It was a Saturday night in Donleavy’s. The crowd was beginning to thicken. JP, Mono and Rasher always had a virtual corridor of space around them at the bar. The majority of Donleavy’s clientele were regulars and – as such they knew that a fate worse than death awaited anyone who might sit on one of the three stools – and – they knew that there was an exclusion zone around the stools that needed to be respected.
A hum of voices pervaded the atmosphere but was not displeasing to the ear. The dying art of conversation was still strong in this societal oasis. Donleavy- the bar owner – had often said that it would take his decaying dead body before – TV, vending machines, piped or live music, jukeboxes, gaming or gambling machines or any other device that didn’t have a live beating heart – would find its way through the door. Guess you could say that Donleavy held firm to certain values and principles.
JP, Mono or Rasher had no qualms with this approach They liked a pub to be a place of convivial conversation. In fact, Mono would often tell the story of one occasion where they were away for a weekend in a rural village in the west of the country. The pints and the talk and the craic were great. But the ambiance was threatened by a pub band starting to tune up. Mono – quick as a flash – took up a whip round from the punters and was able to offer the band a bigger sum than they were getting from the bar owner if they’d just feck off. The band members were delighted. The bar owner was perplexed. He thought the drummer’s granny was already dead. Sometimes you have to be creative if you want to stick with your beliefs.
Back to the present. The three amigos were once again at their happiest. Three creamy pints magically settling in front of them. Eddies of black and cream swirling in random patterns until each found a home either side of the razor-sharp divide. When separation was absolutely confirmed there was an almost imperceptible nod of the head, and the ritual synchronised drinking began. Glasses were then returned to beermats and contented sighs came in triple harmony. Then a period of silence. All was good with the world. For this moment.
JP broke the moment.
“This country is a bleedin’ basket case”.
Rasher looked at Mono. Mono looked at Rasher. JP was prone to the big dramatic pronouncement, so neither was too surprised by the outburst. Clearly the statement was just begging for a request for clarification but neither wanted to be the first to capitulate. After what seemed like an eternity, Mono couldn’t take anymore. He exhaled noisily as he gave in.
“Don’t bleedin’ disagree there. But what in particular is currently pissin’ ya off about the Banana Republic?”
JP reached his hand out towards his pint and the other two instinctively followed his movements, making up a few milliseconds of lag, to allow all three individual hands to encircle the pint glasses at the same time.
After some moments of pause, JP reclaimed his soapbox.
“Ya know what everyone says the biggest problem is in the Banana Republic?”
“Yep , the two lads replied in stereo, ‘homelessness. Not enough houses.”
“No marks for that answer. Too easy. Yep. It’s a bleedin’ universal truth. No-one disagrees.”
JP threw his two arms in the air in an exhibition of exhaustion, defeat, and exasperation.
“And guess wha’?”
“Wha’?”
“There’s a big development delayed for six months because of needin’ to do an environmental study around a family of toads, of frogs, of croakers. The ribit lads.”
“Jayzus”, stereo response again.
“I’m all for animals and the environment and all tha’….but imagine being told that a frogs home is more important that your home.”
“Jayzus. Feck sake.”
“Nero fiddling with himself while his toes were getting warmer.”
The three amigos stared straight ahead into the bar mirror while they contemplated this topic. It was too soon since the last visit to the glasses to go back to the pints. Conversation had momentarily stalled which was usually a trigger to reach for the pints but in this case, there was an almost subliminal agreement that such a move would be too trigger happy. So, they stared into the bar mirror where all the goods forms of inspiration lurked tantalisingly behind the reflective surface. Mono broke the silence.
“Feck it. There’s a time in life where ya just gotta say – ‘Feck the frogs this once’”
“Bleedin’ pencil pushers have no brain sometimes.”
“No feckin’ pencils anymore. We’ll have to call ‘em keyboard clackers.”
“Too bleedin’ right.”
Back to the mirror. Sufficient time elapsed that there was no ill ease about reaching for the pint glasses. They each extended their forearms. Like slow moving pistons the travel was uniform and effective. After a satisfactory period of imbibing, they went back to their musings.
“Do people know how to use their noggins anymore?”
“Nah. Hide behind feckin’ policies and bleedin’ procedures.”
“Yer on the money there. Nobody can – or wants – to make a shaggin’ decision.”
“Brain dead. Don’t have to think. Don’t want to think. A robot’d work it out better. Have more bleedin’ cop-on.”
“I’m all for procedures. Don’t get me wrong. But there’s a time and a place.”
Donleavy was hovering up and down behind the bar. For a big heavy man, he seemed to glide along the bar counter like he was a human hovercraft. Rasher did a quick volume check of the glasses as Donleavy came into range and made a swift executive decision that an increase in inventory was called for. With a swift raising of Rasher’s finger, the signal was immediately interpreted cleanly by Donleavy and the barman reached for three new pint glasses as he floated past that section of the bar counter. All was therefore good with the world. The risk of glasses reaching empty before fresh incoming had been totally eliminated. Rasher felt good with his decision. A huge contribution to the feeling of security and comfort had been made. They could all relax a little further.
Maybe it was that additional step into that more laid-back world that prompted the next idea for the conversation – because Mono very quietly looked from one to the other of his drinking colleagues.
“I have it.”
It was almost a whisper.
“Well good thing yer whisperin’ it – because if it got out – ya’d be shunned.”
“Nah. Seriously.”
“I am serious. It could be contagious.”
JP called for a bit of order.
“Let the man speak. He could be on to somethin’.”
“On a bus to the doctor’s by the sound of it.”
JP’s brow became sterner, and his voice lowered an octave.
“Rasher…”
Rasher put his hands up in the air but moved his bar stool a little bit away from the other two.
“Don’t care. I don’t wanna catch it.”
JP stared at him.
“Go on. Mono. You have the floor.”
“….and a bit more besides by the sound of it.”
“Jayzuz, Rasher. Leave it off, will ya?”
Rasher put his hands in the air again.
Mono collected his thoughts before he began.
“Here’s the idea. Cut all the officials pay by fifty percent and make the rest, and even a bit more, dependent on them reachin’ a target. Like houses. Or homelessness. If it doesn’t happen. No moolah. No shekels. No yo-yos.”
Mono looked pleased with himself. The other two gave this a bit of thought. Eventually JP made a response.
“Nice idea Mono. Not sure it’d work though.”
“Why the hell not, JP?”
“Feckers would organise sheds for people. We’d end up with shanty towns worse than Mumbai.”
The lads digested this one.
“Ya know wha’? Yer right. That’s exactly what’d happen.”
“Yeah. Sometimes the frogs just need to take one for the team.”
“Too right.”
They clinked their glasses.
“To the frogs!”
JP@Donleavy’s 