Take me up to Monto (standard:drama, 1927 words)
Author: Salesie	Added: Oct 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3414/2143	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
There's a first time in every young man's life...

On a warm, late July evening, it doesn't take much bait to entice the
free ranging shoals into the Monto, and most of this evening's catch, 
half full of liquid courage, swim around the brightly painted lures; 
trying to decide which strategically placed, shimmering beauty will 
best serve their needs. 

Low walls enclose small gardens to the front of each terraced house,
forming sanctums for alluring females, which keep the male of the 
species, mostly soldiers and sailors, from the comforts they so eagerly 
seek. But this separation only lasts until hurried financial 
negotiations are completed across the low barriers, then three or four 
wide-eyed males dart from the shoal and leap a wall to follow the 
shimmying tail of the scantily clad female they've chosen as she 
disappears inside. 

George fails to suppress a broad grin as he takes his first look up
Montgomery Street. Much better than I ever thought, he tells himself; 
these sights, those sounds; the laughter, music and song that pours 
from each house as well as the pubs - this is the place for me! 

“That's why they call it the Monto,” Dusty points to the street
nameplate fastened to the front of an old terraced house that looks as 
if it might fall down if anyone tries to remove the sign. 

“Is that it?” says George; “I was expecting something a bit more
exotic.” 

“Bleedin' hark at him,” yells Smudger. “Only been in Dublin for two
minutes and he wants bleedin' exotic.” 

“No – I just thought...” 

“... That it would have some fancy meaning?” offers Finchy. 

“Jesus, bleedin' recruits?” Smudger throws his arms in the air. “One
wants exotic, now his mate wants fancy? What's this bleedin' army 
coming to?” 

“No, I just thought,” says George, “that the answer to its origins would
be a bit more obscure, that's all. It takes away some of the mystique 
knowing it's only called the Monto just because it all started in 
Montgomery Street.” 

Smudger stares in disbelief, “Christ, hark at the bleedin' professor
here; origins, obscure, mystique? It's Saturday night, we've come for a 
shag and to get pissed, what's it bleedin' matter how it got its 
bleedin' name, for Christ sake?” 

They all laugh, then the others grab George and spin him around before
pushing him down a passageway. 

“The professor's not with us, he'll want to ask ‘em what their name
means, rather than shag ‘em.” Dusty shouts, before they all run off up 
the street. 

“Wait for me,” George laughs, “I'm much too young to be left all alone
in the Monto, I might forget what my name is, or where I come from.” 

- 

Still laughing, he catches up with his mates as they stop at the
junction with a smaller road. 

Dusty points upwards, “You two want exotic and fancy, will that do?” 

Their eyes follow Dusty's finger, “Beaver Street?” yells Finchy, reading
the street sign. “Bloody Beaver Street? That's got to be a bloody 
joke?” 

“No joke,” says Dusty; “somebody at the council's either as thick as pig
shit, or they've got a great sense of humour. They changed it last 
year, Christ knows why? But, got to admit, I much prefer Beaver Street 
to Little Martins Lane. I couldn't stop laughing when I first bloody 
saw it.” 



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