Guzzled all his monies. Tramps would trek him down. Swerved a copcar on the last street and skipped into a new rhythm. Now that he was -in- the others popped out and it was clear as day that things were gettin’ goin.

You could always spot them by their clothes once you were in, and by their own peculiar rhythms that they of course kept a-poppin. It was selfish to wreak self-abasement at a time like this and so he took some time to interact.

Nay more yer gyp.

‘Have ye any good breen for the spread?’ A red-nosed cloth-cap makes his play...
’Aye, I’ve a cloth or two would cover that heada yers.’
’You’re an oul bollocks is what ye are! I wouldn’t tackle ye with a fine tooth comb.’
The city fella looked askance, ‘Well here, sure I’ll see ye temara.’
’Ye will surely, ya donkey’s blurt.’

Oul Rodney dandered on, with his boy by his side, things to attend to.
’Do ye see what am sayin to ye about yer man? A fuckin’ grinder, I’m tellin’ ye.’
’I can tell what ye mean aye, ye wouldn’t give him the back of a gypsy’s hand.’ Chimed in the boy, eager to impress his father with some rustic turn of phrase.
Rodney had stopped dead in his tracks.

’What’s that you say about a gypsy son?’

The young fella looked up, mouth agob.
’I was just sayin’, he wouldn’t exactly be the trustworthy character.’
’Yes and what does that have to do with him being a gypsy?’
’Well, nothing. I mean, I only mentioned the gypsy by-‘
‘You only mentioned your bollocks!’ Rodney lit on him. ‘You prejudiced little bastard.’

The poor son skulked back into the shadows as Rodney stamped around in the dust, head to the ground, mumbling to himself. Seemingly having mustered enough manpower to set the boy straight he turned to point his big red finger right at him.

‘Did you know your Grandfather Carberry?’
’I did.’
’And did you know that he himself was a tinker?’
‘No, I didn’t know that...’
‘And that that would make you one quarter traveller? Ye little bollocks.’
’I didn’t, da, but...’
’No ye didn’t because you’re a prejudiced little bastard who thinks he’s better than everybody else.’
’Da, I have nothing against the gypsies...’
’Shut up!’ 

The spit flew from Rodney’s mouth as he cursed his boy, seeming to fall into the dust in slow motion, curdling as it met the grey grit and settled.
He was a large man Rodney, but he managed now to settle himself down to sit on a stone, the worst of the venom out of him.

’Did you know that at one time I was living in a caravan?’ He looked up wistfully.
‘Yes, and I was courting a lovely traveller girl, beautiful she was, a one-off. And I’m telling you, boy, I never had times like it. And fought men too! Fought a man 8 feet tall, two nights on the bounce! Me sixteen without a hair on my chest. I near beat the fucker too! But he was a wily bastard... No, son, never underestimate the tinker. As fine a breed of men as has ever graced this earth.’

’Dad?’
’Yes, boy?’ Rodney smiled up into the setting sun.
’Don’t you think we’d better be getting along?’
’Yes, boy.’