St. Patrick's Day

“What are you doing for St. Patrick’s Day?” she asked with a smile.

“Working, like always,” I replied.

When I chose to be a journalist, back in the glamour days of the early 1990s (Ha!), the thought of never having holidays off, being dirt poor and single never crossed my mind.

Some days I wish it had, others not so much.

But hindsight is a bitch and life is for living. Every day I try to remember that. Keep plodding forward instead of looking backward. It’s tough, and many times needs the help of an alcoholic beverage. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s been a long, long time since I had one of those off – except for the year of unemployment, when I actually had two.

There was this girl I dated, she liked to think she was Irish. She wasn’t. Yeah, she had red hair and pale skin and was full of sass. But what she wasn’t was Irish. She was German.

I do miss that gal, though. She was the world to me. Until the day she decided I didn’t try hard enough. Or she didn’t care enough. Whichever. See, there I go, following the downward staircase instead of taking the elevator up.

I watch the girl who asked me about St. Patty’s Day walk away. A few months ago she was 30 pounds heavier and unhappy with her life. Now she’s sexy, and I believe still unhappy with her life. You can shed the pounds, tone the muscles, get a higher paying job, but those things don’t fill the void. That’s up to you, my friend.

The pollen covered my car as I got ready to leave for work. My allergies are funny. They don’t bother me too much outside. But inside they’re a bear. It’s probably the mold that this place has. And the fact I don’t dust. I saw my stereo today before playing some music to get me out of my mind funk and it was slathered in dust and God knows what else. I wiped it off with a pair of dirty underwear that was lying on the carpet and put in a CD. The notes and words and beats just keep me going. For someone who is tone deaf and completely too lazy to learn how to play an instrument, music really keeps me going.

I was lucky enough to go to Ireland last year. My best friend and his wife paid for me to tag along with them. It was a bit of a strange trip, but I fell in love with the place. Much better than the UK, for sure.

If I could be anywhere today, it would be there. Out in the middle of nowhere in a country I am not from, surrounded by people I can understand when they talk. I didn’t see too many redheads while I was there, which disappointed me, but was told simply I was in the “wrong part” of the country.

Maybe one day I’ll have the money to go back. It’s sad that I have to be saddled by that problem. It’s self-created, so I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve never done enough to pay off the mountain that I have. I’ve made small gains every so often, then I get a woman in my life and I forget what I was doing for a while.

The stink of the morning is a funny thing, too. I like it when it’s cold. Hate it when it’s warm. I’m the complete opposite about the actual weather, though. Give me a hot, sweaty, sticky day over a cool, breezy and damp day any time.

“You sure you don’t want to play hooky with me?” the girl asked me after we bumped into each other again.

“Darling, I’d love to, but duty, as always, calls me …” I trail off a bit at the end.

“You’re in the military? I thought they didn’t allow facial hair like that?”

“They don’t. And I’m not,” I replied stroking my soon-to-be-shaved beard of about 10 inches in length.

We smiled at each other and she kept walking away. It’s a different perspective. It seems I’m always the one driving or walking away at the end. Looking in the rearview mirror at what I’m leaving behind. It’s enough to get you down if you let it. And I have let it.

I know one thing, I will have a beer before St. Patrick’s Day is over tonight. It may be hellishly awful to go to the bar later. Everyone will have had their “drink on” for the entire day and I’ll be just off the road. But damn, sometimes you just have to do the right thing…

Yes Mam

We walk out of the apartment. It’s a warm day for October. A little humid.

“You think it’s going to rain?” I ask. I hate asking weather questions. It means you have nothing to talk about.

She sticks out her tongue. Takes a deep breath.

I don’t remember her exhaling.

“Yep.”

That was exactly how that conversation needed to go, I figure.

I look down at my “Life and Times of Tim” shirt. It’s the one that says “Don’t squeeze and old woman’s boobs.” I dig it.

“Maybe I shouldn’t wear this to a restaurant,” I say.

“No one’s gonna notice it, ya moron,” she replies.

Quick and to the point. Got’s to like that. We jump in her car. It’s old. There’s a cat cage in the backseat. A row of Homies line the dashboard. A window shield reflector thing is in passenger seat. I grab it and throw it in the back.

“Make yourself at home!”

“I did.”

We’re driving. I mention the shirt again. It’s the third time so far today.

“You certainly are proud of your shirt there young man,” she says. “Next time, you should wear it to show and tell. Cause right now, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Ha.

We cross the nickel bridge. It costs 35 cents.

At the restaurant, I get out, put on my flip flops and look at my mesh shorts. I think I bought these in 1998 or so. They don’t look so good anymore. I hold the door for the lady.

We go inside. An older lady is the hostess. She looks straight at my shirt and stares a bit long.

“Awkward,” I whisper. She snorts. Always a good sign.

At the table, we sit.

“Told ya,” I say with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. But that is funny.”

After eating, we head straight to the bar. It’s the same old crowd. Literally, an old one. This place is always full of old white men. At least in the afternoon.

“I’m glad I skipped work,” she says.

“Me too.” I didn’t skip work. But I’m glad she did.

We drink awhile. Make small talk. Make fun of people. Probably get made fun of.

Then a gaggle of women come in. One is in a wheelchair. She comes toward us with a couple of others.

“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she says over and over to other barstoolers.

One by one they stand, scoot their chairs in and let her pass. Then sit back down and resume drinking, talking or staring.

She gets to me and her. She gets up. Then I get up.

“Excuse me,” the lady says. Then she looks at me.

“Get out of my way,” she says to me.

All I can think is “huh? What the fuck did I do?”

We sit back down. In the back of the bar, now there are at least 50 blue hairs. A gathering.

Then it dawns on me. I turn to her and point at the shirt.

“Psychic about un-important things,” we both say in unison.

“Time to drink,” I continue.

We look at each other and laugh.

“One day, you should write all of this stuff down,” she says. “I’m not going to do it for you.”

I have to pee. The bathroom is behind the area where all the old ladies are. I decide to hold it. Better safe than sorry.

Of course, the chance to be accosted by 50 of the Greatest Generation seems to be something that could make for good fodder later on in life. After another beer and a half, I make my move. I scoot out my stool just loud enough to be noticed.

I sashay over to the back. It seems like a long walk after six beers and no peeing.

I reach the area where all the women are. The one in the wheelchair is right in front.

“Excuse me,” I say as I step by her.

No response. I keep walking. I get to the bathroom. I pee. I wash my hands. I look at my shirt in the mirror. And as always, when I hear the word mirror, even in my head, I start to say “mirror, father. Mirror, father.”, from Ghost World. I. Am. Idiot.

I walk out of the bathroom. Two ladies are standing there. I feel their glare.

“’Scuse me, ladies!” I say, a little too happily.

“You should try it sometime,” the older of the two says after I’ve passed.

I do a quick turn. I smile. And do my best gentlemanly bow.

“One day, ‘mam. One day.”

I get back to the bar.

“Whiskey please.”

“Make it a double,” she says.

I knew I liked this girl.