a shamrock shaped guide map out of my purse, unfolding it on the table in front of us. “It shows the route we’re taking. You know, in case we got lost. Or drunk. Or both!”
He chuckles. “You guys really take this seriously, huh?”
“Well, Marnie does anyway. Apparently she’s trying really hard to get the Holiday Hannah’s social media account, so she’s hitting the holidays hard this year. You know, filling our social media pages with lots of St. Patrick’s Day selfies and live blogging the pub crawl, that kind of thing. I’m already working on excuses to get out of her 5K Easter Egg Run!”
He laughs, lingering slightly as the rest of the office files by on their way to the bike racks. He waits for me to finish my beer and we walk, side by side, toward the exit.
“Thanks, Hannah!” he calls out to the barmaid, looking up from a dirty table and smiling. I give a little wave after he turns his back and she winks at me, girl to girl, making me smile. Then again, it could just be the first beer of the day talking.
The sun is bright after the dark, hazy pub and most of the staff are already on their bikes. “That’s yours?” I ask when I see Ty standing next to a tricked out beach cruiser, with big fat tires, a cup holder and extra long handlebars.
“That’s yours?” he chuckles, looking at my raggedy beach cruiser. It’s faded purple, rusty and has an unraveling wicker basket on the front.
“No,” I sigh. “I don’t have one yet, so I borrowed it from my neighbor, Mrs. Farnsworth.”
“How old is she?”
“Let’s just say she hasn’t ridden it in years,” I tell him as we ride away from Pub # 1 toward Pub # 2. “It took me a wrench and half a can of WD-40 just to get it going this morning.”
“Should have used the whole can,” he says above the squeaking coming from beneath my crooked, lumpy seat.
“Well, I’ll only use it today, so…”
“No way,” he says as we ride, side by side, trailing behind the others. “Snowflake’s a great place for bike riding.”
“Yeah?” I ask, just hoping the pedals will last until the last pub on our crawl.
“Sure,” he says, gliding left and right for emphasis. “Big, wide sidewalks everywhere in town. A really moderate climate most of the year, great weather, plenty of cafes and bars and shops and bike racks in front of every one.”
I smile, picturing relaxing evenings and lazy afternoons, pedaling around town, a cup of coffee resting in my handlebar holder, a crinkly pastry bag full of fresh scones in my basket. Perhaps… an order big enough for two?
We slow our roll as Finnegan’s Irish Pub rolls into view. “I guess I haven’t been in town long enough to explore it thoroughly.”
“Well, you will today,” he says, tapping the green guide map hanging half out of my purse. “This crawl takes us up and down the heart of Snowflake.”
“If I don’t pass out first!” I chuckle as we lock our bikes up next to each other.
“Trust me,” he says, patting the faded seat of Mrs. Witherspoon’s bike seat. “I think you’ll hold out a lot longer today than this baby will.”
Finnegan’s may be bigger, noisier and better lit than our first stop of the day, but is still playing “Danny Boy” on the jukebox. Our group is livelier now and Marnie has somehow corralled several tables together by the time we sidle up. A harried waitress is taking orders but Ty sees a break at the bar and says, “You trust me to order us a round?”
“I guess,” I snicker, not sure if it’s the green beer, the bike ride or the gleam in his eyes that has me acting so uncharacteristically giddy. Without waiting for me to change my mind, Ty hustles to the bar where, naturally, he gives a high-five to the bartender before pointing to me as they both wave.
“Mr. Popular sure is popular,” Jasmine says, sidling up to me with another green shot – this one twice as big as the last one.
I nod, watching him in action. “I think his profile said he works in hospitality, so he must know a lot of the same people.”
“That smile doesn’t hurt,” she says, winking at me before downing her shot with a wince and a gulp. “Nor does that fact that he’s tall, dark and easy on the eyes.”
“He is kinda dreamy, huh?” I muse, watching him talk casually with the bartender while he makes our drinks.
“Where’d you meet him again?”
“That Snowflake Singles site you recommended,” I remind her. Her eyes are already a little glassy, listing a little beneath her glittery green eye shadow.
“Damn, girl, I’m gonna have to update my profile.”
“Shhhh,” I remind her, nodding toward her own plus-one, Roger Algiers from Accounting. “Don’t let Roger hear.”
“It’s just a friendly thing,” she says, turning and waving with wriggling fingers toward the pale, skinny guy in the green on green striped sweater vest.
“Oh yeah?” I tease, nudging her with my shoulder. “You keep drinking those, and it’s going to be a lot more than friendly by the end of this pub crawl.”
“Speaking of more than friendly,” she chuckles, whispering hot and breathless in my ear. “Here comes your own personal bar keep.”
She winks before sashaying away in her glittery green tutu to join Roger and the rest of her friends from the Editorial Department.
“What’s that?” I ask as Ty returns, bearing two small glasses layered with green and white “stripes” of alcohol.
“They’re called ‘Leprechaun socks,’” he snickers, handing me one. “Try it.”
“You try it,” I snort. “Looks strong.”
“Well, stronger than green beer, sure, but… you’re on Mrs. Fart Knocker’s bike anyway, right?”
When I stop laughing I correct him. “Mrs. Farnsworth!”
“Fine, fine, we’ll drink it at the same time. Fair enough?”
I nod and raise my glass, clinking his before drinking the sweet, savory shot. It has notes of butterscotch and lime, an odd but surprisingly pleasant combination. “Nice!” I say, licking my lips when the glass is empty and back on the table.
“I thought so,” he says, wiping his mouth with his forearm like little boys will after chugging a big glass of milk.
“So, let’s see,” I muse, waiting for the shot to kick in. “You knew the waitress at our first stop, the bartender here… what should I expect at Pub # 3?”
“Which is it again?”
I whip out my handy Shamrock shaped guide map, getting more and more wilted at each stop, and read off the name: McGillicutty’s.
“Oh, Jane, she’s the bartender there,” he says.
“You’re joking, right?”
He blushes slightly, then offers that winning smile Jasmine was so right about. “I’m actually a bartender at Houlihan’s,” he says, softly, as if someone might hear.
I glance at my guide map, disappointed to find we won’t be stopping by. “For real?”
He nods. “Snowflake’s a pretty small town and, well, no one wants to hang out where they work so all the bartenders and servers go other places. Lots of them end up at Houlihan’s at the end of the night, so… we should get pretty good service from here on in.”
That’s an understatement. We get a Flaming Pot of Gold in Bar # 3, i.e. a shot of tequila with a layer of cinnamon schnapps on top. In Bar # 4 it was a Frozen Rainbow, i.e. alternating layers of frozen strawberry, mango and lime margaritas. In Bar # 5 it was, well… that was a dive bar so it was more green beer. Bar # 6 featured something called a Leprechaun’s Beard, which looked and tasted suspiciously like a strawberry daiquiri – not that I was complaining, mind you.
But by our seventh pub we’re back in style with a nice, hot and savory Irish coffee, steaming with fresh whipped cream on top, drizzled with a tangy green syrup.
“How did you know this was just what I wanted?” I ask, licking whip cream from my upper lip as the dark, rich coffee revives my spirits.
Amazingly, after half-a-dozen pubs and counting, I’m surprisingly… sober. Unfortunately, the
same can’t be said of my workmates. Well, those who are still with us, that is. As I peer around Pub # 7, a quaint little patio bar named O’ Brian’s, we’re down to a handful of employees from Gangland Graphics, the advertising agency I’ve been working at for the last two months. Only two of the editors remain, no one from the Art Department I work in is left, and only Marcie remains to represent the leadership team.
She stumbles over, flanked by two of the gang from Accounting, all three of them wobbling on six left feet. “April,” she says, as Ty and I smirk. “I want to thank you for representing the Janitorial Department and I will make sure you get a raise by next Valentine’s Day.”
“Great,” I say, trying to keep a straight face as the fumes alone nearly rip the green polish off my fingernails. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, I’m going to go home and vomit for the next three hours, thank you very mulch!”
With that she drifts away, trailing her accountant helpers. “At least she’s honest,” Ty muses, licking whip cream off his full lips. “And speaking of… I’ve finally gotta pee!”
I chuckle, noting his empty coffee cup and racing to keep up. “We’ll leave after,” I tell him. “Let me go
Pub Crawl: A Romantic Holiday Story Page 2
