I say "my" stool because the last 3 times I've been to the pub I've arrived earlier than my group and I've sat in the same place each time. It's on the backside of the doublesided bar. My back's to the open back door, and I can see who's coming in the front door. Best view for spotting my pastor when he walks in for the monthly Theology on Tap chats we've been having. I can usually be found halfway through my first pint (half Harp & half Guinness) or whiskey (Redbreast, if it's been a bad day) when the group arrives.
Today I'm here because it's writers group tonight at 7 down the block at my church. I've the time to kill, and I'm hungry and thirsty. The guy behind the bar is not familiar to me; I'm not exactly a regular but the normal fellow knows me well enough to ask if it's a pint or Redbreast stronger night. Still, he introduces himself as J. and pulls me a nice pint. I order the chicken potpie because several people I know like it, and the lamb sandwich has been extirpated from the menu. Maybe I was the only one who ever ordered it. RIP lamb dip.
It's a quiet night in the pub. I'm the only one at the bar, and there are two other groups in the place. Both doors are open, and the breeze rushes through. My sleeves flutter and I smile. Since J. the bartender is not very talkative, I pull out my new journal. I've written a few lines about the pub, how it looks like it came out of a kit. You know the look. Dark wood, squeaky stools, assorted Guinness adverts and Irish proverb signs decorating the place. The token dart board hanging in a corner. Football matches on the telly no one watches. In case you forget you're in America.
At this point the lone server asks me if I'm writing in a journal. I say yes, but it's more observations and parts of stories than musings on my life. She says she didn't think people did that anymore, wrote in actual journals. What was I writing about? I tell her that I'm writing a book about an art museum and a boy, and she listens very politely and wishes me well.
Meanwhile, an older man has wandered in and sits down at the corner of the bar. He orders a vodka with a little bit of tonic- no, just a bit more- there you go- two limes and tells me J.'s a good guy, just needs a bit more practice with the drinks. But seriously, a good man's hard to find. Unable to resist I lift my second pint and agree.
Talking to guys around my own age is difficult for me. Nigh impossible. Older men at bars? It must be my thing. Within 5 minutes we've exchanged hometowns, tales of travels, school histories, what we want from life. He squints roughly every thirty seconds, I notice. His drink disappears quickly, and soon he's schooling J. about the quality of tonic. Not that it's bad, mind you, but the stuff from the gun just isn't as good as the old-school stuff. He says he'll bring in a bottle of his own if J. will hide it under the bar and use it only when he comes in. I wonder why he doesn't just make his own at home but then again maybe he comes to the pub for sparkling conversation with girls like me.
The music is more audible with fewer people in the pub, and I'm humming along to the songs I know. Which happens to be all of them. The man, D., is impressed as I sing along with Gaelic Storm through "The Leaving of Liverpool."
That's something I want to do more of. Sing in pubs, I mean. I've only really done it once. When S. came to visit me, we went downtown to a few places but found ourselves ending the night in Tommy Condon's. This guy was singing in the main dining room, and I was bummed that we were in the next, separated by glass. I could hear well enough, and sang along merrily to every tune he played. S. was amused since this was something she'd have done; I'm usually much more staid. Not that night. I sang my way from Kerry through Glocca Morra to Dublin. I have this idea that someday when I actually go to Ireland I'll go to a pub, drink a pint of Guinness with farmers and we'll all sing together. I'll end up dancing across lager-stained plank floors then finish the night leaning against some man weeping over how they killed Bold Robert Emmet, and I hope that I too can die with a smile.
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