The Things We Live By

four - rory

chapter four 

"Dude, are we walking across Ireland, or what?"

It's been all of fifteen minutes since we set off and Ruth's patience seems to be wearing thin already; she fills up every shred of silence with small talk, idle chatter, easy banter, and I'm certain that if my paces weren't twice as big as each one of hers I'd have to jog to keep up. "No," I say steadily. "We'll be there in just a couple of minutes."

"Come on," Ruth groans, grabbing my hand and tugging at it as she stalks ahead. "You walk so slowly."

"Actually, you just walk very quickly," I tell her, pace unchanged.

"Because I want to get to where we're going already. I can only be so patient, and this landscape isn't exactly diverse."

"Patience is a virtue," I inform her. "Besides, haven't you ever heard that it's not the destination that matters so much as the journey?"

"Aren't you a sage one," Ruth bites out. "Do you normally talk in cliches, or is it just today that you feel the need to impart upon me your infinite wisdom?"

"Not quite infinite, I'm afraid, but very close."

"Oh, ha, ha," Ruth deadpans. "Here's a bit of wisdom for you: Sometimes it's the journey that teaches you a lot about your destination. And so far this journey sucks. Draw your own conclusions!"

A slow smile spreads across my face. "Did you just quote Drake's high school graduation speech?" I laugh out incredulously. "You did. You just did that."

"So what?" Ruth says defensively, crossing her arms across her chest. "He's my Jewish brother. Plus, it's inspiring."

Traces of laughter still linger in my mouth and I take a deep breath and manage to tone them down into a slightly quizzical smile. "I just didn't peg you as the Drake type, that's all. Hey, you're Jewish?"

Ruth raises an eyebrow. "You've pegged me as a type already? Isn't that just slightly judgemental?"

"No, I mean - no, I didn't peg you as a type, exactly. I didn't realise you were Jewish."

"Why? Did you not peg me as the Jewish type?"

"I didn't peg you as a type," I repeat, more firmly this time. "I'm sorry. I've never met a Jewish person before, so I couldn't really have a type in my head, ya know?" Ruth is silent, and my stomach gives a worried turn. "Did I offend you? I really am sorry - "

"Don't worry about it," Ruth sighs. "It's not you. It's just, you know -" she makes a half-hearted attempt at laughing but it comes out more bitter than light - "yet another reminder of how much of a fucking stranger I am here, yay."

"Not for much longer," I try to assure her. "Look, we're here."

Just a little bit ahead, by the slight curve in the road, the Barn stands in all its beaten-down glory, years of adolescent use evident on its graffitied walls. It isn't big and God knows it isn't luxurious either, but somehow it's been, for the last two and a half decades, one of the primary teenage hangouts of Glenderry. It's a miracle the place hasn't collapsed in on itself yet, and an even bigger one that no one from County has come and taken a wrecking ball to the old, crumbling brick walls. Not that anyone in Glenderry isn't complaining. Maybe it's because it isn't really disturbing anyone, or because parents would rather be sure on where their kids (most probably) are, or maybe it's because way too many of them remember their first time getting so smashed out of their skull they could barely walk right between these walls that they dare not have the hypocrisy. For now, at least, the Barn is safe.