Two Irish Guys in a Bar- a short story written by Berni Albrighton

 

We sat across the room as you settled yourselves with a couple of pints and chasers.

Straight away your debate began.

You, with the walking stick and a permanent smile playing around your mouth.

Him, leaning in, as if closeness would give his words more impact.

Your combined words were thrown into the air.

I could see them and hear them, floating in front of me.

Your postures and mannerisms spoke volumes.

The energy of your dialogue rose up from the dirty floor and high across the din of the crowded bar.

You batted your opinions across the table like ping pong.

Flowing, diving, back and forth.

Disagreements resulted in an unspoken consensus, as though neither had the will to cross the line victorious. 

Your words and accents, reached out and took hold of a feeling deep within me. 

The deep calling of my bloodline.

We invited you to join our table and the hours went too fast.

‘Him’ was the person I sat across from and spoke to mostly.

We fell into the rhythm of familiarity, of  knowingness.

Feeling the safety that speaking with one of your own gives you.

You introduced me to the term ‘Irish English’ and I immediately recognised myself.

You advocated the closeness, the understanding, between both races.

We talked of childhoods, similar yet different.

You cried as you told me about your Father.

 A great man, lost in the perplexity and confusion of COVID 

We talked of music, old and new.

Of black and white films.

Laurel and Hardy.

Your body contained a rage which screamed out for justice and fairness.

It's only release would be to start a revolution, but “That won't happen” you told me.

“I’m too busy wiping people's arses for a living”

The unfairness of a lost youth and a future where everything had changed.

You couldn't find your place.

You reached across and held my hand.

You called me Sister.

You, with the walking stick.

A charismatic character who brought Irish Comedy to Barcelona. and was now living with ‘the jackpot of multiple sclerosis’ 

Primary Progressive. A fast track to the end.

You tell everyone that without Cannabis you couldn't function.

With it, you have the energy to take on the world but the world doesn't want you.

It’s changed.

Your compassion for ‘Him’ as he cried with outrage and disgust over his Dads death.

Your drunken patience when once more, ‘Him’ told us how you knew each other from college.

Your braveness in the path that lies ahead of you.

A path that led to a dead end and a pile of dreams that are never going to materialise.

As the evening wore on, your bravado cracked and out seeped frustration and anger.

If we never meet again, I want you to know that a part of Ireland was awakened in me that evening.

I was reminded of the unspoken, boundless acceptance that is ours alone

and that I have a family of Sisters and Brothers who I hadn't yet met.