Craven Gets Flashed 32

“The beers are on me, Dwayne”

“Thanks, Mr. Moynahan. And let me say that having my first beer with you is an honor I can’t express without wanting to cry.”

“Please don’t, dear boy. Not at the Village Tavern. Sober crying is never a good look at a pub crawling with teamsters. Wait till your a few beers in. Then you can join the Mother Machree choir and get tossed to the alley with the rest of the boys.”

“What?”

“Never mind, young man. Let us now raise our glasses and drink to a happy future at the shop. With you under my wing I’m quite sure that Village Oddities will thrive one again. You’re like the son I never had; the dog I never owned; the fish I never swam with. Together we will dust-off the junk pile that has been my life-long obsession. I’ve got so many stories to tell, dear boy, and now I have you to tell them to. You’re an angel sent from heaven, Dwayne. And any angel that can type is an asset. You shall be my official biographer, and I fully expect that one day you will share my story with the world. I always expected to die alone. Now, I’m a like a dog who’s found his bone.”

“Are you crying, Mr. Moynihan?”

“A little early for the weeping, ain’t it, Moynahan?” said the bartender. “You’re only one beer and a whisky in.”

“I’ll be fine. Those whiskey chasers do me in every time. But I’ve paid my dues here. And, besides, I’m a life-long member of the Mother Machree choir.”

“You’re also a lifetime member of the Lousy Poets Society.  Die alone? Found his bone? I sure hope you’re a better writer than your mentor, kid. Here’s a bar rag, Moynahan. And no blowing in it. It’s for wiping only. Now, if you’ll excuse me I gotta go introduce the entertainment. It’s amateur night. But if I ain’t back in time to feed you animals, there’s bottled beers iced-up in the sink. Enjoy the entertainment.”

***

“First up tonight,” said the bartender, “is a Miss Betty Felcher. It says here she’s to sing a song of her own composition titled My Life in Glorious Black and White. Please to welcome Miss Felcher to the stage. And remember, I said please! That means you put your hands together, and you keep doing it till you feel a stinging sensation. And if I catch any one of you mugs not following instructions, expect to get a stinging sensation from me. Now, once again. Please to welcome Miss Betty Felcher to the stage. And thank you for your kind obedience.”

“Are you ready for this?” said Mildred.

“No,” said Betty. “But I’ve never been ready for anything. Been winging it my whole life.”

Betty finished the last of her martini, took a deep breath and made her way to the stage.

***

When the bartender returned to his place behind the bar he eyeballed Dwayne and the six empty beer bottles that were arranged in front of him like bowling pins.

“This your doing?” he said to Dwayne.

“I know it ain’t a proper set of pins yet, but only four more and I’ll have a complete set.”

“I can’t have been gone for more than twenty minutes. Does your mother know you drink beer like you were trying to save the world, and the only way to accomplish that was to drink more beer?”

“I don’t know,” said Dwayne. “I never tried to save the world before. But doggone it, I’m not giving up until I’m satisfied I done it proper. And I don’t care if it takes all night.”

“First timer, eh? You might wanna slow it down, kid. The way your guzzling those brews you’ll drown before you done the world any good, then where would we be? You’re putting us mere mortals in a precarious situation. So, I take it upon my self to strongly advise you to save me from a future of having to clean up the aftermath of all this derring-do of yours.”

“Just one more beer, please,” said Dwayne.

“Ginger ale it is,” said the bartender. “This one’s on me.”

Picture courtesy of Wiki Commons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=bowling+pins+&title=Spe...