Donleavy was like a man working himself through the seven stages of Covid grief. Just one big problem – he was stuck on anger. Clearly when he kept his pub illegally open to cater to his regular clientele – he wasn’t expecting the pub lockdown to go on for this length of time. Or that there would be so many false reopening dawns but that still the sun hadn’t risen over his drinking emporium. JP, Rasher and Mono were now on eggshells whenever they had any short conversation with him. Gone were the friendly enquiries, the casual commentaries. Left in their place was a scowling Donleavy who would recite the ten commandments of illegal drinking – enter and leave through the storeroom; never let any light shine onto the street, keep the noise down; never breath a word to anyone else of the arrangement etc, etc,.
“Will we ever get our ol’ Donleavy back again?”, JP intoned to no-one in particular.
“He could‘ve been consumed by the Covid Demigorgon.
“Yeah. I think he’s lost to us.”
Mono signalled Donleavy for fresh incoming. It was a very sheepish. raising of the finger. Truth was that the three amigos had almost become scared of their once friendly bar-owner. The Covid stress was showing in every new furrow on Donleavy’s forehead, in the exasperated tones when he would approach their part of the bar counter and in the way he aggressively threw the pint glasses down on the beer mats in front of the lads. This was not Donleavy. The spirits of the Coronavirus must have vacuumed the goodness out of him and replaced him with this spectre who would suck the energy out of the bar. Donleavy used to drift along the length of the bar with the light touch of a dancer. Now he trundled back and forward making more noise than a herd of migrating wildebeest. True to recent form – he bounced the pints in front of our gallant triumvirate
“Hey Donleavy, why don’t ya join us for one.”
“Yeah – take the weight off yer feet.”
“For ol’ time’s sake.”
Donleavy looked at them. One by one. Then back again. The three lads started to shrink into themselves a bit. Finally, Donleavy spoke. It had the menace of a Mafia hitman.
“Are you three off yer game.? Cop yerselves on.”
Mono looked at JP. JP looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. No words were spoken but the air was thick with emotion. Hurt. Confusion. Guilt. Longing. No-one said anything for a very long time.
JP fixed his stare on that small crack in the bar mirror just to the right of the Bushmills bottle. A sure sign that a major statement was coming. He didn’t disappoint.
“Mono, Rasher – lads – have either of ye ever acted like a pervert?”
“Wha’ the hell……?”
“Jaysus, JP. What kinda question is tha’?”
JP took a generous aliquot of his pint, wiped the back of his hand across his chin and placed his pint gently back on its beer mat. He gently nudged the glass so that it sat perfectly central on the mat.
“Have ya ever sent naked pictures of yerself to anyone?”
“Jaysus, JP….”
“Or sent a text askin’ someone what colour underwear they were wearin’?”
“JP – are you losin’ the feckin’ plot here?”
JP moved his stare to the left-hand side of the Baileys bottle. If you looked really closely there was an imperfection in the mirror concave. Once you knew it was there it sucked your focus. While JP lasered his view, Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher shrugged.
“Have ya ever sent a video of yerself, you know , is it that WhatsApp thing?”
“Yeah. WhatsApp. Yeah – I know it., pictures and videos.”
“So – you HAVE sent a video of yerself – all nude and naked – who’d you send it to?”
“Ah Jayzuz, JP. I never said it was in me nakidity. Giv us a break here. All fully clothed. All fully clothed, man. What’s got into ya, man?”
Rasher was definitely getting a bit flushed. This wasn’t the type of conversation he was used to on a night out in Donleavy’s. Mono was equally uncomfortable. JP turned his attention away from the mirror and looked at each of the two lads in turn.
“And what about jackin’ off? Have you ever sent a video of yerself jackin’ off.”
Mono literally spluttered into his pint and then took a fit of coughing. Rasher’s barstool screeched against the wood floor as he flung himself backwards from the bar.
“JP. What in the livin’ hell has got into ya tonight? Have ya lost all reason? You’re the bloody pervert here. Askin’ questions like tha’. Has Covid turned yer brain to mush or somethin’? Yer bang outta order here, JP. Bang outta order.”
JP had a serene look about him. He let the moment linger. The fluster and the bluster prevailed for a while. He judged his moment.
“I can guarantee you somethin’ gentlemen. Six months ago what I’ve just described woulda got ya at least excluded or marginalised or branded for life”
“Dead right. Branded as a ‘sicko’”
“And some of wha’ I described might even have been seen as criminal.”
“Feckin’ right. Postin’ videos of yerself chokin’ the bishop is surely against some law.”
Mono looked momentarily at Rasher, subconsciously seeking encouragement for what he had to say next.
“JP. Why is everythin’ that ya said in the past tense?”
JP threw his hands in the air.
“Brilliant Mono. Simply brilliant. You are de man.”
Mono had no idea what JP was on about but he smiled and swelled his chest anyway. Rasher looked a bit crestfallen.
“And why is Mono the bleedin’ man, then?”, Rasher couldn’t help himself blurting out.
“Because, my dear friends, what I have just described is what our Government now recommend as good sexual behaviour in the light of the pandemic.”
“You’re jokin’?”
“I don’t believe ya”
“Am I supposed to send me wife pictures of me willy?
“Naw, ya clown, this is only if ya’r not livin’ in the same house.”
“Feels that way, sometimes.”
“Know what ya mean.”
“World is right fecked up.”
“Too true.”
“Let’s go get some battered sausages and chips.”
“Good idea.”
The boys drained their pints, waved ‘goodbye’ to Donleavy and headed for the storeroom exit. But the ‘New Normal’ had taken on yet another dimension.
JP@Donleavy’s 