I am not entirely sure where I am or how I got here. It is certainly my own fault, and God knows if I will ever leave. If I do not, or rather cannot, leave, this account will have to suffice as an explanation of my current condition.
My name is Constantine Ó Slatara. I am a young civil servant and least of all Pioneers. Truth be told, I have enjoyed nothing more all my life than a well-pulled pint. It was my absolute pleasure every week to throw aside my ear-cutting headset after the mundanity of work and head to my local. It was my routine to sit in the snug, at the bar or by the fire, and drink away to my heart’s desire.
This routine of mine, however, was torn apart. On the 15th of March 2020, the Government requested the closure of all pubs by midnight. When my friends and I heard the news, we rushed to Neachtain’s and seized Ó Conaire’s snug in expectation of what was to be a daylong last call for the drinkers of Ireland. We bought rounds, and in the breaths between our slugging, we discussed the catalyst behind our hasty pinting: the Coronavirus.
“How long will this last?”
“They say ‘till the 29th.”
“I’d say we hit this thing on the head at the right time. We should be back to normal soon.”
“I doubt that. We’re open to the world. Sure look at what they’ve had to do in China.”
“Time will tell.”
My last drink was a pint of stout, which I threw back at around a quarter to one in the morning. I thought it would be a handful of weeks before I would see another. “Not a bother.” I thought to myself. “I can go without it for a while.”
I still remember the state of the town that night when I staggered out on to the streets. I watched a bevy of pug-faced men holding back a smaller, flat-capped member of their band from a fellow I can only describe as rakish obesity on legs. An exchange of perilous prose filled the space between them. My friends, captivated by the sight, incited these men to action for their entertainment. Unfortunately, the corpulent cavalier cowardly fled and gave the tarmacadamed field to the flat-capped maneen. As I looked at these usual late-night antics, it seemed nothing was going to change. Not I, nor anyone else considered what we were heading into. Every soul thought the pubs would be back in action come the end of March. We might miss St. Patrick’s Day, but our sacrifice would bring a speedy conclusion to the restrictions. How wrong we were. The 29th of March came and went, but the restrictions remained. Every business was shuttered, except for a smattering of food shops. All public gatherings were banned. Septuagenarians, and older, were confined to their homes, and you could not go more than 2km from your own house.
Initially, I was fine with this. Having special permission to go to work, I could maintain a bit of routine in all the disruption. I would spend my afternoons cooking for myself, reading a book or gaming on my PC. I walked each day and enjoyed the outdoors. Of course, I did all this before the lockdown. The only difference was the absence of pints from my life. As the weeks dragged on, my peace of mind started to unravel. The novelty of cooking quickly wore off. Gaming in my room became repetitive, and walking became tiresome. Afterall, you can only go around a lake-walk so many times before you want to throw yourself into it. I could not even satisfy my growing sexual frustration because no one wanted a Tinder ‘randy-vous’. Who would have thought Dr. Tony Holohan and the Government would be the cause of my blue balls?
My inability to go anywhere, meet or ‘do’ anyone, or do anything different at all, was driving me to drink; and I could not even do that either because I am not a home-drinker. The group chats I was in were wearing away my sanity. Memes I had seen before, or did not want to see, would be shared five times over. I read the news every day in eager anticipation of any sign of improvement in the number of cases or deaths in Ireland. I began imagining what I would do when the lockdown finally ended. The pints I would drink. The friends I would meet. The holidays I would go on. I even started to savour the idea of having a hangover once again!
My impatience increased as the lockdown was extended on the 10th of April. I started to become agitated. It was a struggle to keep my temper under wraps on the phones at work when dealing with the public. I had no pints to calm me in the afternoon, nor a pleasant place to holiday in, away from my work. I was stuck. All I wanted was an hour. Just one hour. In the pub. Any pub. It did not matter to me, if the pint that was poured was perfect. As the days blended into one another, my agitation turned to irritation, my irritation to vexation, and my vexation to open frustration. My thirst was immense. I honestly do not know how Jesus went 40 days and nights without one. The Devil would have surely tempted me, and, indeed, I think she did.
One weekend, I could not bear it anymore. I shut down my PC, put on my coat, locked the front door, and went out for a walk. The town was like a graveyard. I walked by all the closed pubs and peered through the windows in hope of finding a secret session in progress. Alas, there was not. I walked until the sun set. Then I walked until twilight and finally until nightfall. I felt no desire to return to my house, so I continued walking. I walked well past the 2km limit until I left the tarmac and concrete of the town and headed into the countryside. Eventually, I came to a crossroads. I could see nothing around me but heather and gorse in the bog under the moonlight.
I lit a fag, sat on a wall, and gazed at the stars. “What I wouldn’t do for a pint.” I thought. Immediately, I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I broke off my gaze and looked to my left. What I saw surprised me. A Garda was standing there, and not just any Garda, but an attractive Bangharda. She wore a six-panel helmet with a rose finial on top, and her skirt ran to the bottom of her knees. She was an odd sight to behold in the middle of nowhere. Her legs seemed hairier than your average Irish woman, but I assumed this was a Garda checkpoint, and that all empowered women went unshaven like that. I stood up from the wall.
“Good night, Banghar—I mean, Garda!” I called out.
“It is.” she responded. “Do you live in the area?”
“Well…no. I don’t. I took no heed of my route. It seems I went a bit astray.” I answered.
“So it seems.” she responded.
“Sorry. I know I shouldn’t go beyond the 2km limit. I’ll head back the way I came.” I said.
“Do you have to go so quickly?” she asked.
“I suppose I don’t.” I responded.
“There has been a great spell of weather recently.” she remarked.
“There has. Grand weather.” I said.
“It’s an awful nuisance this lockdown, isn’t it?” she remarked.
“It is.” I responded. “Awful. Will it ever end? All I want is pint.” I said.
“Really? Not a vaccine or immunity?” she asked.
“Dead right. Jaysus, I’d die for one.” I responded.
“Hold on.” she said.
I should have known something was askew when she smiled at me and took from behind her cape a pint of stout, but I was so overwhelmed with joy that I did not give it a second thought. I had never seen such a perfect pint before. The body looked as black as coal and the head as white as snow. I could smell its malty scent from where I was standing.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked.
“I am!” I said.
“You’ll suffer for it.” she said.
“I’m suffering for it as is. Give it here!”
The Garda handed me the pint. I could feel its coldness in my hand. My mouth salivated as I raised it to my lips. I closed my eyes, threw it back and let out a long, satisfied sigh when I drank it all down.
“Thank you.” I said. “You’re welcome.” she responded. “And thank you.” The Garda turned on her heels and dissipated into the darkness. “Don’t you want your glass back?” I shouted after her. There was no response. The moon had scampered behind a blanket of clouds and I was on my own. Perplexed by the counter, I decided to return home. It did not take long before I noticed the walk back was different. Nothing was the same. Everything was pitch black. I thought I had taken a wrong turn, when the surface underfoot turned to cobbles and brought me to a street lined with buildings.
I shuffled down the cobbled street that stretched in a never-ending line underneath the light of an infinite amount of black street lanterns. It was sometime after midnight. Pubs lined either side of the street. Not even one was the same, yet they all had the charm of a grand, fine pub. From the outside, they all seemed opened and welcoming. I thought I had wound up in a country village that flouted the national restrictions. I soon learned this was not the case. Each pub I entered only had one patron at the bar with a partially drank drink before them. No matter what pub I went into, there was no bartender to order from and no response from the patron whose face I never saw. I looked at the clock on the wall of each pub. The small hand was always pointed at two and the large one at six. I tried to go back the way I came, but the street stretched endlessly in either direction. I spent what seemed like an eternity going from pub to pub in ever increasing desperation, looking for a pint or an explanation, until I reached a pub that had the appearance of Edward Hooper’s Nighthawks painting. I ran in, went up to the bar and desperately called for the bartender. There was no response. I laid my head on the countertop, ready to burst into tears, when the solitary patron sitting beside me raised his arm and pointed his crooked finger to the clock, the arms of which were at two and six, like the others. I looked at the clock, and then at him, and he at me. As we looked into each other’s eyes, I heard his voice in my head. ” They shtopped servin’.” The patron turned his head from me as if I were trash on the street and took another slug from his pint of stout. I staggered outside in exasperation and continued walking, looking at the warm yellow lights of the pubs I passed by. And so, I walk to this day. Never finding a bartender, never finding a pint, and never finding peace.
Meascra 