And the Rocks and Stones Shall Sing
It was Saturday night, and the usual commotion of shouting drunks, and police sirens went on along O'Connell Street in Dublin City Centre. Christy Wallace, caretaker of the Father O'Faolain flats, got up from the late–night movie he was watching on RTE One, and shuffled into the kitchen for a final shot of whisky. He was setting down the bottle when the first crash came.
"What the hell—?!" he grunted, startled.
He went to the front window of his ground level flat. Outside, in the front of the building, was a young man standing before the sunfaded statue of Jesus Christ. The statue was four feet tall, stood atop a concrete pedestal within a Plexiglas case, arms outstretched. The young man had a brick—drew his arm back and launched it at the case.
Crash!
Christy looked at the clock on the mantle, barely visible in the flickering light of the television. It read quarter past one.
The third crash came and Christy's wife called from the bedroom, "What in God's name is going on out there?"
"Some drunk's attacking the statue of Christ out the front," Christy said.
"What?"
"Go back to sleep." He sipped his whisky.
"Are you going to call the police?"
"It's Saturday night—it'll be daylight before they get around here."
"Well, don't go out there yourself."
"I won't," Christy snapped; he was sixty–two years old, and had no desire to tangle with a drunk. "He'll tire and go away."
I hope, Christy thought and swallowed the rest of his whisky.
Crash!
He poured himself another drink and moved a chair over to the front window.