warm, and even though he didn't call it a plan, his brain immediately centered on finding somewhere to get some extra layers.

Neil started down the street. With no map and no plan, it really didn't matter which way he went. The street names were meaningless as well, so he didn't even catch the name of the one he was walking along. His teeth started to chatter as he moved on, and the dampness began to really seep into his clothes. He could practically feel water beads forming on his neck and was starting to wish he'd grabbed some warmer clothes before leaving his house. Plus, he was beginning to realize that jetlag was a real thing. At first, as he walked, he couldn't figure out why he felt kind of cranky and sick to his stomach. After a while, though, he came to the conclusion that it was because he'd been stuck on a plane in one position for so many hours, and he hadn't slept at all. Now, since it was early afternoon in Dublin, he'd have a long way to go before he got the chance to sleep.

Not that he couldn't handle a sleepless night. Sometimes, Neil went through periods of insomnia, when he just couldn't sleep. They could last for up to a week. He half-hated half-loved those times. He knew why he hated them; it was a pain to lie in bed and just know that hours of being awake stretched out before you. But he wasn't totally sure why he partially loved the insomnia. He liked to think that maybe he was proud of it—that it was something else he could use to mark himself from everyone else.

There were quite a lot of people out wandering on the streets. Many of them looked like tourists, Neil thought. They had big coats on and cameras strapped safely around their necks. They carried large bags and all wore jeans and tennis shoes. Every so often, one of them would stop, point, grin, and snap a photo. Neil curled his lip at them without even realizing he was doing it. He was glad that he didn't look like one of them.

The people became more obvious the longer he walked. Buses roared past on the streets, among them the double-decker tour type. There were lots of cabs and cars as well—too numerous to count. At one point, Neil crossed a bridge over a river, but he didn't pay too much attention to it. He had a one-track mind at that point, and the song it was playing had to do with finding some warmer clothing. It wasn't too long before he recognized that he was wandering along a main road, and there were tons of tourist shops. Items sporting the Irish flag and clovers were displayed in the windows. There were leprechaun figurines and stuffed animal sheep and all sorts of other stereotypical Irish souvenirs. Neil really, really did not want to go into any of those stores, but when he saw coats, hats, and gloves sprinkled in the displays, he knew he was going to have to suck up his pride and go in. When he actually entered one of the stores, he noticed how cold he'd really been. His skin tingled as it remembered what warmth was. His damp hair hung down on his forehead and began to drip little droplets of water onto his cheeks. They trickled down to his chin as he stood in the doorway, staring blindly at all the cheap junk lying around on various tables and shelves.

"Can I help you, son?" asked an elderly woman, startling Neil from his daze.

"Uh . . . no, thanks," he muttered.

The woman gazed at him for a moment longer. Neil began to feel uncomfortable. "You don't look so well," she said frankly in her Irish accent.

Neil rubbed the water off his face and noticed black on his hands. The eyeliner he'd put around his eyes was dripping down his face. He probably did look pretty sad. But he didn't care. He stepped away from the woman and lost himself in the aisles of stuff. All sorts of absurd items caught his attention. Snowglobes with pots of gold and garishly grinning leprechauns; wooly rugs of faux sheep fur; orange, white, and green overalls and socks—there was just too much to really take in. Neil didn't want to buy any of the clothes he saw there and was beginning to regret Ireland and its nasty weather when all of a sudden, he spotted something perfect. It didn't quite fit in with the other tacky stuff in the store, but Neil was glad to see it: a leather jacket with studs on the collar and various zippers leading to real and fake pockets, the only souvenirish sign on it a little patch of a shamrock on the back. Neil loved it at first sight. It was so . . . him. And it looked warm, too. His excitement was great. Grabbing the jacket from the rack, he approached the counter and purchased it, along with a black beanie and some gloves he'd found on the way. He spent a good chunk of his money on the things, but he forgot about the cash as soon as he put the clothes on and left the store. They warmed him up immediately. He was ready to wander around with the sole purpose of enjoying himself.