Estimated reading time: 4 minutes
“Your round.”
“Me hole, it is! Sure I got the last one.”
And who got the three before that, Dessie thinks but says nothing. He signals the barman, but the boy, barely out of his teens, is deep in conversation with a pretty American tourist.
“Couple more, Ray when you’re done flirtin.”
The two men sit opposite each other on stools by the bar. The Herald’s crossword puzzle page is torn out and half completed – a soggy mess on the counter. There’s a TV in the far corner and their seating arrangement gives preference to Joe, a diehard Liverpool fan. Near-sighted and without his glasses, those squinting eyes tell Dessie if there’s anything behind, worth watching.
“Quiet tonight,” Dessie says.
“Bloody Covid,” Joe says, disgusted.
“What’s Covid got to do with it?”
Joe takes a large swallow of beer and swipes his upper lip free of the foam. He leans back and pats a swollen hard belly.
“If it wasn’t for Covid, we’d have more people in.”
“That was, what, five years ago?”
“Yeah, but it changed people. Closing the pubs meant people drank in the house. Socialising. All that was gone. People bought cans from the offie. Cheaper. Habits stuck.”
“So, what’s your excuse?”
“What?”
“Why are you here?”
“For the riveting conversation Dessie, boy.”
The voice of the American woman slices through the sports commentary, and they turn and watch her fold a large travel map into a perfect square, tuck it inside her jacket and leave.
“Christ,” Joe says. “If I was thirty years younger.”
“Thirty years ago, she wouldn’t have been born.”
“So why are you out? Tonight, I mean.”
“Need outta the house,” Joe says, irritation in his voice. “The missus shiting on about my health since I got results back.”
“Results?”
“From the doc.” He scratches the stubble on his neck, leaving angry red trails. “Tryin to make me change my diet. At fifty-nine? Good luck.”
Joe tips back the suds of his pint. Dessie reaches instinctively for his beer before letting the hand fall.
“You OK?”
Joe nods furiously. “Grand! Bitta high blood pressure. Eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. Sometimes, I forget things. Like my feckin glasses.”
“Leave them at home again?”
“God only knows.”
“What else?”
“What else what?”
“What else you forget?”
“I…dunno…” Joe scratches his chin and they break into sudden laughter. “Small things. Birthdays, events, putting the bins out…”
“Rounds of beer.”
“…rounds of beer.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Dessie says, taking his pint and holding it in both hands on his lap. “My da was the same.”
“How’d that go?”
“Not bad.” Joe, surprised, leans forward, propping an arm on the counter. “My ma was religious and said that there was a patron saint for everyone. Even my da.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, seriously! Well, for people like my da. Immaus, the patron saint of middle aged forgetful men with high blood pressure and failing eyes.”
“Helluva job title.”
“Helluva saint.”
“So…what? You’re supposed to pray to this saint and ask for help?”
“Pretty much.”
Joe considers this, waiting for his friend to launch into a fit of stupid giggles. Dessie meets his stare.
“OK, how does it work?”
“Exactly as you said.”
Joe, seeing no sign of the barman and facing a delay until his next pint, brings his hands together on his lap, sits up straight and closes his eyes.
“Immaus, patron saint of middle aged forgetful men with failing eyes, please—”
“And high blood pressure.”
“—and high blood pressure. Please grant me your eternal grace to cure my maladies, oh Wise one.”
Joe slowly opens his eyes.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“How do you feel?”
“Good. Have we met?”
Dessie laughs. “Joker. I’ll get us that drink.”
He slaps the shoulder of the man as he passes. Joe sits up, scans the room for a chair with a high back. Raised voices come from the TV, and two red shirts in the corner cheer. Joe reaches up instinctively and without realising, slides the glasses off the top of his head. Liverpool have scored to make it 1-0.
He raises a fist in celebration, then looks to the heavens and laughs.
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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