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The pub was packed to the brim and Tom wondered how he let Doug convince him to come here. Green beer was pouring from the tap and a few brave fellows tried the Guinness--most set it aside after the first sip and ordered the closest thing to an American beer the place offered. The television in the back of the room was playing a montage of Irish victories in past World Cups to a Queen song, but it was hard to hear over the din the men surrounding it were making.
Tom was pretty sure the pub down the street from his home when he was growing up was more authentic then this place, and that was run by a man from Boston who did not know what a shamrock was till he opened the place.
“Isn’t this place great?” Doug asked, throwing his arm around Tom’s shoulder.
“Sure,” Tom agreed, wondering how fast he can convince Doug to leave this place.
Doug squeezed himself into a free space at the bar and ordered a beer for himself, looking over at Tom when it came to his turn to order, “What do you want?”
Tom looked over the selection the place offered, “I’ll just have your best ale.”
The bartender nodded, returning a few moments later with their drinks, “Anything else?”
“No,” Tom said quickly, eyeing the potatoes on another person’s plate. It was quite possible that they would crawl off at any second.
They maneuvered their way out of the pub and sat down at a plastic table in front of it.
Doug knocked back half of his pint in the first minute and polished it off on the next gulp. He wiped a stray bit of foam off his upper lip with his sleeve, “I love St. Patrick’s day.”
“Why not?” Tom asked, sipping at his ale. “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Something bothering you, Tom?” Doug asked, leaning forward.
“It’s nothi--”
“Have either of you seen a blonde girl?” a man that was twice the size of Doug asked.
“Err…” Doug looked around. “Not that I can remember.”
“Fucking cunt,” he muttered angrily. He turned to Tom to see if he had a different answer.
Tom shook his head no and the man wandered off. He tried again to answer Doug’s question, but was interrupted by a blonde woman.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” she said in a thick, British accent. “That bloke was a blind date of mine and I had to escape.”
She continued, “I just wanted to apologize for his language, it was quite rude.”
“No problem,” Doug said, putting on his best charming smile. He pulled out the chair next to him, “Why don’t you have a seat? We’ll protect you if he comes back again.”
Tom sunk lower into his seat, his odd depression mounting. He eyed the drink in the woman’s hand, “What’s that?”
The woman glanced down, “Oh, I’m actually not sure, Mike ordered it for me. I think he called it an Irish Car Bomb.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Doug flirted, a wicked grin flitting across his face.
“You can have it if you want, I’m not much of a drinker,” she said, pushing the glass towards Doug.
“Naw, I’m good,” Doug said, tilting his empty pint towards her. “I try to pace myself.”
“I’ll have it,” Tom said in a sudden burst of energy. He knocked it back in one shot, his eyes watering when the alcohol burnt his throat.
Doug stared him like he had a grown a second head, but Tom was too busy enjoying the warm feeling growing in his stomach to notice.
“Brave,” the woman commented, her eyes sparkling.
Tom glared at her and stood up, “I’ll be at the bar.”
It wasn’t until after Tom’s third drink--a mixture of Baileys Irish crème, rum, and other alcohol that Tom didn’t want to know about--Doug came in to check on him.
“What going on?” Doug asked, seating himself at the bar.
“Nothing,” Tom growled, but it was hard to tell since his face was buried in his arms.
“Nothing?” Doug asked in disbelief. “You’ve been miserable all day and now you are sitting in a pub looking as if you are trying to drown your problems in alcohol.
Tom lifted his face enough to order another drink from the bartender, then looked at Doug, “Maybe I am.”
“What?”
“Drowning my problems in alcohol.”
“You don’t have an problems, Tom.”
“How would you know? You’re too busy with Ms. British to even care.”
Doug raised his eyebrows, “What?”
“You heard what I said.”
The bartender set down Tom’s drink, but Doug held Tom’s arm down to stop him from inhaling it. “We’re going home.”
“No we’re not,” Tom argued, slurring his words.
Doug pulled out his wallet and left a wad of dollar bills on the bar. After that, he lifted Tom off of his stool and balanced him against Doug’s body. “Oof, did you gain twenty pounds in the last hour?”
Tom mumbled something into Doug’s shoulder, but Doug didn’t care to hear it.
The walk to the Mustang took longer than Doug thought it would. Tom kept slumping against Doug and dragging his feet, causing Doug to lose his center of gravity long enough to fall twice.
Finally, they were at the car and Doug leaned Tom against it. He tried the door handle, but the door wouldn’t open.
“Darn,” he grumbled to himself.
After some prodding arousing in Tom’s pockets, which caused a few giggles from Tom, Doug retrieved
the car keys. He opened the back door and was about to guide Tom into the backseat, when Tom suddenly pressed up against him from behind. Tom gripped his hips tightly and brushed his lips against Doug’s ear.
“Thank you.”
Then he promptly passed out.
“Your welcome, buddy,” Doug whispered, twisting around to put Tom in the car. He made sure Tom was laying on his stomach with his face towards the seat in front of him, just in case, then climbed into the front seat.
“Though, I’m not sure you’ll be thanking me in the morning.