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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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The
Deportees and Other Stories by Roddy Doyle |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Grand The
eight stories that Roddy Doyle assembled for this initial collection, The
Deportees and Other Stories, focus on the immigrant experience. The characters
are well-fleshed, the dialogue perfect, and Doyle’s wit will make you laugh.
Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of the story titled, “Black Hoodie,”
pp. 130-2: My girlfriend is Nigerian, kind
of, and when we go through the shops, we're followed all the way. We stop -
the security guards stop. We go up the escalator — they're three steps behind
us, and there's another one waiting at the top. We look at something, say, a
shoe, and they all look at us looking at the shoe. And people — ordinary
people, like — they see the security guards looking at us, and they stop and
start looking at us, in case something good's going to happen. You're never
lonely if you're with a black girl, or even if your hoodie is black. There's
always someone following you — 'Move along, move along' — making sure you're
getting your daily exercise. I'm not complaining. I'm just
stating the facts. That's the first thing the
Guards — the real cops, not the security guards — it's the first thing they
learn when they're doing their training down the country. How to say 'Move along' in 168 different
languages. Even before they learn how to eat their jumbo rolls without
getting butter. all over their shirts. I
said she was Nigerian, kind of I didn't mean she was a kind of Nigerian. I
meant she's kind of my girlfriend. She's lovely and, I have to admit, I kind
of like the attention. No one really noticed me until I started going with
her, kind of. Now they all look, and you can see it in their faces; they're;
thinking, There's a white fella with a black girl, or some along those lines. I'm
the white fella. It's better than nothing. I'm
dead into her. I'd love it if she was my girlfriend – full time, like. My da
says I should just go ahead and ask her. But I don't know. That's what he
must have done, a hundred years ago, and he ended up with my ma. So, I'm not
sure. What if she says No? But
it's a bit gay at the moment. We're friends – do you
know what I mean? And that's grand; it's not too bad. But I'd love to, like,
hold her a bit and kiss her. I'm
not telling you her name. And that means I can't use my own name either.
Because, how many Nigerian girls is the average Irish teenager going to be
hanging around with, even here in multicultural, we-love-thefuckin'-foreigners
Dublin? If I give my name, I might as well give hers. So, no. So,
there we are, myself and my Nigerian friend, and we're walking through the
shop, being tailed by the Feds. And meanwhile, our friend, who's in a . . . And
now, there's another problem. There's a fella in a wheelchair in the story.
How many male teenagers in the greater Dublin area share their leisure time
with young men in wheelchairs and Nigerian women? Our
friend is in a wheelchair, but he doesn't need it. It's his brother's. His
brother is in McDonald's, waiting for us. He doesn't have much of a choice,
because we have his wheelchair. And he needs it, badly. There's a ginormous
milkshake cup in front of him. It's empty. The shake's in him, and he's
bursting. He's full of vanilla and the jacks is down the back, miles – sorry,
kilometres away. And his brother has his wheelchair.
He's in the same shop as us – that's me and the Nigerian bird. And while the
Feds follow me because (a) I'm with a black person, and (b) I'm wearing a
hoodie, he's robbing everything he can stretch to, because (a) he's in the
wheelchair, and (b) he's wearing glasses. And no one follows him. In fact,
everyone wants to help him. It's
an experiment. Market research. I'll explain in a minute. His
brother is sliding towards the jacks when we get back to McDonald's. He's
halfway there and, so far, €8.56 has been thrown at him. Let
me explain. We
aren't robbing the stuff because we want it, or just for the buzz. No. We are
a mini-company. Three of us are in Transition Year, in school. The brother
who actually owns the wheelchair isn't. He's in Sixth Year. We used to call
him Superman, but he asked us to stop after Christopher Reeve died; it was
upsetting his ma whenever she answered the landline. 'Is Superman there?'
So, fair enough; we stopped. Anyway,
as part of our Transition Year programme, me and Ms Nigeria and
not-Superman's brother had to form a mini-company, to help us learn about the
real world and commerce and that. And we didn't want to do the usual stuff,
like making sock hangers and Rice Krispie cakes. So, we sat at a desk and,
watched closely by our delightful teacher, Ms They-Don't-Know-I-Was-Locked-Last-Night,
we came up with the idea, and the name. Black
Hoodie Solutions. The
immigrants in Ireland, in Doyle’s crosshairs, couldn’t be living a more grand
life. There are no wasted words in the stories of The
Deportees collection, because many were written for an Irish publication
that gave Doyle an 800 word limit for installments, and he used each word
well in every installment. This collection will make you laugh out loud. Steve
Hopkins, May 15, 2008 |
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Go to Executive Times Archives |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the June 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The Deportees.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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