It
was on the bus that it was clear that we were on a field trip to Ireland, and
apparently I had earned the favor of buying the big guy his choice of shot when
we got there. I changed compartments, set down my large blank triangle box with
a top and bottom on the far side table below the mirror, noted it was almost
just noon and I was the first one there, indicated to the younger bartender
which alcohol I wanted, which was more than 20 a shot, and continued to look at
the beer selection. He set the two glasses of clear liquid upon the bar, the
older mentioned double fisting but I said I was waiting for someone. First,
bottles, then draft, I finally settled on Guiness, but when the older one
opened a new bottle and started pouring we chanted “Beer, beer!” and I
apologized. By then it was quite crowded.
Suddenly I was outside behind bars
with the rest of the boys and we spotted a comrade who was crying, witnessing a
fight across the way. Rubber hats were in season, black and thick like tires,
but ours were cracked and split, green around the edges. I climbed the wrought
iron and walked the side, past desperate people of little attention. A broken
doll. Fog and blue across the way. I was just a kid then.
