Mismatched

by Elle Casey

  “Ummm, I don’t know. How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” she answers gamely.

  The old man beams. “Practice!”

  We all have a good chuckle and the barman shuffles off to read his paper. The pints of Guinness are going down very nicely. Even Ridlee is drinking hers at a reasonable pace.

  We’re almost finished when Ridlee leans into me and whispers, “Great, now we’re stuck here all night. We can’t exactly leave; he doesn’t have any other customers.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ridlee. We’re on a pub crawl. He understands that.” I look over at the barman who’s looking up at us again, and raise my glass in salute. He has exceptional hearing.

  “A pub what?”Ridlee is yet again perplexed.

  “Crawl.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like bar-hopping on your planet.”

  “Figures.” She shakes her head slowly, chuckling to herself.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her expression and tone make my temper flare just a bit; I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s sounding as though she feels superior.

  “Well, you must admit; it’s kind of telling that in your culture people crawl from bar to bar, whereas in mine, we hop.”

  “You had better not be spouting that drunken Irish stereotype bullshit, Ridlee. That’s too lazy, even for you.” I can feel my colour rising. Why do I give a shit? I couldn’t wait to leave Ireland and never look back.

  “Okay, okay, I see I’ve hit a nerve. I didn’t mean to offend the Old Country. It was just an observation. Come on, drink up. Let’s crawl on over to the next pub.”

  I do my best to shrug off the offended feelings as we drain our pints in one. Standing to leave and headed for the door, we yell “Thank you!” in chorus.

  Linking her arm through mine once we’re outside, Ridlee leans in and tries to tickle me. I refuse to laugh, milking my hurt cultural pride for all it’s worth. Thing is, her remark did kind of annoy me. Sometimes I get tired of the Irish jokes that people expect me to enjoy so much. Ireland’s full of drunks and leprechauns and not much else, apparently. Of course the irony that I make my living out of those stereotypes is not lost on me and only makes me crankier.

  Ridlee drops onto all fours.

  “What the hell are you doing, Rid?”

  “I’m crawling to the next bar.” She looks up at me with cute puppy dog eyes.

  “Get up, ye eejit!” I giggle, reaching down to help her to her feet before she muddies her five hundred dollar jeans. I feel better now that she’s debased herself in order to make me laugh.

  There are more people milling around as we come into the town. I stop a young fella of about fourteen or fifteen and ask him where McMahon’s Pub is. I’ve heard that they have great traditional Irish music there.

  He points down the road. “Do ye see the post office there?”

  “Yeah.” I nod in the direction of the post office.

  “Well, ignore that. Don’t mind that. Just keep walkin’ till you come to a small thatch building. That’s McMahons. Are ye joining the session?” He looks round me for any sign of an instrument.

  “Eh, probably not. Just gonna’ listen, I think,” I say, half apologetically.

  “Grand, so. Well have a great night.” And with that he tips his hat and keeps going.

  “Jesus, it’s like going back in time.” Ridlee stares after the guy.

  “Come on.” I take her arm and jauntily head in the direction of McMahons.

  Each time we pass someone, Ridlee tips an imaginary hat and says ‘top of the mornin’ to ye’, even though it’s clearly the evening. The Guinness has gone to her head.

  McMahons is teeming with people, and the session is in full swing. Squeezing our way up to the bar, we order a couple of pints of Guinness and some peanuts. One side of the pub is reserved for musicians, while everyone else gathers around clapping and cheering. There’s a guy with a banjo, a woman playing the violin or fiddle — I never can tell the difference — another bloke on guitar, two people with tin-whistles, and even a young girl with a set of uillean pipes. We get lucky and squeeze into two seats just vacated, right beside the musicians.

  “Ooh, look! Bagpipes!” cries Ridlee.

  “Not bagpipes, uillean pipes!” I yell over the music.

  “Oh.” She sips happily on her pint, tapping her foot to the music.

  The group is really good; they play well together. It can be potluck at a session. Anyone can join in and often the musicians won’t have played together before. As we’re sitting there, a guy arrives with a traditional drum.

  “What’s that?” yells Ridlee.

  “It’s a Bodhrán,” I yell back.

  “A bow-wow? Is it made of dog hide?” she asks, earnestly.

  “Bow-Rawn. It’s an Irish word. You hold the drum upright on your lap and play it with a bone. It’s pretty sexy. Wait, you’ll see.” We watch the guy take out his bodhrán followed by the bone and position it on his lap while he waits for a break in the music.

  I am sitting behind him and can only see the muscles in his shoulders and back as he leans over the instrument. He’s brawny, with a strong back, but I can’t see his face. Dark brown hair curls at the top of his shirt. I glug down some more of my Guinness trying to cool the heat that’s building. Whoa there, Erin. Remember you’ve sworn off Irish guys… I remind myself.

  The next piece starts, and I can see that he has his ear cocked, waiting for the right time to begin. The fiddle, banjo, and guitar are in full swing when he begins to drum silently on the rim of the drum. The music gets faster and louder and in he comes with more volume. He uses his whole body, leaning in and out as he drums harder and then softer. At one point, I can almost see his face, but he has his eyes closed, lost in the music. His features are strong and angular, and I squirm a little in pleasure. He plays so well that the other musicians make room for a bodhrán solo. He is fantastic.

  Mmm, maybe I need to rethink my rule about Irish guys. Maybe, just maybe, I could make an exception. Just this once. If things go the way I expect them to, Ridlee and I will be gone in a couple of days, anyway. What harm could there be in a little fun first?

  Fuck it - it’s not like anybody here knows me…

  When the song ends, I get the lounge girl’s attention and order three more pints. Then, I clear my voice and get to my feet before I can think about it and chicken out. I begin to sing a traditional Irish folk song that I learned at school. My voice is shaky at first, but then it smoothes out. It’s a haunting tune called She Moved Through The Fair but I change the she to he.

  I breathe deeply between verses. I used to have a good voice at school, and I can only hope that it’s still okay. So far so good, if the expressions around me are any guide. It’s as though someone else is directing me, and I shift my body round so that I turn in the direction of the bodhrán player and sing to his back.

  The lounge girl sets our pints down on the table and then drops the third one over to the bodhrán player. His face comes into view as he turns to her, the forehead creased in a question. I sing on.

  Ridlee is looking up at me, her jaw dropped. She mouths the words: what the fuck. The lounge girl is nodding in my direction. The bodhrán player turns around and looks right at me, and he is gorgeous! I have an all over body blush now.

  “It won’t be long now, my love, ’til our wedding day…” I finish the song and sit back down. The music starts up again, and he raises his pint in salute. I match the gesture.

  “Um, hello? You sing?” hisses Ridlee.

  “A little,” I say, my eyes still glued to the bodhrán player.

  “Are you okay, Erin? You’ve gone all dreamy and goo-goo eyed.”

  “Mmmm?” I can’t focus on her or what she’s saying. I only have eyes and ears for this man in front of me.

  The musicians stop for a break. He stands up with his pint in his hand and comes toward our table.

  “Evening,” he says.

  “Ev
ening.” I respond.

  “Thanks for the drink.”

  “You’re welcome.” I rack my brains for something cool and sexy to say. Nothing comes, so I say, “You play very well.”

  “And you sing very well.”

  We just stare at each other, smiling. My heart is racing and my palms are getting sweaty. There is electricity fizzing between us. Could this be Mr. Holiday Fling? ‘Cause if it is, I am so ready to be flung.

  “Eh, Mr. Bow-wow player, my name is Ridlee, and this here is my good friend, Erin.”

  He smiles at me more. I smile back, more.

  “Micheál,” he says.

  “Me-haw?” repeats Ridlee, confused again. “That’s an odd name. Do you work with donkeys?”

  “Mi-Hall, Ridlee. It’s Irish for Michael.” I tell her dreamily, my eyes still glued to the bodhrán player’s.

  “Will you join us?” I ask him.

  “I’d love to.” He sits.

  Ridlee is elbowing me in the ribs.

  “Cut it out!” I hiss at her. I turn back to Micheál, smiling.

  Things are definitely looking up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RIDLEE

  THE MUSIC IN THIS PLACE is unbelievable. Who would’ve thought a group of people playing such simple instruments could create this amazing sound? I’m once again getting that feeling that I’ve been thrown back in time a couple hundred years or so with a dash of faerie magic thrown in for good measure. The only thing spoiling the effect is the jukebox in the corner of the room. If anyone so much as dares to lift a coin in its direction I’m going to smash its neon glass parts to bits. I swear, I’ll do it.

  Erin’s too busy flirting her lady balls off with the hot drummer to appreciate the music and ambiance in this place. Typical. I can’t blame her though; even when the instrument is only as big as a dinner plate, the drummer is still the sexiest guy in the room.

  My eyes scan the space as it continues to fill up. The beers are going down easier and easier, almost making me want to call Uncle Miley just so I can share the good news. Nothing would make him happier than to turn me into a raging Guinness-aholic. I’m pretty sure I’m halfway there already.

  As I lift my second pint to my lips to finish it off, I notice an old man in the corner who appears to be holding a private audience of sorts. He has a big, hardcover log book out in front of him and the people sitting around him are held in rapt attention as he runs his finger down the page and looks around the room. Is he taking notes? Is he a reporter? A medieval tax man?

  “Who’s that guy?” I ask, nudging Erin.

  She ignores me. She’s too busy making goo-goo eyes at the drummer who appears to have permanently abandoned his post in the band. Since she rarely falls for any guy, usually too busy working to bother, I leave her alone. She needs to get laid like nobody’s business and I’m not going to be the one to stand in the way of that. I wonder what Mrs. O'Grady will think about a banging headboard waking her up at two in the morning. Hopefully she takes her hearing aids out after midnight.

  I get up and wander over in the old man’s direction, ostensibly to get a fresh beer but really planning to eavesdrop. Maybe he knows an estate lawyer I can talk to in town about Erin’s little problem. He looks like a local.

  I’m just a few feet away, and I can hear him talking. Now if he could just do it in plain English, I’d be all set. I’m catching about one in every ten words. The last few that made it into my brain were aye, fair match, and romance.

  Say what? I sidle closer, winking at the barman who somehow knew I was after a Guinness and set it down in front of me without me having to say a thing. This old man in the corner is holding court over romance? What planet am I on? Since when do old dudes in tweed talk about love?

  I overhear the rough-looking man sitting in front of him. “Aye, but will she adapt to life on the farm is me question. Ye know I cannot leave for a honeymoon.”

  The old man pats him on the hand. “Trust the process, lad. And ye got yer brother to see ti things when you’re gone. It’s one and done, it is, off to the grand old U.S. of A. for a week of traipsing around the city, and then the life of wedded bliss awaits.” He chuckles and the ten thousand wrinkles in his face crease, making me think he’s already passed his centennial, possibly even a few years back.

  “Ye’ve done right by me brother and me da, so I’ll put my trust in you, Mr. O’Henry.”

  The name rings a bell. Where have I heard it before?

  “Are ye lost, Lass?”

  I’m so busy staring at his face I don’t realize he’s talking to me until the long awkward silence between us has stretched to breaking. The farmer guy looks over his shoulder at me and seems embarrassed to be caught sitting there. The other onlookers fade back and blend into the nearby crowd.

  “Um, me? No. I’m not lost. I’m just curious what you’re doing over here.” This is the beer talking. The one small part of me that’s still sober wants to slink away for being caught eavesdropping on what was obviously a pretty private conversation.

  “I’m match-making.” The old man raises a pint in my direction and takes a drink.

  The farmer gets up to leave, and I waste no time in taking his seat. I’m a few inches lower to the ground than Mr. O’Henry now, which makes me feel like a supplicant to the king.

  “What can I do for ye?” he asks, folding his hands neatly in his lap. His suit is brown and from last century. Possibly even the eighteen-hundreds.

  “Well, I’m looking for a lawyer.”

  “That’d not be me.”

  “I’ll bet you know some, though.”

  He nods slowly, raising one arm up to cross his chest. The opposite elbow rests on that arm and his fingers grip either side of his chin. He studies me closely as if trying to read my mind. “Could be I do. Would depend.”

  “On what?” This is a test. I have no idea if I’m passing it or not.

  “On what yer purpose would be for contacting such a person.”

  I rest my beer in the palm of my hand that’s in my lap. I don’t want to give away Erin’s private information, but I also don’t want to spend a week running around trying to find the right person to help us when this guy probably knows everyone within a hundred mile radius of this town. “Well, actually, I’m a lawyer from the United States and I have a client who has an estate issue to resolve. So I need someone who knows about wills and inheritances and things like that.”

  He narrows his eyes. “And who would your client be, then?”

  “Uhhhh, a girl?”

  “Are ye sure, now?”

  I frown. “Of course I’m sure. I’m pretty sure. No, I’m definitely sure.” This Guinness is kicking my ass. I take another swallow of it.

  “Ye didn’t sound sure.” He winks at me and lowers his arms.

  This guy is way sharper than I gave him credit for earlier. I use my confident voice so he won’t doubt me again. “She’s a woman, actually, boobs and all. I can’t share her name, I hope you understand.” Whoops. There goes that Guinness again.

  He pats his book. “Indeed, I do. Confidentiality is the cornerstone of trust.”

  I smile because we understand each other perfectly.

  He opens the book in front of him and scans a few pages, looking up at me every once in a while.

  “So what’s in the book?” I ask, taking a sip of my beer.

  “Names. Information. Confidential, don’t you know.”

  “What do you do with those names?”

  “Well, I connect the dots you might say.”

  A light bulb goes on in my brain as I recall a conversation I had with Erin earlier, where she was relating one of those nutty Irish tales. “You’re the matchmaker, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed, I am.” He smiles again.

  I can’t stop grinning. “That is so cool. So you just sit here and match people up?”

  “Well, it’s a wee bit more involved than that, but that’s the gist of it, yes.”

  S
omeone bumps into me from behind and I turn around to give whoever it is a piece of my mind. But then I see it’s a flush-faced Erin and let it slide.

  “What’s up?” I ask her.

  “Hey, what’s up with you?” she asks. She seems like she’s out of breath or something.

  “Just chatting with Mr.….” I forgot the matchmaker’s name already. Damn you, Guinness, you saucy bitch.

  “O’Henry. Henry O’Henry at yer service,” he says, tipping his hat.

  I just want to melt whenever an Irishman does that. It doesn’t matter whether he’s a hundred years old or five. It’s beyond charming.

  “Oh, the famous matchmaker! You’ve met the man, Ridlee!” Erin’s way more excited than I expected her to be. “He can help you find a date!”

  My smile falters. “I don’t need help finding a date.”

  Mr. O’Henry tips his head down in apology. “I don’t play the dating game, I’m sorry, Lass. I merely do the work of true love.”

  Erin snorts. “True love. Okay, whatever. Anywho, Ridlee, time to go.”

  I twist more fully around in my seat. “Time to go? What happened to the drummer?”

  “He’s crawling and we’re following.”

  “Oh.” Letting that guy out of her sight would be a bad idea if she has plans to wake the neighbors later, and I don’t want to get in the way of that. I stand and hold out my hand. “Mr. O’Henry, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance.”

  He takes a scrap of paper from the bar and writes something on it before handing it to me. “Ye’ll be wanting this before ye start your crawl in earnest.”

  “What’s this?” I ask, looking down at the jagged handwriting.

  “The lawyer ye asked about. Call him on Monday. Tell ‘im I sent ye.” He tips his hat one more time and smiles.

  “Thank you so much.” I’m being pulled backwards by my jacket, which is probably a good thing since I was feeling an overwhelming urge to bear-hug the poor man. I pause only long enough to set my empty beer glass down on a table before being dragged out the door. I wave to Mr. O’Henry even though I can’t see his face anymore. My spot in front of him was taken as soon as I vacated it.