No one, not even Tim, knew about the crash on Barry’s roundabout. As time had gone on and he had successfully put all that distance between him and that September day twenty-five years ago, it seemed too jarring a story to tell anyone. He knew that people would respond differently. Some would consider him a monster, while others simply think him a fool, but universally they would see him as someone else. That was the point. Opinions would shift and that wasn’t right. Not fair. The only people he seriously considered talking to were those he’d left behind in Mullinmore. His parents especially. For years he had told himself that he didn’t get in touch or go back to spare their feelings, but recently he had come to admit to himself that that was a lie. The real reason he hadn’t gone home was because he was a coward. The crash was something that had happened. Time could help the awful hurts inflicted fade, but who he was, the openly gay man he had become, how could that person ever be welcomed back? It didn’t matter how many stories he heard about conservative Christian parents in the Midwest embracing their gay sons, or Mormon mothers at lesbian weddings, Mullinmore was different. The words of his mother, ‘I don’t think I could love a child like that’, echoed in his memory. Even if they did weep and rejoice at his return, he would always doubt them. Question their love now they knew the whole truth. Connor didn’t think he could bear that. The fact was that he was blaming his parents for something he hadn’t the courage to do. He still didn’t feel strong enough to get off the bus in the square and push open the door to the pub. Would his father still be behind the bar polishing a glass or wiping down the counter? Were his parents even still alive? He didn’t dare allow himself to imagine a world where life had gone on in Mullinmore. For him, it had stopped, frozen in time when he left. He could no more go back there than visit Brigadoon or Atlantis. In times of weakness, he could see that movie moment where they all hugged each other, sobbing their apologies and forgiveness at the same time. But he reminded himself that those moments were fiction, the stuff of fantasies. There was no returning, no way to make things right. He was resigned to never calling Mullinmore home again.
It felt almost clandestine to be in this bar he didn’t know, as if he was in hiding. The gloom and air-conditioned chill banished the bright noisy heat of the street. There were two barmen. Connor headed for the end of the bar nearest the door, and to the more attractive barman, a well-built, tattooed man with dark hair.
The night began with beers, then moved on to vodka sodas. Connor felt a warm buzz and he liked it. He picked up a stack of the free magazines and papers and flicked through them. Photographs of men with impossible bodies enticing the reader to various club nights. News of bars closing or opening. Being with Tim he had always felt young, but now that he was single and in his forties he felt not old, but certainly older. Men stood or sat beside him and he chatted to them, answering questions and even asking some, but being careful not to give the impression he was interested or even flirting. That wasn’t on the agenda for tonight; well, not with this crowd. Despite never being a smoker, he found he fancied the idea of a cigarette. He realised he must be a bit drunk.
At some point in the evening, the barmen swapped ends and now the twink was serving Connor. He was wearing a loose tank top that said ‘Boyfriend Material’ and seemed a little stressed. When people ordered drinks, he turned and scanned the shelves looking for the correct bottles where the other guy had just reached out for them. Connor felt a little sorry for him. Was he even old enough to be in here?
The muscled barman shouted down to the twink.
‘Hey, Irish!’
Connor was suddenly very alert as he listened to the two men.
‘What?’ The younger man was stabbing at the till, perspiration on his brow.
‘Can you bring up a couple more bottles of the well vodka and a bucket of ice?’
‘I’m a barman, Franco!’ He sounded indignant.
‘Well I guess you’re the bar-back too, ’cause I don’t see anyone else. You can tip yourself at the end of the night!’
‘She’d enjoy that, honey!’ shrieked a man who had been drinking red wine since before Connor had arrived. A few other punters laughed, while the twink, clearly not pleased, slammed the till drawer shut and marched down the bar to disappear into the basement. Connor was suddenly fascinated by him. The boy was Irish. That wasn’t so unusual as to make him care, but he found he did.
Finbarr was furious. This was not his job. If Franco wanted vodka, why wasn’t he getting the fucking vodka? He stomped back up the stairs with the bucket of ice and the bottles.
‘There!’ he announced and slammed them down beside Franco.
‘Thanks, Irish.’ He pressed an exaggerated kiss against his cheek. Finbarr shrugged him off and headed back to his end of the bar. He surveyed the drinks on the counter. Nobody was waiting. He took the opportunity to clear away some empties and turn on the glass washer.
The machine was making noise and the music was loud, but he could still hear a strange grunting noise. He realised it was coming from the older guy at the end of the bar: he was beckoning Finbarr over.
‘What can I get you?’
The man stretched across the bar, half standing from his stool.
‘Are you Irish?’ He was pointing at Finbarr to clarify his question.
Finbarr sighed, but conscious of tips, tried to mask his irritation.
‘Yes, I am. Just here for the summer.’ He gave a weak smile and made to turn away.
‘I’m Irish!’ The man now pointed at himself, to aid comprehension.
‘Great. Did you want another?’ Finbarr wondered if he was supposed to still be serving this guy. Maybe he should ask Franco.
‘They called me Irish.’ The man slumped back on his stool.
‘Yes. You’re Irish. I’m Irish. Drink?’
‘Vodka soda.’
‘Any particular—’
‘Goose.’
‘Coming up.’
Finbarr could feel the drunk Irish guy watching him as he moved around behind the bar, so whenever he wasn’t busy he moved down to Franco and waited till someone on his section gestured for service.
‘Connor!’ The Irish man was introducing himself now. For an older guy he was sort of attractive, but he seemed to be bathed in sadness. Tragic. Was there any other sort of drunk?
‘Finbarr.’
Connor smiled and his face was transformed. Finbarr returned his smile and they shook hands.
‘I haven’t met a Finbarr in a hundred years.’
‘Well, now you have.’
‘Where,’ Connor was having some difficulties with his words, ‘whereabouts are you from?’ he managed to ask.
There was a crash at the other end of the bar. The red-wine drinker had slipped getting off his stool and wiped out several drinks. Finbarr and Franco hurried over with bar towels.
Red wine stained the ice stored in the sink like a crime scene.
‘Sorry, Irish,’ Franco said with a smile that suggested he felt very little sympathy.
With a growl of frustration at the injustice of it all, Finbarr picked up two of the metal buckets they used for the ice and headed back down to the basement.
The evening had started so well. Just before five, Carlos, the barman who was working with Franco that night, had flounced out with his backpack slapping against his shoulder. Judson had told Finbarr to stop sweeping and called him out to the smoking terrace. He looked unusually stern and Finbarr wondered what he might have done wrong. Had he overstepped the mark using his design skills to print up posters for the karaoke and drag bingo nights? He thought Judson would have been pleased.
It transpired that his boss wasn’t that interested in Finbarr’s graphic design skills; instead Judson had explained with the sort of grave sincerity he might have used breaking the news of a close relative’s death, that Carlos had decided to leave Sobar. Later Franco explained that Carlos had wanted time off for some dubious modelling shoot, but Judson had refused.
‘H
e’ll be back,’ was Franco’s conclusion.
Finbarr hoped that wasn’t the case because, after weeks of asking and nagging, Judson had finally agreed to give him a trial shift as a barman.
Finbarr felt as if he had arrived. Maybe now he could get enough money to move into a proper apartment. He had been very grateful when Judson had arranged for him to move into the small living quarters upstairs, but it was far from ideal. The space might have begun as an apartment but over the years had become offices and then a storeroom, before Judson had returned it to being a rough sort of living space. Three curtained-off bedrooms around a windowless central living room and beyond that an alcove that contained a shower and toilet cubicle, along with a kitchen sink unit and a microwave. The other sleeping areas were occupied by Ezra and Brian, who also worked downstairs in Sobar, along with a variety of boyfriends and potential boyfriends. Finbarr hadn’t expected to stay there more than a week but soon almost two months would have slipped by. They all pretended that the curtains hung on the partitions around their mattresses were magically soundproof, but that didn’t alter the grim reality of lying in bed trying to sleep while unidentified snores, farts and other more carnal sounds drifted around the room.
Finbarr was surprised at how challenging it was being a barman. He had almost begun to believe the lies he had been busy telling Judson about all his experience working in pubs back in Ireland, so tonight had been a shock. Still, he was managing to keep his head above water, and nobody expected him to know how to use the till or mix every cocktail. The regulars knew him and liked him, and with new customers it was easy to cover his mistakes with a flirty ‘It’s my first night’ and a free shot.
The ice sink had been refreshed and the red-wine drinker had been encouraged to leave. Friday nights tended to start out busy at Sobar but then as the evening wore on people drifted off to bars that offered entertainment, a dance floor, or a more promising spot for finding a hook-up. There had been karaoke advertised but Pam Sexual, the drag queen who had been booked, failed to show up.
The drunk Irish guy was still sitting at the end of the bar. Occasionally Finbarr would think he had fallen asleep, his head slumped forward, but then like a puppet being brought back to life his head would bob up and he’d order another drink.
‘Do you want a shot?’
Finbarr did want a drink but wondered if he should on his trial night. He glanced towards Franco.
‘Him too!’ Connor called.
‘Franco, our friend here wants to buy us shots.’
Franco walked down the bar towards them.
‘Sounds good, just don’t tell Judson. He doesn’t like it.’
‘Of course. Right. What shot would you like?’
‘Jäger.’
Finbarr looked confused. ‘What?’
‘Jägermeister,’ Franco explained and reached for the bottle.
Connor’s face brightened when he saw the bottle. ‘It’s …’ He searched for the right word, and to his evident relief found it: ‘… lovely.’ Then as if explaining the meaning of that word added, ‘Like medicine.’
Franco laughed as he poured three shots.
The crowd thinned out till there was only Connor and another couple sat at the other end of the bar. It was almost 2 a.m. when Franco called it.
‘All right, gentlemen. Home time please. Finish your drinks and we’ll see you next time.’
The couple dutifully drained their glasses and headed for the door, calling goodnight to Franco.
In Finbarr’s section he was trying to explain to Connor that the bar was no longer open.
‘Home time, Connor!’
‘One more.’ Connor held up his thumb and forefinger to indicate how small and quick that drink might be.
‘No more. Home time.’
He took the empty glass from in front of Connor and wiped down the counter. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight. Slán!’
‘Slán abhaile,’ Finbarr replied with a broad grin. There was something harmless, charming even, about this Irish drunk.
Connor slipped from his stool and nearly fell backwards but quickly steadied himself and moved towards the door.
‘Fuck. Wait.’ He turned.
‘What is it?’ Finbarr asked.
Connor was groping around in the pockets of his jacket. Then he pulled out some notes and slapped them on the bar.
Finbarr looked down. Three twenties. He hesitated. He could certainly do with sixty dollars but looking at Connor swaying on the other side of the bar, it seemed likely that he needed it just as much.
‘No. That’s crazy. You’ve been tipping me all night. Take this back.’ He handed out forty dollars.
‘No. No.’ Connor waved his hands above his head in an exaggerated show of not taking the money. ‘That’s for you. That’s for Irish.’ With this, he swung himself around and lurched out the door.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Franco as he swiftly locked the door behind him.
‘A proud day for the Irish. Still, how bad?’ Finbarr said, brandishing the three twenty-dollar bills.
Franco handed out the staff beers and they set about closing down the bar. Loading grey bus trays from the basement to restock the fridges, wiping down sinks, tying up bags of garbage. Finbarr went to the back of the bar to lock the sliding door onto the patio while Franco carried two black refuse sacks to the front door and took them into the street. A moment later he was back.
‘Irish! I think you should see this.’
Finbarr flicked off the lights behind the bar.
‘What?’
‘Just come out here.’
On the kerbside of the pavement, nestled against a bank of garbage bags, was Connor’s supine body.
‘Fuck. Is he all right?’
‘I think he’s just sleeping.’
Finbarr stared at the man on the ground. His mouth was slung open while his eyes were pressed closed in what looked like concentration. His arms were resting with palms up on either side of his body. He didn’t look like he had fallen but rather laid himself out waiting for collection with the rest of the trash.
‘We can’t leave him here,’ Franco said.
‘Has he ID in his wallet? We could find his address.’
‘And then what? No cab is going to take him in this state.’
‘Could we put him back in the bar to sleep it off?’ Even as Finbarr suggested this it didn’t sound like a good idea.
‘Judson would lose his shit if we did that. And there’s the alarm. No.’
‘Out here a rat is just going to eat his face.’ Finbarr had become mildly obsessed by the volume of large rodents he saw at night when he was coming back from the twenty-four-hour deli.
‘We could just get him upstairs?’ Franco raised his hands and tilted his head to suggest he knew it wasn’t an ideal solution but at this point they didn’t have many options.
‘We don’t know this guy! I don’t want him in the apartment.’
‘Please! How many strangers stay in the place every night of the week! You know he’s harmless. He’s just some dude who has had too much. He could be any of us. Come on, I’ll help you.’ And Franco bent forward to put his arm under Connor’s armpit.
II.
When Connor woke, he was struck by two things: his hangover and the angle of the light on the floor. His dry mouth and thick head were quickly explained as he remembered staying in that bar for far too long the night before. But the light was strange and where was the rug? Then, with a jolt like finding an unexpectedly deep step, he reminded himself that he no longer lived with Tim. He hated that even after a year his foggy morning brain could play these tricks on him. He tried not to think about Tim and wondered about summoning the energy to get out of bed to go to the bathroom. The floor. It was just sheets of untreated plywood. He had dark hardwood. A panic took hold of his chest. Where the fuck was he? He sat up and looked around.
He was lying on a mattress in the corner of a small room. On the opposite
wall was a stack of milk crates that contained neatly folded clothes. A peach bed sheet was pinned ineffectually at the window, allowing the morning light to stream in. Two pigeons kept sentry on the windowsill. His jeans lay crumpled by the side of the bed. He checked them. He still had his keys, cell phone and wallet. Completing that checklist made him feel calmer. He was still wearing his Miami Dolphins T-shirt and his underwear was still on. This wasn’t the worst situation he had found himself in. He really needed to go to the toilet. He crawled across the mattress and peered around the curtain that hung where a door might have been. The room beyond was gloomy, the only light seeping through other curtained doorways. A large TV sat against one wall while a battered couch filled another. A body was lying on the couch. Connor studied the figure for a moment. The rise and fall of sleep.
He stood up and crept across the room. In the far corner there was an alcove and when he rounded the corner he found the toilet. He tried to piss as quietly as possible and decided not to flush. He would just creep back, gets his jeans and boots, leave, and then figure out where the hell he was.
The figure on the couch was now facing into the room and was awake. Connor recognised him but wasn’t sure how.
‘You’re alive.’ The man was young and good-looking in a twinkish way. He was shirtless with a blanket covering his legs. He was smiling.
‘Just.’
‘Well, we couldn’t just leave you out there for the night.’
‘What?’
Finbarr explained the events of the previous night and how he and Franco had manhandled him up the stairs and dumped him on the bed because the sight of a strange man on the couch might have freaked out Ezra or Brian when they came home. As it happened, neither of them had.
Connor thanked him for his kindness. He dreaded to think what might have happened. He made a silent resolution to try and drink less. This wasn’t funny or fun.
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