Stories by Ben

Sitting at the edge of a family-style table, Guinness in hand, you sulk at the steady thrum of a good time that builds and drinks and cheers as if it doesn’t care you’re a day away from being elsewhere. You take a bitter sip of the water-sweet beer and long for one more night.

Two weeks have passed in a flurry of rolling green hills, one-lane country roads, high-rise coastlines, quick-wit conversations with strangers who speak with no-nonsense familiarity, sticky bar tops, palsied bar tenders with rough smiles and easy eyes, pints quickly downed, whiskey shots slowly sipped, slurred pickup lines, late nights, early mornings, and more of it all over and again. It all felt like a dream until the moment it became a memory. Now you only have this final night, and even that is already halfway to gone.

The locals — many with whom you’ve talked, some flirted, a few kissed , and one you’ll never forget — busy the beer garden and fill the night with clinking glasses and weightless laughter. It feels perfect, and although it’s right there before you, it already feels a thousand miles away.

You down the pint as your friend returns holding two dark reddish frothy beers. He scoots one toward you and raises the other for a cheers.

“Slainte, sir,” he says with a smile.

“Slainte,” you return flatly.

“Come on, man. You can’t do this tonight. Have some fun. You’ll regret being a little bitch on the last night.”

You wait to respond. He doesn’t understand. He has a life waiting for him back home. He has a job, a house, a wife, a young daughter who will greet him at the front door like a soldier returning from duty. What do you have?

The trip had been planned for half a year or more — of course your life imploded three days before the flight to Dublin. Everything went up in spectacular flames, one domino collapsing after the other. Your girlfriend left for an ex, your boss let you go because you then drank on the job, your roommate said he was heading back to the coast, and your credit limit increase was denied.

What should have been a fun getaway became a dangerous experiment in escapism, a final hoorah before you run out of options. Your friend knows it. You know it. You don’t like it, but what else were you supposed to do? What are you supposed to do?

“Yeah, you’re right,” you finally say. “Sorry, man.”

“Don’t be sorry. Drink. Be happy! Cheers, friend.”

You cheers again and down most of the beer in a few quick gulps. Your friend follows suit and you don’t know if it’s because he’s enjoying himself or because he doesn’t want you to feel alone in it all. Either way, you’re thankful.

“I’m off to get us another,” you say as you stand and drain the last drop.

“Fine. You get this one, but the next is on me.” Then he adds as you’re halfway to the bar’s back entrance, “And no shots – just beer!”

You give him a thumbs up without a backward glance and enter the bar. Sean’s Bar. Everyone in Athlone says it’s the oldest pub in Ireland. You’ve been told this many times in many cities over the past two weeks, but your gut and the internet make you believe this place is the one and only.

The sun set an hour ago, but the beer garden out back against the riverside pier is so well lit that you spend a moment adjusting to the dimmed indoor lighting. Your shoes audibly stick with each step and it smells like whisky and stale ale – you love every moment in here.

They play a steady mix of decade’s old American country and Irish folk. Right now, Country Roads thrums overhead and reminds you of a dozen Irish pubs as much as it does your rural Kansas childhood. Everyone is outside, so you immediately find a spot to lean against the bar. It’s only your fourth or fifth time here, but the barman smiles at you like an old friend and slams his fist on the bar top with gusto.

“Caleb, my boy. What’re ya havin’.”

“A half-and-half, a Five Lamps, and two shots of…umm…let’s do Yellow Spot.”

“You’ve got it, lad. How’re ya? Fine night, no?”

“Fine night, yeah. Last night, actually. I fly back to the states tomorrow.”

“Yeah, figured you’d be leavin’ soon’r than later. Not many stay ‘round here long. Surprised you stayed in Athlone as long as ya did, if I’m bein’ honest. Glad to be headin’ home?”

“No. Not really.”

The barman – you can’t remember his name and feel bad about it – doesn’t know what to say. But he’s Irish, so he says something anyways and says it right.

“You know, everyone out there who seems so light and free to ya, they wish they’d be leavin’ on a plane to America tomorrow. I can guarantee ya that.”

“I guess. I just…I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Son. You’re drinking this beer, and you’re shootin’ this whisky, and you’re gonna have a good last night. Yeah?”

You don’t know what to say, and you aren’t Irish, so you say thanks and extend your card to pay.

“And you’re not payin’ for these drinks. That’s what you’re doin’. Come see me when you’re ready for another.”

“Thanks,” is all you can muster. The barman knows your holding back tears, so he gives you a wink, hits the bar with gusto once more and pivots his attention to someone else in need of a drink.

You don’t see the barman again, but you have a good night. You cheers to what has been, and the next day you board a plane.