Kevin Burke, a maverick Irishman attempting to live peacefully in a New Mexican village, watches his life turn chaotic during an extended visit from his rambunctious nephew, Seamus. Kevin’s once idyllic existence of puttering in his garden, studying wildflowers, and telling lies at the local cantina is now under siege. Mistaken for descendents of the legendary San Patricio Brigade by a peculiar band of Mexican horsemen, and under threat of retaliation from a smalltime thug after one of Seamus’ amorous escapades, the two Irishmen dance a wild tightrope toward the inevitable confrontation.
Inside, the reassuring mix of stale beer and human piss permeated the air, perhaps receiving a contribution from rodent urine as well. Fond memories of beef and kidney pie flashed briefly before Kevin’s consciousness as he made his way to a stool. Upon sitting, with Seamus to his immediate right, Kevin’s first reaction was to survey the bar for tap handles. Alas, there were none. This pub was apparently too far out in the boonies to make hauling draught beer economically sensible. They could hear the bartender in the adjoining room huffing through some physical chore. There was time for another deep breath before Kevin leaned over the bar to see what the hard liquor selection amounted to. Seamus quietly awaited Kevin’s decisions. When the bartender appeared, a bit surprised he had customers despite the characteristic slam of the screen door, Kevin asked without hope, “Nothing on tap, eh?” “Nah,” was the response from the tall, near-toothless man, “Trucks won’t come up here less I pay ’em too much. Just buy cased beer when I make it to town.” Kevin only then noticed an old-timer sitting beyond the bar’s distant curve with a can of Budweiser in front of him. He thought to order the same, but took the chance there might be something more intriguing available. “What bottled beers have you?” he asked. “No bottles. Just cans. Bud. Bud Light. Coors. Coors Light. Miller’s. Miller Light.” responded the proprietor wearily, who leaned his long arms awkwardly against the bar. Ba’jasus, Kevin thought to himself, one of these places. He loved being off the beaten path, if they could only find their way to stocking a little variety in the bloody pubs! Kevin was in the process of mouthing the word “Budweiser” when the old codger cut him off, remembering he had a few cans of Tecate in the bottom corner of the cooler. “Forgot about these. They been here a while. We had some Mexskins livin’ round here while back and I bought a couple cases up for ‘em. They ain’t been around for a bit, ‘ns I still got some left.” The sound of the word Mexican, distorted as the pronunciation was, produced a blip in Kevin’s still racing heartbeat. He stared ahead blankly, momentarily unable to speak. “No. No,” he finally stammered. “Just two cans of Bud, and uh, a couple shots of Jack Daniels.” “Suit yourself, but I can let you have them Tecates at the same price. Forgot I had them things in there. Ain’t got no limes or nothin’ like that, but you can have ‘em the same price as the Budweisers. Gotta get rid a them things. Nobody never asks for ‘em now that them Mexskins been gone.” “No, just the Buds. That’s fine,” Kevin beseeched. When the bartender glanced toward Seamus he was busy nodding and parroting his uncle’s words. “Ok then, suit yourselves,” the old man muttered as he bent over the cooler to pull out a couple of cold ones from the bottom. With what the old man considered a majestic display of gallantry, he ceremoniously popped open the cans and propped them in front of his still shaken customers. Kevin reached for the nearest can, but then held back to politely request a glass. The lanky barman looked at him as if he didn’t understand. Perhaps he was partially deaf, which would explain the earlier look of surprise when he first discovered the two men sitting before him. “What’s that?” he asked, squinting through his left eye while scrunching up his entire weather-abused face. “Un vaso, por favor,” Kevin tried in Spanish with no results. He returned again to English, increasing the volume of his voice as he asked for “A glass, please. A couple of glasses, sir.” Again the old barman seemed confused, questioning almost in disbelief, “A with?” “Yeah, a couple of withs,” Kevin responded, being familiar with the waitress jargon for a beer “with” a glass. Still the old man maintained the puzzled look on his face and Kevin gave up, reaching for the beer once again with his right hand. He had just finished pouring half the can down his parched and trembling gullet when the barman produced a pair of 12-oz tumblers. He continued to stare at the Irishmen as if they were members of another breed…this apparently based upon their strange obsession with drinking from glasses. The “constable,” as he would later indicate to be his preferred title, kept a wary eye on the two men as he plopped down the shot glasses before pouring generous servings of Jack Daniels. It was as if he anticipated some other off-the-wall request as to how to serve shots, though perhaps it was his distaste for washing dishes that produced the scowl. Kevin meekly suggested they be granted two more beers before the “constable” withdrew, adding quickly, “We won’t be needing new glasses.” His attempt to appease the “constable” received no response other than the retrieval of two more cans from the cooler. This time there would be no gallant gestures. In fact, the cans were not opened at all. “Aye,” thought Kevin, “perhaps we should have partaken of the bloody Tecates to placate the blackguard.” Kevin took the opportunity for another fulfilling sigh before downing the shot of bourbon. He then began inspecting the tavern’s finer points, of which there were few. He did so as if he were there alone…all but ignoring his nephew who sat beside him quietly working on his second beer, his shot of bourbon still untouched. The bar itself was made of a sturdy hardwood, most likely imported from back east. It had been well cared for and polished to a high sheen, humbling the room’s other furnishings. Behind the bar, another prized possession was the classic Budweiser representation of Custer’s Last Fight. Custer valiantly slashed at a would-be assailant with his cutlass, as a buckskin scout and Indian companion looked on. Surrounding them, literally thousands of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors descended on the out-manned cavalry, graphically making quick work of them. White, nude forms were strewn about, stripped of their uniforms and bleeding profusely from where their scalps had been gouged free. It was an impressive piece. Kevin once had the opportunity for daily examination of a copy that hung over the first bar he tended as a young New York immigrant. He well knew the smallest detail, yet nostalgically enjoyed seeing the work again. With the current state of his aging eyes, along with the print’s position on the back wall, Kevin was unable to form real images of all that was present. Yet, as his eyes rolled back and forth over the scene, his brain drew forth the details from synapses deep within. Seamus, noticing his uncle’s infatuation with the painting, shifted his vision to it as well, though from his distant position the magnitude of the horror was lost. After a most thorough examination of the painting, Kevin scanned the walls for other items of interest. To the left of the Little Bighorn scene, old photos, yellowing behind dusty frames, invited viewing, but again the distance precluded such. To the right, a past-its-prime lion skin with mouth threateningly opened showed visible signs of hair loss. Kevin’s body spun on the stool slightly, following his gaze over Seamus’ head. As his eyes descended to once again notice the drinker at the end of the bar, the man saluted by lifting his can of beer and said “breakfast” in a way that made it unclear as to whether he meant it as an announcement or a question. Kevin politely reciprocated by raising his own glass.
About Jimmy Mason
Jimmy Mason, a retired biology teacher, resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico with his wife, Silda, and bluetick coonhounds, Azulita and Machaeranthera. When not working on a novel he spends his time bicycling up and down the Río Grande valley, officiating high school sports, tending his vineyard, volunteering at the zoo, and hiking throughout the river bosque.
Kevin Burke, a maverick Irishman attempting to live peacefully in a New Mexican village, watches his life turn chaotic during an extended visit from his rambunctious nephew, Seamus. Kevin’s once idyllic existence of puttering in his garden, studying wildflowers, and telling lies at the local cantina is now under siege. Mistaken for descendents of the legendary San Patricio Brigade by a peculiar band of Mexican horsemen, and under threat of retaliation from a smalltime thug after one of Seamus’ amorous escapades, the two Irishmen dance a wild tightrope toward the inevitable confrontation.
Jimmy Mason, a retired biology teacher, resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico with his wife, Silda, and bluetick coonhounds, Azulita and Machaeranthera. When not working on a novel he spends his time bicycling up and down the Río Grande valley, officiating high school sports, tending his vineyard, volunteering at the zoo, and hiking throughout the river bosque.