Maybe. But Maybe Not...

[craic: (pron: crack) A Galic Irish word meaning good times, enjoyment, fun. That feeling in the air that puts a smile on one's face and warms the inside. eg: How's the Craic? What's the Craic? Any Craic? Good Craic here in the summer...]

      If I were a barman in a small fishing village on the southwest coast of Ireland, it would only be because it's time for another brief pause in my travels. And what better place then a town by the sea where I might be given free accomadation, above-minimum wages paid weekly in cash, free meals (of good pub food) from the kitchen, my days free (if I would just get up early enough), a free pint after my shift, and good Craic at least four times a week.
     If I were a barman in a small fishing village in Ireland, maybe it would take only a few days to figure out what the locals drink, but a bit longer to learn their names. And maybe it would take even a few days more to figure out what they're actually saying through their thick Irish accents. But maybe that's part of the fun. Part of the Craic.
     I might wonder how this pub could get so packed with locals, young locals, in a town of no more than 4,000 people. And who exactly is checking the ID's of these kids? And how would I be expected to tell the difference between an underdeveloped 18 year old, and an overdeveloped 17 year old when both of them have kids, smoke, and want drinks?
     Maybe some old stereotypes are true for a reason, or simply get reinforced when 65 and 70 year old men come in at 10:30 in the morning and order a double Paddy (whiskey), and a pint o' Guiness. And maybe new stereotypes are seeded in my mind when equally old, and equally Irish men prefer the Murphy's. "'Tis a bit thicker," they say. Or rather, 'tis "extra smooth." And maybe the Murphy's gives me a bit of trouble at first, and I have a hard time getting the thick head down to the appropriate size, and the men laugh at me and tell me that they ordered a pint, not a half pint. And I smile back as I take their pint and do my best to make the head smaller, while trying to keep the red out of my face as I laugh with them.
      Maybe the weather is finally turning a bit more friendly, as it only rained twice last week. Once for three days, and the other time for four days. And the remainder of the week was filled with clear skies and sunshine.
     If I worked as a barman in a small town in Ireland, maybe I would have been behind the bar one busy Wednesday night during my first week when a man walked in and ordered a Pint o' Guiness. And when I charged him for it as I waited for the first part of the pour to settle, maybe he asked for a reciept, which I might have thought was a little unusual had I had the time to stop and think about it. Because what company is going to reimburse anyone for a pint of stout? But maybe I was too busy to think about that right then and there. And maybe, just maybe, when I topped off his pint and set it down in front of him, he looked at it closely, then looked at me with a stone look on his face and said a series of things that froze me.
"Thank you, but I can't drink this. I'm driving."
     Maybe I had that same confused look that you have on your face right now.
"I'm a representative from Guiness. Thank you for pouring me a Perfect Pint. You can just give it to the next person who orders one. Someone will be by next week with your certificate."
      And maybe he smiled at me and walked out as I threw my hands, clenched into triumphant fists into the air and held them there until a firefly that had been buzzing around the bar since he walked in hit me in the back of the head. But maybe even that wasn't enough to wipe the grin off of my face for the rest of the night.
      A Perfect Pint of Guiness. For a Guiness Spy. A Guiness Rep. In Ireland, during my first week behind the bar. Wouldn't that be the Dog's Bollocks?!
     If I worked at a pub in a small town in Ireland, we would have live music every week on Friday and Saturday nights, and Sometimes on Wednesday. And maybe it wouldn't be traditional Irish music all the time, but maybe that's OK. Because maybe it would always be good music. And sometimes great music. And maybe that's all I ask.
     Maybe I was on during the first Irish match of the World Cup at 7:30 in the morning (local time). And maybe I subjected myself to having my bald head painted the three stripes of green, white, and orange of the Irish Flag, for the Craic. And maybe I joined the train that weaved through town, every other pub, and the aisles of the grocery store as celebration ... for a tie score.
     And a week later when the US football team beat Portugal 3-2, maybe I grabbed an American flag and repeated the journey with the same vigor...this time alone. For the Craic. And maybe because of that, those few people in the town who didn't know my face before, surely know it now. And maybe it took me the entire first half of the Ireland/Germany match to catch my breath. But maybe the best Craic of all was during that same Germany/Ireland match when Ireland scored an equalizing goal in the final minute of injury time, and the pub erupted in cheers, and hugs and kisses, and anything that anyone was holding at the time went suddenly airborne with a sudden disregard for gravity and its properties. Hands, pint glasses, hats, even babies soared through the air like rainbows. All for another tie score.
     If I were a barman in a small Irish town, there might actually be a short, round, 70-something Irishman named Paddy who shakes his hips like Elvis, and makes the women giggle and swoon like Sinatra when he sings. And maybe his smile is so full of life that it's undeniably contagious. And he might just be the most Irish person I've ever met. By far.
     If I worked in a pub in Ireland, maybe it was a bit surprising that the staff all drinks Carlsberg as their pint of choice, and not (even as Irish as they are) Guiness. But maybe I would accept that soon enough, and become one.
     And maybe, if you're a regular reader of these letters, you know that none of this is possible. And if you're a regular reader of these letters, you know why. So maybe the entire preceding letter is made up. A fabrication. Something I wrote for the Craic. And maybe today is my birthday. Or maybe not...

Props to My Peeps, and Peace on the Mothership,

Chris

email thedwanimal@hotmail.com