Summer Soap, Part 1: A pub eavesdropper, a mystery conversation

Barkeeper Sean:

The rain was finally starting to let up, downpour straining into a fine mist as I jogged down the hill. If I had been a couple minutes earlier, maybe my bed-head could have been saved by its haze. But, as I turned onto Barrack Street and the familiar apartments blended into the black of The Young Doe, I resolved to one last tussle with my hands, before stepping within.

Oisín’s head raised as I entered, unreadable behind the thick of his beard. He hadn’t even taken his jacket off, and hurried around the bar, stepping past me with a light pat-pat on the shoulder.

“Hey! Sorry again, I promise it won’t...” My words drifted away as Oisín left, rounding the corner of the building and disappearing from what little sight the windows gave. At least he hadn’t fired me.

I discarded my coat and rounded the bar. I really had to stop doing that. It was the third shift in the past couple of months that Oisín or James had covered my opening. I was surprised they had told me to come in at all today. Especially when I had awoken half an hour after my shift was supposed to start, in a hungover stupor.

The bar was quiet. It was still early and only two patrons sat within, some father and daughter, quietly perched in the corner. Their pints were nearly full, the foam of the Murphy’s still dangling from their upper lips. I could take things at my own pace for the time being.

I tidied and finished setting up for the day while the odd word from their conversation tiptoed through the otherwise-hushed pub.

“Where... it comes from?...”

As I wiped through the traps and spouts one more time, the father’s voice raised loud enough for me to catch nearly a full sentence. “Well, what would you rather? Caught in bed... by your best friend... caught lying... by your bird?”

My head acted on its own, still groggy from the night before, and I leered an eye at the two. The daughter was rapt, eyes alight as she watched the older, shier man whittle around his words. They could have been father and daughter, maybe. An old father at that. But no, the elderly man was Pat. I knew Pat. My dull brain pieced together like molasses. Pat, who always came by in the early hours of the week. Pat, always overdressed in a grey coat and patterned scarf no matter the heat. The only man I knew who could still rock a bowler hat in the 21st century. And Pat had no children. No wife since two summers ago. So I had heard.

The young woman I didn’t know... I scratched around the remaining grey matter. No, I really didn’t know her. She was dressed like a crow, dressed in black from head to toe, with large boots that nearly reached to the floor at the ends of her oddly long legs. I would have remembered her. In any case, definitely not his daughter.

In my daze, curiosity got the better of me. I inched closer, pretending to check the windows and re-clean the tables in case whoever closed the night before had been slacking. They hadn’t, but nevertheless I made a great show, elbows high in the air, pressing my full weight into the hand which scrubbed the already spotless wood. A laugh between the two cut enough space in the air for me to spin closer. Was that a fleck of paint peeling off the wall, or had I accidentally scratched it off?

“Are you serious?” Pat struggled to get out between chuckles. “Two kettles? Three spouts, no, four? I-I can’t even picture it.”

“Of course.” The young woman smiled. “Although I might have to patent it now that you know. I’ll call it ‘The Siphon’ or something. Maybe something smarter sounding? But you get the picture...”

I drew a finger along the windowsill, painting the disgust layer by layer on my face. Now how had this imperceptibly small amount of dust gotten there? No matter, I would clean that right up.

“The larger kettle, or pot,” the younger woman said, “or whatever you like, has integrated limits. So as it’s filled, it automatically pours in multiple directions. So that in the end, anything brought near it gets filled up just the same. But when there’s nothing else near, the holes cover up and the original pot fills just fine.

“Now, imagine it was one of those massive stock pots,” she continued. “The kind where soups and stews are cooked for years on end. Even just a small bowl being brought near it for a moment would come away with a soup greater than any it could have made on its own. That’s how I see wisdom. And that’s why I don’t like talking this much.”

The two shared another laugh before she pressed on.

“I’ll only ask my questions and ask for clarification sometimes. Other than that, I simply want to sit in your proximity and fill my bowl from your wisdom.”

Pat’s eyes drifted while he considered, meeting mine for a single, terrifying moment. I suddenly jumped back, startled awake in the awareness that I had been eavesdropping.

“Proximity,” Pat said, although I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me. “I guess I see your point. But we’ll have to see who’s the bigger pot.”

Another laugh sounded as I scurried behind the bar. I was stone cold sober now and the gears of my brain were finally oiled and turning, back to normal.

I poured myself a glass of water and retreated to the coolness of the back room as Pat’s words traipsed once more across the pub, squeezing to fit behind me before the door closed. “So, back to your question:

“Love?”

TOMORROW: “I was just walking by and saw you here. It was the third time, actually. In any case, could I buy you a pint? I’d like to pick your brain for a bit...”