XVII Idon’t know why Mrs.O’Connell had to shame me before the whole world,and I don’t think I’m too good for the post office or anything else. How could I with my hair sticking up,pimples dotting my face,my eyes red and oozing yellow, my teeth crumbling with the rot, no shoulders, no flesh on my arse after cycling thirteen thousand miles to deliver twenty thousand telegrams to every door in Limerick and regions beyond? Mrs. O’Connell said a long time ago she knew everything about every telegram boy. She must know about the times I went at myself on top of Carrigogunnell, milkmaids gawking, little boys looking up. She must know about Theresa Carmody and the green sofa, how I got her into a state of sin and sent her to hell, the worst sin of all, worse than Carrigogunnell a thousand times. She must know I never went to confession after Theresa, that I’m doomed to hell myself. A person that commits a sin like that is never too good for the post office or anything else. The barman at South’s remembers me from the time I sat with Mr.  Hannon,  Bill  Galvin,  Uncle  Pa  Keating,  black  white  black.  He remembers  my  father,  how  he  spent  his  wages  and  his  dole  while singing patriotic songs and making speeches from the dock like a con- demned rebel. And what is it you’d like? says the barman. I’m here to meet Uncle Pa Keating and have my first pint. 338