Barman Dooley flicked peanuts into his gaping mouth.
Crunch.
He was a burly bloke, stacked like an ox with a shark’s smile.
Crunch.
“Why the long face Davey?” Dooley said with a hint of indifference. He was serving Davey Rooney, drinking a stiff one as always.
Crunch.
He downed each glass with ease, shaking it like a bell when it was empty. Davey was sat in The Grand Horseman, too grand a name for a place fit for horses. It sat on a lonely corner in Ballygarrett, not too far a drive from Gorey.
Crunch.
“You still thinking about that shithouse car of yours?” Davey finally shifted his eyes from his glass.
“Of course I’m still thinking about that car of mine! And it wasn’t shit, it was a classic, shut your mouth when you’re eating.”
Crunch.
“Ah Davey, I don’t want to be bad mouthin your car or anything but an old Porsche, that’s a classic, a brown Fiat Punto isn’t even fit for the scrapyard. Now, I’m not saying your little Fiat was shite, just that Fiat’s in general are pretty shite is all. I’ve never had one, you’re the only fella I know who’s had one really, and it turned out to be pretty shite, so I’m just guessing that they’re all like that really.”
Davey’s face quivered, the whiskey had loosened him up a bit. He hated Dooley’s monologues. They reminded him of a cat standing in a doorway, not being able to decide where they were going or where they were going to end up. He shook his glass again.
Crunch.
“Are ye done mouthin off about my car now Dooley? I came here for cheap drink not to hear you spout on all day.”
“Cheap drink? It mightn’t cost much but its bloody better than the piss they serve in The Scooner.”
Dooley grabbed another bottle of Jameson and handed it to Davey.
“You can pour your own, calling my pub cheap. I paid good money for this place. Got it off Joe Riley when he decided to up and move to Glasgow.”
Crunch.
“What do you think Glasgow is like Davey? Do you think they have cheap drink and shite Fiats?” There was a hint childlike wonder in Dooley’s questions, underlined by slight malice.
“They probably do knowing the Scots, copying us again. But Dooley….”
Crunch.
“Would you shut your fucking mouth!” He had drank more than he realised.
“Excuse me? You’re coming into my pub, telling me to shut my mouth? And why? Just cause I’m slagging your Fiat? I’m not the one who hit Pad Riley now am I?”
Davey was shaken by this. He slumped in his stool.
“Sorry Dooley, your peanut crunching was driving me round the bend”. Davey said in conjunction with a loud Crunch.
“I know how to eat food Davey, and I’ll eat it how I want to in my pub. To tell you the truth, I’m glad you gave Pad a good whack. Damned fecker deserved it, did you see he spray painted the back of the church there 2 weeks ago. Wrote “To Hell or to Ballygarrett”, Father Boyce near’ entered his precious heaven. Don’t know why the little fecker hated us so much. I suppose you didn’t do him any favours with your Fiat and all.”
“I suppose I didn’t.” Davey, glanced at the clock. Stuffed his shoulder of Jameson into a takeaway bag and got up off his stool. Dooley’s face softened, he had hoped Davey would stay a while longer. He plunged his hand back into the bag of nuts.
“Be seeing you Davey”
“Hopefully. If they’re nice enough, I should be grand.”
“Don’t be saying that stuff about the Scots copying us and you should be fine.”
“Ah I won’t Dooley, you know me, I don’t like the drama."
Crunch.