Far corner seat ... best seat in the house.
To my left, old brick with mortar that longed for reinforcements. To my right, an expanse of patrons all enjoying the company of the old pub.
"...That arch there was covered up by Sheetrock! Fucking Sheetrock!" The bartender said as I looked over at him seeing him addressing me. He must've seen me eyeballing the red brick archway that led into the second half of the pub. It was twenty feet, or so, in over all length and jutted up an amazing ten to twelve feet...
"Really? It's amazing!" I replied surprised.
"This used to be two separate places and when the contractor was putting in a door to the second half they uncovered that! Under the fucking Sheetrock!" He said again for emphasis. I liked the way he valued the archway's discovery.
"No shit?" I said truly interested, and all sincere. "I can't believe it." and I couldn't either.
"Another black and tan?"
"Yes sir."
I followed the archway from it's left-hand side up and over the peak taking note of each brick and its absolute position in the self-supporting effort. An old nail sprouted out from near the middle-most portion and I assumed (or hoped) it held a horseshoe or some similar token long ago. My eyes followed the archway down to the right where they landed on a tired gent of mid twenties sitting alone with both his hands cupping a tall glass of stout. He made no attempts at facial expression when he let go with one hand and lifted the stout to his mouth with the opposite. He took a healthy swig and placed the glass back down on the pub table and returned his awaiting hand. I looked for a sigh but saw none.
Chapters of questions are asked of myself when I take note of folks sitting alone in pubs or restaurants. I am guilty of this solitary activity myself and as I usually have a reason I labor at wondering what theirs must be ... or in this case what his must be.
I return to my Black and Tan and drink half of it down quickly so as to ensure an expedited numbness. I continue to hold my glass with my right hand. I watch as three people, a woman with two men, walk in an take the three seats to my right. The woman is with one of the men and the other is left with his cell phone as companion for the evening - Games, text messaging, organizing of the contacts list all become priorities for him until he's three of four beers in and has developed the stealth courage to approach one of the pubs quiet ladies.
"Used to be the King's horse stables this place was!" The bartender again. Speaking at me in what sounded like an east coast access, Jersey, New York, etc.
"No shit?!" I asked. I had no idea. I shot my bottom lip forward and raised my eyebrows up in surprise. I nodded my head and gave him a well-that-makes-perfectly-good-sense look.
"Yeah! You know, this brick is made to last! The mortars fucking powder but look how longs it been standing! It's bad ass!"
I agreed wit him a shared my thoughts on the longevity behind brick architecture. We both questioned 'they' and wondered why 'they' don't make'em like 'they' used to.
"Another one?"
"Absolutely!"
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