But in keeping with the theme, here’s a drinking story: a couple of years ago, the Husband (at that time the Fiancé) and I were in Ireland at this time of year. (Yes, Ireland on St. Patrick’s Day. Not original, but, hell, who’s going to pass up that?) We went for a variety of reasons, but one of the biggest was because my mate Krys from over at On The Road To Ithaca was living there at the time, in a little town called Tralee. Well, I say little. It’s probably bigger than the place I currently live. (Edit: nope. Thank you, internet.)
Anyway, while we were there, we ended up at a local pub. I liked the place; it had a great sketchy vibe. And we met some real interesting folks there, one of whom gave me this story.
I was helping Krys carrying the latest round of Guinness to our table when I was stopped by an older gentleman seated at the bar. He had, of all things, a book of poetry in his hand, and asked if I would mind reading some to him. So I did, because there are some things you have to do. Wish I could tell you what the poetry was, but I was a few pints in by then. Still, I like to think that I did a credible job of reading poetry in a crowded bar. It’s worth noting that no one else in the bar thought this was at all strange. The guy appeared to be a regular, and I suppose, of all the things bartenders have to get used to, impromptu poetry readings aren’t the worst.
So after I read this guy a couple of poems, we start chatting. And I admit that I’m a writer. (That’s what I did, too: admit it, like I was confessing to a fucking crime. “Yes, I did it. I’ve got the evidence at home. Would you like to see it? I keep it under the bed…”) I tell him that I write short stories and novels, mostly fantasy and horror.
And the guy, with his everywhere white hair, like Christopher Lloyd in Back to The Future, and these icy grey-blue eyes, looks straight at me and says, in a heavy Irish accent, “You’re going to be a great storyteller. I can see it in your eyes.”
And then he paused. “But I’m a little pissed, though.”
So there you have it. I heard it from a man in a pub. It’s got to be true.
You can keep your angels; I’ll take a prophecy uttered by a drunk Irishman in a crowded bar any day.