by Mary Carter
Good Samaritan rolls all six kegs down to the front of her shed.
Bad Samaritan comes along and steals her kegs. Unbelievable. Who was involved? Ronan? Joe? The evil twins? Little boys playing pranks? Alcoholic cows?
It didn’t matter, she had to fix this. Why couldn’t she just have one morning where she woke up, drank coffee in her underwear, and read the newspaper? Was that really too much to ask?
She called the beer man to see if he would take sympathy on her, redeliver the next morning.
“Sympathy,” he said, “comes between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’ in the dictionary.” She would have to wait a full week before he could deliver again.
Carlene’s regulars would have to survive a whole week without beer on tap. As a consolation prize, she offered the lads twofor-one bottles of beer. Riley, however, wouldn’t switch. Instead, she had to lure him with whiskey, generous shots of Jameson that he drank in quick gulps.
“Big daddy,” he said as he shuffled to the bathroom. “You’re the baddest motherfucker in this bog.”
Her regulars. Ciaran, Danny, Anchor, Eoin, Collin, Riley, and Billy. Billy was thrilled the tree was still there and was back to practicing his log roll. Anchor was by the jukebox, playing every heavy-metal song he could find. Carlene didn’t understand how loud screaming could be considered music, but the lads loved it. They banged their heads and played air guitar, and even if she did have a splitting headache by the end of the day, the customers were always right. Today Collin’s T-shirt read: I CAN ONLY PLEASE ONE PERSON A DAY. TODAY IS NOT YOUR DAY. TOMORROW DOESN’T LOOK GOOD EITHER.
Carlene tried to balance looking busy behind the bar with socializing with the customers. She was starting to get a feel for when they were talking to each other versus when they were including her in the conversation. At the moment, Eoin was treating her to a long list of platitudes, and she was happy to lean on the bar and listen. “There’s only two things you really need in life,” Eoin said. “A good pair of work boots, and a good mattress. Because if you’re not in one, you’re in the other.” Carlene smiled and nodded, even though she owned neither a good pair of work boots nor a good mattress.
Gradually, she was learning something about each and every one of them. Collin was studying at the University of Galway. Danny was a farmer and aspiring songwriter who still lived with his mother. Eoin and Ciaran were married with kids. Anchor was Ronan’s best friend. Billy was afraid of dogs. Carlene was also getting used to their drink orders and arrival times, and so she started to make a game out of having their drinks ready so that by the time their butts hit the stools, she was already sliding the first of many over to them.
Conversational patterns were also becoming predictable. It often started out slow. A simple, How ya, What’s the craic, What’s the story, Damn all, damn all. Then it would shift to a few comments about the weather. If it wasn’t raining, it was a grand fresh day; if it was raining, Ah, ’tis miserable, sure.
When the conversation switched to sports, Carlene had to flee. She had no idea who the players or teams were, or what sport they were even on about. There were too many to keep track. Hurling, and rugby, and Gaelic football, and road bowling, and football—which was American soccer—and sometimes American football, and whatever it was, they analyzed it in great detail and with even greater passion. Once, when Carlene made the mistake of casually asking a question during one of their sports discussions, Eoin immediately whipped coasters, straws, glasses, and salt shakers from the bar and set up an elaborate demonstration, after which a wall of expectant faces stared at her until she gave a hearty reaction. She made the appropriate noises and exclamations, but all Carlene really learned was that the salt jumped over the coaster and headbutted the pepper before knocking down the red straws. She never asked for clarification again, although she knew if one of the lads was in a particularly sour mood, more often than not it had to do with one of his teams losing.
Carlene would listen carefully when they started in on local politics, trying to soak up as much as she could about the way things worked in Ballybeog. She was a little more lost when it came to Irish politics, and the scapegoat whenever they discussed the United States. They asked her so many questions about President Obama, it was as if they regarded her as his long-lost cousin.
Geography was another favorite topic, especially for Anchor. He would spit out trivia questions about this or that island, river, country, or capital, and Carlene would scurry away as fast as she could, busy herself in absolutely anything else so they couldn’t accuse her of being one of those Americans who couldn’t find the Middle East on a map. She made a mental note to start studying maps.
Danny loved to talk about music, and songs, and celebrities. They all liked to flirt with Carlene and fired numerous questions at her about her life, as if she was a puzzle they were trying to put together piece by piece. She often side-stepped these questions as well, it was best to keep any possible rumors at bay.
It wasn’t until after the first few weeks of getting to know her regulars, that really personal information started to leak out of them. Ciaran was the first to start an all-out confession, and Carlene was thrilled to try out the psychologist role of bartender. He was in a mood, drinking twice as fast, and it had something to do with his wife, or “herself” as he referred to her. Carlene prodded him and plied him with drinks until he finally started to talk.
“For fuck’s sake,” Ciaran said. “It’s herself. She’s reading about some vampire. Everything is ‘Edward this’ and ‘Edward that’ and ‘He’s so passionate’ and ‘He’s all over her like,’ and whenever this chick in the book needs him he’s like, ‘there in a flash.’ ” Ciaran stopped and sipped from his bottle. The other lads were listening too, even though some of them were staring elsewhere, as if lost in their own thoughts. Carlene was dying to say something, but she held back, and sure enough, Ciaran kept talking.
“And he’s beautiful, and his fecking eyes change color or some shite, and I’m some unromantic bollix who can’t measure up to a fecking vampire.” A few of the lads nodded in agreement. Riley scratched his chin and frowned. “I mean, what’s so romantic about sucking on someone’s neck?” Ciaran said. There were a few chortles, which Ciaran cut down with a look. “Feasting on their blood, for fuck’s sakes.”
“I once cut off a chicken’s head in front of a bird and she didn’t speak to me for an entire week,” Danny said. Ciaran kept talking as if Danny hadn’t spoken.
“And I donated last year when that fucking blood drive van came around, and do ye think she appreciated that? No. I didn’t even get a fucking cookie. Just orange juice that tasted like shite. Throw me out a couple of bottles, will ye, Yankee Doodle?”
“Before he bites you on the neck,” Anchor said.
“I read that book,” Carlene said. She popped the top of a bottle of Budweiser and slid it to Ciaran. She took his empty bottle and threw it in the recycling bin.
“Oh, that’s just fecking great,” Ciaran said.
“It’s not the bloodsucking that’s romantic,” Carlene said. “It’s the thought of a man giving you undivided attention.”
“You’ve got my undivided attention, luv,” Eoin said. He held up his half-full beer.
“I can only imagine what would happen to that attention if I ran out of beer,” Carlene said, serving him another, even though he wasn’t finished with the one in front of him. Eoin threw his hands over his ears. Ciaran leaned over and put his hands over Eoin’s eyes. Danny flew over an empty stool to slap his hands over Eoin’s mouth. Eoin pushed them all off, and they laughed.
“Did ye cop on?” Eoin asked.
“Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil,” Carlene said.
“She’s not as dumb as she looks,” Riley said.
“Not the dullest knife in the drawer,” Ciaran said.
“Not the dimmest bulb in the bunch,” Anchor said.
“Just a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal,” Carlene said. They just
stared at her. “Never mind.”
“Any time I try to pay her undivided attention, she just rolls over,” Ciaran said.
“That can be good too,” Eoin said. “Back-door loving.”
“Watch it,” Ciaran said. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.” Anchor shouted at her to turn the music up. His head was bobbing up and down so fast she was afraid it was going to fly off.
“I can do that?” she asked. “How do I do that?”
“While you’re at it, would you dim the lights too? I don’t really want to see what these wankers look like,” Eoin said. They showed her how to turn up the music, a small dial set into the back of the bar, and another one to control the lights. Carlene didn’t know she had so much control. Every discovery was delicious, like finding you had additional rooms in your house you didn’t even know about. Although she still didn’t like heavy-metal music, and every time she inched the volume up a notch, Anchor jerked his thumb in the air. Louder, louder.
So much for the live bands she pictured playing traditional Irish music. She was going to have to ask around and find local musicians to come and play. Anchor sang at the top of his lungs. She couldn’t understand how he could understand the words. She turned back to Ciaran.
“I wasn’t just talking about attention in the bedroom,” she said. “I’m talking about showing a passion for her life, her dreams, her wishes. I’m talking about physically missing the scent of him when he’s away.”
Collin jerked his head up. “Him?” he said.
“Yeah,” Eoin said. “Whose smell are you on about?” He leaned over and sniffed Collin on his right, then Ciaran on his left. They all laughed. Carlene hoped her face wasn’t as flushed as it felt.
“Her,” she said quickly. She’d been thinking about Ronan, the scent of him. Suddenly, she hated him, hated him for always smelling so good. Why else would you wear such nice cologne unless you were trying to torture someone?
“You have to love her fucking chairs,” Danny said. Everyone just looked at him. “Premonition?” he said. “John Travolta? Gets struck by lightning and gets all psychic, like, and falls in love with this woman who makes chairs, you know what I mean?”
“No,” Anchor said. “We haven’t a fucking clue.”
“Great fillum, you eejits. Great fillum,” Danny said. He shook his head at Carlene, like, “Get a load of them.”
“Gay, gay, gay,” Ciaran said. “Yous all are gay. I’m not falling for fucking chairs and I’m not going to be sniffing after her either. So let’s just change the fucking subject.”
“I agree,” Collin said. “You can’t chase after a woman. She’ll lose interest.”
“See?” Ciaran said. “I’ll be the bollix who gets kicked to the curb for being sensitive.” He looked at Carlene. “Gay,” he said. “Very fucking gay.”
“You’ll end up like Sally with Ronan,” Danny said. The rest grunted in agreement.
“Sally?” Carlene said. “Who is Sally?”
“You could do worse than being stalked by Sally,” Eoin said.
“Sally who?” Carlene said.
“Still, it’s a turn-off,” Collin said. “When someone is that in love with you.”
“Got all those college chicks falling all over you, do you, stud?” Anchor said. He also looked conspiratorially at Carlene and rolled his eyes.
“There was this girl from photography class,” Collin said. “We worked in the darkroom together every day like.”
“That’s what you want,” Anchor said. “A woman surrounded by darkness. When she comes out, she’s like blinded by you.”
“Did you ride her or what?” Ciaran said.
“If he’d a known he was going to get a ride, he would’ve worn lipstick,” Anchor said. Carlene started to wonder if she should cut them off.
“Nothing happened,” Collin said. “You know why? Because I started paying too much attention to her. Totally screwed the pooch. You have to make a major effort to look like you don’t give a shit,” Collin said. “You have to be careful.”
“I’m careful,” Danny said. “I change me address every three months.” Carlene lined six shot glasses up on the bar and poured whiskey into each one of them. She set them in front of her boys.
“What’s this for?” Anchor said.
“Customer appreciation,” Carlene said. “Now. Who’s Sally?” Before they could answer, Riley let out a shout. Behind him stood a man in a police uniform. He was tall and thin, with a thick mustache. He kind of looked like the man on the painted sign at Dally’s Lounge, Undertaker, and Pub. Riley pointed to him.
“Does anybody else see the guard?” Riley said. “Or is it just me?” Carlene hurried over and turned down the music. The policeman, or guard as the lads called him, rubbed his ears.
“Are you Carlene Rivers, the new publican?” the guard asked.
“Yes sir,” Carlene said.
“I’m Michael Murphy,” he said. “We’ve had a complaint about the noise.”
“From who?” Anchor said. “A cow?”
“I’m so sorry,” Carlene said. “I’ll keep it down from now on.”
“See that you do,” he said. “I won’t write you up this time, seeing as how you’re new in town and all.”
“Thank you,” Carlene said. “Would you like a drink?” She was about to suggest tea or a soda when he took off his hat, rubbed his bald head, and nodded.
“Just a wee pint,” he said. “I’m on duty.”
CHAPTER 18
A Man Walks into the Kitchen
Some days, not an ounce of intelligent conversation floated around the bar, but Carlene could usually count on a couple of good jokes. Today, Eoin had one to tell.
“A man walks into his kitchen with a chicken under his arm. The wife is at the sink, doing the dishes. The man says, ‘I want you to meet the pig I’ve been fucking.’ The wife turns around and sees the chicken. ‘That’s not a pig,’ the wife says. ‘That’s a chicken.’ The man looks at the wife and says, ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ ”
Everyone laughed except Billy, who was playing pool by himself and didn’t quite catch it. He stopped and propped his chin up on top of the pool stick.
“Say it again,” he said. “Man walks into the kitchen with a turkey under his arm, and what?”
“It wasn’t a turkey, it was a duck,” Danny said.
“It was a chicken,” Ciaran said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Collin said. “Could have been a turkey, could have been a duck.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” Eoin said. “It was a fucking chicken.” He pointed at Billy. “Not a fucking turkey.” He pointed at Danny. “Not a fucking duck.” He leaned into Collin. “A chicken.”
“Fuck a duck,” Riley said. “I’m the baddest motherfucker in this bog.”
“Yes, you are,” Carlene said.
“I’m just saying that the punch line isn’t contingent on what barnyard animal he had under his arm,” Collin said.
“Listen to the college boy,” Anchor said. “Contingent.”
“I know you said chicken. But the joke still works if it’s a turkey, or duck, or whatever,” Collin said.
“Right,” Ciaran said. “I see where you’re coming from.”
“What about a pig, smarty pants?” Eoin said. “It couldn’t be a pig.” He nodded at Carlene.
“You’re right,” Collin said. “It couldn’t be a pig.”
“Why not?” Danny asked.
“Because when he says, ‘I want you to meet the pig I’ve been fucking,’ the missus would just turn around and say, ‘Oh hello,’ ” Collin said.
“Right, right,” Danny said. “It couldn’t be a pig, so.”
“If I was screwing a pig, the missus would have a lot more to say about it than ‘Oh hello,’ ” Riley said.
“I still don’t get it,” Billy said.
“That’s because they’ve made a complete bollix out of me joke,” Eoin said.
“You’ve got
to build to the punch,” Danny said.
“I’ll give yous a punch,” Eoin said.
“Whatever the yoke is under his arm, the point is, he’s calling his wife a pig,” Collin said.
“Look at Carlene’s face, like,” Ciaran said. “I think we’re effing and blinding too much for her.”
“You could clean it up,” Danny said. “You could say—the turkey I’ve been screwing.”
“It’s a fucking chicken!” Eoin said.
“The bird I’ve been riding,” Danny said.
“It’s the pig I’ve been fucking,” Eoin said. “The Yank can take it. Can’t ye, Yank?”
“At least the wife is doing the dishes,” Billy said. After that, Carlene gratefully lost track of the conversation.
Dear Becca,
Thank you so much for your letter, it meant so much to me. I’m so glad baby Shane is doing well. I showed his picture to all the lads at the bar, and even though they didn’t come out and say it, I could tell they thought he was cute. They saw your picture too and had no problem saying how cute you were! It’s hard to believe Shane can start Irish dancing lessons so young! How does that work, since I assume he’s not even crawling yet? (Sorry, just curious.) And that’s sweet that you’ve been playing him “Danny Boy,” I’m sure he’ll enjoy it that much more when he comes for a visit. Can you believe I’ve almost been here a month? I think I’m really starting to get the hang of being a bartender. I feel like I’m part waitress, part psychologist, part babysitter, and part eye candy. The boys do like to flirt, and of course I flirt right back—and it’s not even for tips because they don’t tip in Ireland! I didn’t remember that until after the first week of no tips, and I thought, God, they must really hate me. But they don’t, they love me, and even though they cuss a lot, it’s not much different than working at the gym. Still surrounded by sweaty men, except the only exercise these ones are getting is lifting their pints. Actually, though, they’re funny, and smart, and interesting. I’m starting to think of my regulars like turtles—they carry their stories on their backs!
