The three lads were seated in their usual location at the bar counter in Donleavy’s. The atmosphere was calm and casual. There was a quiet hum of voices in the pub. That was as loud as it ever got in Donleavy’s. Not a decibel higher. Donleavy was never going to allow piped music or TVs or gaming fruit machines into his bar. Over his dead body. And it would be easy to imagine Donleavy in gangster fashion at the pub doorway with a slanting sunlight glistening off one of those big cylinder machine guns – fighting the good fight against anything that didn’t represent conversation in the pub. You could imagine him chewing on a cigar saying ‘call me old-fashioned’ as he pumped lead into a fruit machine salesperson.
It was good to have all the Covid restrictions gone. Endemic was so much nicer than pandemic. So much calmer, so much less hype. You could talk without wearing a mask and without wondering whether your droplets contained spikey coronas floating into the airways of your compatriots. Or worse – still – floating into your own airways.
The three – JP, Rasher and Mono – had subconsciously moved their stools closer to each other. During the pandemic – while they continued to imbibe illicit pints – courtesy of Donleavy’s courage – or criminal intent – whichever way you chose to look at it – the lads had spaced out their stools as a token gesture to good pandemic practise. Now they were back together again. Safer – shoulders too close to be within easy punching distance. All was good with the world. At least it seemed that way.
“It really feckin’ annoys me.”
The outburst belonged to Rasher. The blood had even risen in his cheeks. JP looked at Mono. Mono looked at JP. Neither had much clue as to the lead-up or origin or substance of this annoyance. They shrugged their shoulders.
“Qué?”
Mono threw this question in – he had been watching re-runs of ‘Fawlty Towers’, and everything these days was qué-this and qué-that.
Rasher took a long swig of his pint, wiped his chin, and began:
“I was down the Main Street in the car this mornin’. And you guys know the score. There’s zebra crossin’s every few hundred metres. Place is crawlin’ with them. More feckin’ zebras there than on the Serengetti.”
They nodded.
“Couple of bleedin’ hyenas too. Some of them shopkeepers would take your cash and feed off your carcass.”
They nodded.
“Well – drivin’ the Main Street now is worse than being a fighter pilot in World War Two. People crossin’ feckin’ everywhere. Ya just don’t know where the next attack is gonna come from.”
“Jaysus – yer right there, Rasher. I’ve seen some of them use prams and kids out in front of them – like infantry cannon fodder. It’s a bleedin’ disgrace.”
“Lazy as feck.”
“Yeah. And at least the Wubblu Wubblu Two pilots had a guy with 360 views knowin’ where the next attack was comin’ from. I’m on me own. Me nerve ends are frazzled.”
They considered this. Pints were again synchronously revisited. Donleavy had time to do a few tours of duty up and down behind the bar like a sentry protecting the territory. The pints were only half consumed so there was no need for further incoming just yet. The replenishment of the Black Magic was a concentrated study which should never be taken for granted. It’s not ale. It’s not lager. It can’t be poured in an instant like any old swill. It needs time and care and settling periods to achieve its majesty. So, the re-order point must be at a judicious stage before the current pint glasses are emptied. Being left with an empty glass in front of you at the bar is up there in respect of mortal sins. No self-respecting drinker should ever let that happen. There is too much left to chance as to the timeframe of its replacement. Much better to exchange the empty glass at the exact moment the incoming arrives. That’s class. That’s skill. That’s years of experience. And JP, Mono and Rasher had experience to burn. We’re talking mastery here.
JP refocused the conversation.
“Maybe it’s a good thing really.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Eyebrows were raised. Facial muscles of incredulity were brought into play.
“Ah Jaysus, JP. How could it be good? It’s bleedin’ cat malogen. That’s what it is.”
JP took a considered swig of his pint and settled his buttocks for an equally considered response.
“We’re not Germans.”
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher threw his eyes up to where heaven allegedly was domiciled.
“Ah. Sweet Mother of the Divine. What are ya witherin’ on about now JP?”
JP looked at them both – slowly – one by one.
“We’re not Russian.”
Mono looked at Rasher. Rasher looked at Mono. Mono covered his face with hands that should have been caressing his pint glass at that moment. He removed them for a moment to vent some pent-up gases.
“We bleedin’ know the design on our passport, JP. Ya don’t need to remind us who we’re not.”
JP was in full flow. He didn’t bother looking at the amigos but stared directly into the big bar mirror that ran the whole length behind the bar counter.
“And we’re definitely not Americans and in particular not those of MAGA variety.”
Rasher was losing the plot at this point. A blood pressure monitor would have run for its life rather than attach itself to Rasher’s arm. If he were a nuclear reactor – we’d have long since passed the point where the emergency manual was out on the desk – we were at the point where there was more chance of being killed in the rush out the door than by a uranium by-product
“What in the name of all that is good and wholesome has any of this to do with crossin’ the bleedin’ road away from the zebra crossin’. Have ya completely lost the run of yerself. Yer actin’ like someone a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“Earth to JP. Come in JP. You are clear to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere. Ya can even come back to Donleavy’s pub if ya can find yer bleedin’ way.”
JP put a delicate finger in the air, catching Donleavy’s eye with consummate ease. Pints were now at a critical level. It was time for the supply chain to accelerate again.
“It’s simple really.”
“Maybe to you, in yer brain, it is. But not in our world”
Rasher looked at Mono to get some form of acknowledgment that it was OK to speak for him as well. A nod confirmed this.
“I was talking to someone recently about the Nazi’s.”
“Ah Jaysus. Zebra crossin’s on the Main Street, and JP is back with the Nazis. Sweet sufferin’ Jaysus. Help me. I’ll put more money in the donation box. Just help me out here.”
JP watched Donleavy as the master craftsman finished out the levelling of the last pint. What a warrior. It was so good to watch someone at the peak of his prowess. Life affirming.
“Its simple really. This guy reckoned that the Nazi movement happened cause the Germans are so good at followin’ instruction. Now….the Russian thing is happenin’ today because the Reds are afraid not to follow instructions. And the MAGA thing…….well there could be complicated genetics involved here. Do ya see where I’m goin’?”
Rasher thought about this. He had calmed down at this stage. His reactor core had settled back passed the critical level and all the staff had returned to the control room.
“Jaysus JP. I think I have it.”
Mono shot him a look.
“Well, it better not be contagious. I’ve spent a couple of years beatin’ ‘Rona Virus.”
Rasher suitably ignored the interruption.
“We’re not good at followin’ instructions where we don’t think they suit us or make sense. There can be shit parts to that but at least we’re not like the bull with a ring in his nose.”
“Excellent summary, my dear Rasher.”
Rasher’s face lit up. He beamed. He always liked JP’s validation. Made him thirst for more pints. Speaking of which – he picked the fresh one up and raised it in a mock toast.
“To all the jaywalkers – I’ll salute ye in future – You’ve saved our country.”
“Amen.”
“I’ll drink to tha’.”
Just another night in Donleavy’s.
JP@Donleavy’s 