fun. - some nights

The name of this pub was a funny coincidence.

Or maybe it was a stroke of fate.

Who knows.

It was named after the owner, who opened this place sometime in the early-70s. Since then, the old O’Shea died and left his pub to his daughter, who was married so she wasn’t technically an O’Shea anymore, but anyone brave (or stupid) enough to say this out loud would have to dodge a few pint glasses sent towards their head.

Agnes, or Aggie as she was known here, fostered the same atmosphere as her father. The old man grew up in Ireland so had first-hand experience with their drinking culture. This is why, when he moved to the States and discovered that his neighborhood didn’t have a small, local pub only for locals, he saw to ratify this horrible mistake.

Alasdair discovered it a few years ago. He moved to the area together with his two friends soon after graduation, because a tiny apartment on York Street was the best they could afford at the time. Since then, Sean managed to get a decently paying job on Wall Street and Liam moved in together with his girlfriend leaving Alasdair all alone. He ended up convincing another friend to share a place with him and both of them being a bit better off now, they managed to avoid having getting a third roommate.

When he first saw the name «O’Shea» on a sign, which was a bit damaged by time, Alasdair couldn’t not go in. Because O’Shea was his mother's maiden name. Everything seemed too perfect.

That was almost four years ago. A lot has changed in O’Mara’s life but nothing changed inside this pub. It was one of those places which fancy travel blogs would call a hidden gem. It was the same crowd almost every single night so anyone new stuck out as a sore thumb.

No matter what was happening outside, you could always expect a warm welcome here. Most days Aggie took care of the bar herself, but on Fridays and Saturdays she would get one of her sons to help her. They had a couple of cooks in the kitchen who managed to do a good job keeping their patrons happy and well-fed. The floor was always a bit sticky from years and years of visitors spilling their drinks. It never got too crowded, mostly because the pub was pretty small and not posh enough of the growing hip crowd of Brooklyn, but prices, beer, and people were good and what else can you ask for?

- How is it going? - the voice of Agnes made Alasdair jump a bit in his seat. He was deep in thought staring at a page of this notebook with a bunch of notes on it.

- Well, it is going, - Al answer while straightening up. - I wish I could travel back in time and tell myself not to go ahead with this mystery book idea.

- Wasn’t your first book a mystery too? - the woman raised one eyebrow while pouring a drink. - The one about a bride who disappeared before her wedding? It was really good, so the next one will be even better!

- Yeah, - shrugged Al. - Sure. You’re right.

Dark Waters wasn’t his first book though. It was his first book to be recognized, which was not even close to being the same thing but everyone seemed to think otherwise. Well, it wasn’t like Alasdair wasn’t used to it by now.

The final draft of this second book, for which he still didn’t have a name, is supposed to be turned in next month. Al still had a few weeks, so he was trying to iron out all the kinks and little details before submitting the manuscript. When you get yourself into writing a mystery with a very detailed plot, you have to make sure that everything, absolutely everything makes sense. Nothing worse than an unsatisfying and predictable reveal or plot twist, but it also has to make sense and cannot come out of nowhere. It was a delicate balance, which was hard to find without proper work.

And so today Alasdair was sitting at his favourite pub with a notebook, where he had all the important details about this new story and was going over it, again and again, to make sure that everything made sense. He liked working here. The background noise made it very relaxing, as Alasdair wasn’t one of those people who liked to have tv or music on in the background when writing. Same with silence. It was even worse.

Soft voices of other people in the pub, a gentle clinging of the glasses, soft music in the background, the sound of beer pouring out of the tap - it was almost like meditation. Pretty much everyone else here knew that he was working, so they didn’t bother him. They knew that there will be other days when they get their happy-go-lucky ginger back, but today work was more important.

Alasdair stretched out his arms to his sides and slowly rotated his head around because he was starting to feel some tension building up in his neck and upper back. Maybe it was time for a break.

- Hey Aggie, - he caught the eye of the bartender. - Can I get the usual? Thank you.

«The usual» here meant whatever keg was freshest on tap.

She poured him a pint of some dark beer and set the glass in front of him.

- Thank you, you are the best, - he smiled, leaned back in his seat, and took a sip of this drink. It was some fairly light beer with not too much bitterness.

- You look like you can use a break, - this woman had a weird sort of aura, almost motherly, but if your mother was happy to pour you shots of vodka. - Anything else going on other than your book?

- Not really, just the usual stuff, you know. Soon I will be free from this book too.

It wasn’t true, actually. Alasdair had a very clear contract with his publisher. After the fiasco which was his first two books, they offered him a contract, which was actually pretty shitty but was also the best he could hope for. The terms were clear - one more book and if it goes well - three more after that. And it did go well, much better than anyone would have predicted. This is why he was now locked in for more.

One thing though - the contract never said anything about when he should finish all four, which was a relief. At least he didn’t have to rush it.

- What’s this one about? - Agnes asked looking down at his notebook with curiosity in her eyes.

- Um… Well, it’s a small town again. No runaway bride this time though, - he smiled. - It’s about a brother and sister, who lost their parents when they were young and were adopted by different families by mistake. Many years later they decide to come back to their hometown and slowly begin to find out all of the deep dark secrets of that place.

- Another small town, eh? - Aggie laughed.

- Yeah, I guess I kind of like this whole small town mystery shtick. Hopefully, the readers like it too.

- Darling, after your first one they will be happy to get anything new from you, - as she said it, her eyes darted towards someone behind Alasdair, probably looking at another patron. Al could hear someone’s soft footsteps behind him. - Hello, dearie, can I get you anything? - Agnes had a bright smile on her face greeting someone new.

Alasdair glanced at the guy who decided to sit next to him, trying not to listen to what he was saying and instead shifting the focus back to his notebook. Sitting next to someone at a bar didn’t mean that they had to talk. It seemed like the stranger was a few years younger than him and, being a regular here, Al could be certain that he hasn’t seen him here before. He was more on a skinny side with something almost sickly in his physique but had a very lively smile which, for some reason, reminded Alasdair of himself.

They could have stayed two strangers at a local bar, could have done their separate ways at the end of the night with not even saying a single word to each other. They could have. But then the stranger recognized him.

Al still felt weird about being recognized. Of course, it was a side effect of being somewhat famous, but since recognition was never one of the reasons he decided to start writing, it always felt a bit unnatural to him. After all, he wasn’t that interesting of a person, not really. Just one more guy trying to make a living in a big city. Nothing special.

And so Alasdair always felt a bit weird every time someone recognized him. More than anything in this world he wanted to be liked. He wanted people to smile when they were thinking about him so always wanted to make a good impression on every person he was meeting. However, it was difficult to do, hard to guess what exactly someone wanted from him.

On the other hand, being a kid from a small town and also a child of two school teachers, who were very well-known in the community, he’s always been known to others. «Oh, it’s that O’Mara kid, you know, Sean and Orla’s boy». Having a fairly large extended family also meant that people knew about him. «That cousin, the tall, ginger one» he was normally described when aunts and uncles talked about him.

This was still different. Before people knew about him because of his family, because of his parents, because of the fact he grew up in a small town - all aspects of his life he couldn’t control. These days though, it was a direct side effect of his own actions. No one else to blame here.

- No, not at all, - he smiled at a guy sitting next to him. Al closed his notebook and put it aside. He didn’t want to seem too busy for a conversation with a stranger at a bar. - I think I can use a good distraction right about now, - having spent the whole of last week just doing revisions over and over again, Alasdair started to feel like he was going insane. - Well, in that case, I must be lucky too. I guess the universe noticed that I needed to be saved from all this work.

Hopefully, Harper won't strangle him in his sleep if he misses something. At this point, Al was not sure if there was actually anything he can do to make the book better. It seemed like he’s done the best he could and should just accept it.

- Oh, yeah, I’ve seen Rory a few times here. How is he doing? Is he here tonight? - nodded Al remembering the guy he talked to a few times before. - It’s one of those places where you tend to see the same faces over and over again.

Weirdly enough, Al didn’t feel weird talking to this guy, he didn’t feel uncomfortable like he usually would when meeting someone who’d read one of his books. It was hard to explain - it was almost like he knew this guy already. Alasdair was not a believer in auras and other mystical things like this, but somehow he just felt very comfortable at that moment. As if he ran across an old acquaintance and not a complete stranger.

- Yeah, I guess, maybe I should be coming here less, - he shrugged with a small smile. - But this is a nice place. There are not that many like it around here.

Suddenly, Alasdair realized that he didn’t know the stranger’s name.

- Well, I think you already know my name, - he shifted back and reached out his hand for a greeting. - And you are? - if he’s going to have a conversation with him it would be nice to know the name of the person he was talking to.

- What do you have against Ohio? - a smile slowly spread across Alasdair’s face as he listened to the guy. - Not a bad place overall actually. And, I guess, we need to be happy for Rory. Love is a rare thing these days, - he raises his glass. - To Rory.

The stranger's name turns out to be Fionn. His handshake is pleasant enough, but Al found his finger to be long and somewhat bony as if he was a person, who just managed to fight off a terrible illness and was still recovering his strength.

- Oh no, it’s fine, you can bother me all you want, - Al shook his head. He was just happy to meet a friendly face at his favourite bar. And then something unexpected happened… Fionn said that he liked his books. The first two. The ones that failed miserably. - Oh, that’s umm… - he wasn’t used to hearing that. In fact, he could not remember the last time when someone actually said this to him. - I’m glad you enjoyed them. Not many people would agree with you though. Maybe it means that we both have terrible taste.

The change was visible in Al’s face - his smile fades a bit, not with distress, but with a gentle sadness. Alasdair himself didn’t have a favourite book among his three (almost and soon to be four) works. Picking a favourite would feel like picking out a favourite child - wrong and unnatural.

Even so, his first two books had a special place in his heart. They were different, so different in fact that they were doomed to fail from the start. They were too much him and therefore hard to market to a wide audience. As Harper once said to him: «You are a great person with a fascinating story, but for someone to be able to fully understand these two books, they need to know you. Really know. Deep, down to the bone.»

She was right, of course. Harper is always right.

- I’m surprised you managed to get your hands on a copy. The print wasn’t too large.

Alasdair started writing when he was young. His grandmother was the storyteller in their family. Unlike many other Irish people in the area, the Woods were not recent immigrants, having moved across the pond a couple of generations before. This is why they had so many relatives around the country - they had enough time to settle and put down the metaphorical roots of the family tree.

Beatrice had always been the heart and soul of the family. Her siblings, cousins, nieces, and nephews somehow always managed to gather around her, as if they were moths attracted by her warm and welcoming light in the middle of the night. They would come to visit, send their kids to stay with her over the summer holidays, but most importantly, they always shared their stories with her. And, as if they lived in ancient times before humans invented writing, Beatrice was an archive of family history. Her memory was unique - she could never forget something she’d once heard.

It was some sort of a sick irony that she ended up with Alzheimer’s later on and in her final months was unable to recognize the faces of family members around her.

She passed away three years ago, but her loss was still an open wound in Alasdair’s heart.

His parents would often send him to spend time at his grandparent's house. Al never argued, because he knew - an afternoon with his grandmother meant stories.

She never read to him like other adults, there was no room for picture books and silly fairytales about knights and princesses. Instead, Beatrice would just start talking. Sometimes she would tell him about myths and legends that her own mother would tell her about when she herself was a little girl. Their family had a fair bit of Welsh blood as well, so, in addition to Irish myths, some Welsh ones would make an appearance from time to time as well. Of course, his grandmother never explained that they were just stories that other people came up with. With only her words she managed to create an entire universe for her grandson, additionally fuelled by his own hyperactive imagination.

Other days, she would tell him about their family and Al could never know for sure if anything in these stories was true or if they were just a fragment of this old woman’s imagination. Like a story of her own uncle, who managed to find a good gold vein somewhere in Northern California, became rich and decided to hide his gold somewhere in the mountains so that his lazy and greedy children wouldn’t get his riches.

Or a story of her distant cousin, who fell in love with a handsome sailor and decided to run away with him to travel the world.

Alasdair liked to think that grandmother felt their similarities and this was why she decided to tell him all that and let in on her secrets. Transfer the knowledge from one generation to the next so that it can live on even after she died. Al, who was not gifted with the same amazing memory, had to start writing things down.

And that’s how he ultimately started writing when he realized over time that he didn’t want to just save these stories - he enjoyed adding new details, characters, elements and expanding them overall.

Slowly, over time and after a lot of revisions and adjustments, these works became his first two books.

- Um, sure, - he nodded slowly and caught Aggie’s attention. - Being somewhat famous pays off, can you believe it? - and now he is back to his usual happy-go-lucky self. - I guess we are having another round.

While the bartender poured two pints of beer, Al decided to use a short pause to gather himself. Fionn’s words really managed to knock the ground from beneath his feet.

- There you go boys, - Agnes appeared next to them, setting down two tall glasses and taking the empty ones away.

- Thank you, - he nodded quickly and turned to the guy next to him, raising his glass. - Well, I guess we have to say thank you to fate that we both ended up here tonight. Cheers! - what else can one wish for if not good company. - So, you mentioned that you are new to the area, right? How’d you end up here?