Glenfiddie

            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.