Up and down behind the bar counter, Donleavy seemed to have a new spring in his step. The December easing of restrictions allowed him to open his bar in a legal way for the first time since lockdown in March. The man had kept the pub open illegally and covertly through the entire Covid period thus far and only for the benefit of a small group of his trusted drinkers. Regulars who could be trusted to sneak in and out via unusual entrances and exits and under cover of silence and darkness. But this constant subterfuge had caused Donleavy to suffer unquestionable and unquantifiable stress. The man had been like a bag of rats for the last few months. But he had been working away in the background installing a kitchen and now here he was in December 2020 and he was able to comply with all the legal requirements to keep his pub doors legitimately open. He was like a bar owner regenerated. Literally gliding behind the bar as if there was a cushion of air underneath his barman soles. The transformation was almost biblical. It was as if Arthur Guinness himself had taken him down to the shores of the Sea of Guinnessee and poured porter over his barman head and he then arose reborn into a brighter and fresher vintner community.
Having said all that – JP and Mono were patiently waiting to dive into their pints but were delayed by Rasher who seemed to be having a bit of a shemozzle with Donleavy down at the till. The unspoken rule of Pint Etiquette dictated that they couldn’t start until Rasher returned and that they were all ready to take that synchronised first sup together. But clearly – from what they could see – Rasher and Donleavy were trading sentences that did not seem to meet the definition of pleasantries. Eventually Rashed returned to the fold and with a few delicate movements of his buttocks, settled his arse into the equilibrium position. They raised glasses and took that first sup – nectar to the stout drinking Gods. The curiosity as to what had transpired would have to wait. There were certain priorities that needed to be respected.
JP broke the silence. Well not really. There was a triple exhalation of ‘aaahs’ that first cracked into that silence.
“You an’ Donleavy were exchangin’ Christmas greetin’s?”
“That man can get feckin’ thick sometimes.”
“Woah. This the same Donleavy ya were suggestin’ not two nights ago should get on the accelerated beatification pathway. That Donleavy? Yeah?”
“Yeah, Well, feck it.”
The three boys went back to another synchronised sup. Clearly there was a story here. No doubt. But no point in rushing things. Everything would out in its own good time. However – Rasher didn’t appear to play the game without some small encouragement.
“Well?”
“Well wha’?”
“Why were you slicing rashers off Donleavy?”
“Hey – good one JP. Rasher slicing rashers. I like it.”
JP and Mono did a high five. Rasher just stared into his pint as if the other two were children who just needed to be ignored.
“Well?”
“Wha’?”
“Donleavy?”
Rashed looked slowly at each of the other two amigos one by one and then back to the other one.
“I told him his food was shite and we didn’t want it.”
“Nice….”
“Ever consider a career in the diplomatic corps?”
They each went back for another sup. The ramifications of this new piece of news needed to be chewed over before the next line of questioning progressed.
“Did ya really say tha’?”
“Ah feck. Wha’ d’ya take me for? Of course, I didn’t beedin’ say tha’.”
“So, what did ya say?”
` “I told him we always go to the Chipper after pints. That there was no point in givin’ us food. It would just upset the natural order of things. Couldn’t be done. Shouldn’t be done. A bit like seein’ the endin’ of the film at the start. A bit like havin’ desert first on the menu. A bit like playin’ extra time before the game. A bit like havin’ a climax before ya even begin.”
“You mean shootin’ your load a bit premature.”
“Exactly. Yeah.”
“Let’s not go there. Conversation will get messy…as well.”
The three boys drained their pints. This conversation was getting serious. They needed to re-order from Donleavy but clearly JP and Mono needed to know where the ground lay before one of them signalled for another round.
“…and Donleavy said?”
“Said that we needed to pay eleven euro each and take the feckin’ food if he was goin’ to be within the law.”
“…and you said?”
“…that he didn’t give much of a shite for the law over the last nine months.”
“Oooh. Harsh. I thought ya’d rescued the career in the diplomatic corps. Tear up the ol’ application form for the embassy there. Not only would ya’ not get past the screenin’ process – they’d probably take ya out with a sniper.”
The three boys turned the empty pint glasses over in their hands. The tiny remnants of liquid were curved from one side of the bottom of the glass to the other. This needed to move on fast or a drought of African proportions could set in.
“Tell me this ended peacefully.”
“Of course. They don’t call me Mahatma Gandhi for nothing.”
“They don’t call ya Gandhi. It was ‘Rasher’s bandy’ they were shoutin’. Ya know – because you’re as bow legged as a Victorian coffee table.”
“Harsh.”
The banter was all great craic, but JP was starting to get anxious. It wasn’t good to spend this amount of time dry between drinks. They were into unchartered territory. They were outside the proven range. Anything could happen. They needed to get things back into equilibrium with three pints settling in front of them. Things were escalating out of control. Some manner of restraint needed to be re-established. Pints needed to be re-ordered.
“So, where did ya finish with Donleavy?”
“I told ‘im to keep the thirty-three euro. Shove it into the charity box of his choice. Throw the receipts outta the till showin’ we’d ordered his shite food. And everybody’d be happy. Easy-peasy, tickedy-boo…Oh…and just so yer mind is more at ease. I didn’t actually say his food was shite. I said we’d pass on his gastronomic delights.”
“Well feck it Rasher. Maybe we should call you Bandy Gandhi. You’re a warrior.”
“Stand out feckin’ performance.”
“Yer a credit to yer parish.”
Rasher puffed out his chest. He was unaccustomed to this type of praise. Clearly the boys were impressed by how he had handled this delicate situation. And with such an excellent outcome. Pints now. Chips later. Normal service restored. Yep – they’d beat this Covid into the ground with a big stick. Optimism reigned. Anyway, the pints and the chips probably gave them Covid immunity but, at the appointed future time – they’d queue for the ‘vac’ all the same. But for now, it was important to observe the imperative. Rasher put his hand in the air. Donleavy nodded. Three creamy pints would arrive shortly. The world was good.
Just another night in ‘Donleavy’s’.
JP@Donleavy’s 