Pub Crawl: A Romantic Holiday Story

by Rusty Fischer

round up the others.” He nods, waving but not turning around as he races off toward the restroom.

  I find Jasmine mid-lip lock with her “date who isn’t a date,” physically pulling them apart to remind them, “Uh, we still have four pubs left, you know?”

  “Forget that!” she squeals, embracing me fondly. “Roger and I are staying put!”

  “You sure about that, Roger?” I ask.

  He nods, glassy-eyed. “I’m afraid if we move from this very location spot,” he confesses, teetering from side to side, “she’ll fall out of love with me!”

  I can’t fault his logic, but that seems unlikely since the minute I turn to leave I can hear their greedy lips smacking all over again.

  I’ve unlocked the bikes by the time Ty arrives, bounding out like he’s lighter than air. “Thanks,” he says as I roll his bike closer to him. Then he glances around, looking for the others. “Where’s everybody else?”

  “They’re staying put,” I say, straddling Mrs. Farnsworth’s bike. “I guess it’s just you and me from here on in.”

  “Yeah?” he asks, almost sounding… hopeful. “You sure you’re up for it?”

  I nod, as steady on my legs as I was when this crawl first started. “Actually, I feel pretty good. I mean, I’ve gotten drunker off non-alcoholic champagne.”

  He chuckles. “I feel pretty good, too. What’s next?”

  I pull out the shamrock map, practically torn to tatters by now, and run my finger along the route we’ve followed. “Barney’s,” I say.

  “Really?” he asks, face long and caressed by shadows as evening falls on tiny Snowflake, South Carolina.

  “That’s what it says,” I reply. “Why? Another dive?”

  “No,” he says, holding my bike for me while I slide on. “Just the opposite, in fact. You’ll see.”

  He’s right again. After a detour off of Cinnamon Street, the main drag through town, onto a smaller side street called Cedar Avenue, we spot a small, cozy bistro. Its outer deck looks small and intimate, topped with rows of exposed bulbs casting soft yellow light onto the half-dozen or so tables for two scattered below.

  It’s fairly quiet, especially given the holiday hilarity that’s gone on during the rest of the pub crawl. We lock our bikes up by the small outer deck and he opens up a little gate, pointing to a table for two in the corner.

  “What do you feel like drinking?” he asks, reaching for the patio door that leads inside.

  I sink into the puffy red cushion on an outdoor wicker chair, sighing with relief. “You’ve been right on the money so far,” I tease. “Surprise me. Also…” I reach for my purse, realizing we won’t have the Gangland Graphics account to charge it to anymore now that Marnie’s gone home to projectile vomit before passing out. “This one’s on me.”

  He waves it away, inching into the door. “I’ll start a tab,” he promises over his shoulder. “We can work it out later.”

  I shrug, thinking that’s pretty fair. I’m also hopeful that by “starting a tab” he’s implying that we’ll finally get to have more than one drink together. I mean, sure, we’ve shared plenty but… never more than a single drink in any one spot.

  Finally, here on the quiet patio, soft lights above, the first non-Irish music I’ve heard all day oozing out jazzily from some unseen speakers behind me, this blind date is finally starting to feel like, well… a date!

  He returns, backing out of the door and turning, a tall glass in each hand. Ice cubes clink in fuzzy soda tinged a soft red. “They look yummy,” I say when he hands me one, sitting down across from me, long and lanky in his wicker chair. “What is it?”

  “I’m calling it a ‘Cara’s Special’,” he teases. “Because of your hair.”

  I chuckle and take a sip. It’s sweet, but not too. Kind of like a vodka and cranberry. Very un-St. Patrick’s Day, but quite a refreshing twist from all the green beer and themed shots and Irish coffee we’ve had today. “Let me guess: you knew the bartender so they let you create your own special drink on the spot.”

  “Something like that,” he says, evasively, leaning back into his wicker chair. “It’s nice here, huh?”

  “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” I say.

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “Only a few months,” I say.

  “You like it so far?”

  “I do,” I confess. “It’s just, I’m so busy at work, I haven’t had time to explore much.”

  “Do you like it?” he asks. “Your work, I mean?”

  I shrug. “It’s in the Art Department, designing brochures and websites, mostly, but… yeah. It’s good experience and I get to use my degree and it’s a great company, so… do you?”

  “What? Bartending?”

  “Yeah. I’ve never… known a bartender before.”

  “No?” He seems surprised. “None of your starving artist friends tended bar to make ends meet?”

  I shrug. “I guess I don’t have a ton of friends to start with, so…”

  “Everyone at your job seems to like you,” he points out.

  “Easy to like someone after a few Pot of Gold shots!”

  His eyes meet mine and he winks softly. “I liked you before we even had a drink.”

  I blush and reach for my cocktail. “And now that you’ve had seven?”

  “I feel like I hardly know you,” he teases, and we laugh.

  “You’re not supposed to get to know each other on a blind date,” I remind him. “You’re just supposed to decide whether or not you want to go on a non-blind date.”

  “Oh yeah?” he asks, kicking back even further and crossing his long, athletic legs. “Then I guess my work is done, because I decided on that before our first drink, too.”

  “Oh yeah?” I tease, playing hard to get. Or, at least, trying to. “Me too.”

  “And?”

  I chuckle, standing abruptly. “I’m hungry,” I say, suddenly realizing we haven’t eaten all day. He makes a move to stand and I instinctively grab his shoulder, holding him in place. We both notice it, blushing at the same time before I pull my hand away. “You’ve gotten every drink,” I remind him, inching toward the door. “I can grab us a few apps at least. And another round?”

  He nods, slurping the last of his “Cara’s Special” playfully, like that annoying kid in every movie theater. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask.

  He winks, using my own line on me. “Surprise me.”

  I drift inside, finding a larger, but still intimate café featuring a long, old-fashioned bar along the far wall. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” says an older guy behind the bar.

  I peer around the quiet café, an early evening crowd quietly dining to the same smooth jazz soundtrack being pumped outside. “Not so’s you’d know it in here,” I tell him, leaning against the bar. “And that’s a compliment, by the way.”

  “Yeah,” he says, a nametag over his pocket declaring him “Grady”. “We’re kind of the anti-holiday place this time of year.”

  “Good,” I sigh, reaching for a bar menu. “Because I’ve had just about enough holiday for one day.”

  “What’re you having?” he asks, reaching for the pad in his pocket.

  I order a few small plates, nothing big enough to slow us down, since we still have a few more pubs to go to. “And I’ll settle up our tab, too,” I say, reaching for my purse and glad for the opportunity to repay a little of Ty’s hospitality so far. “My… uh, friend… Tyler started it?”

  “Oh, so you’re Ty’s blind date?” Grady’s face brightens as he stands in front of a digital register, ringing up our order.

  I blush. “Wow, news travels fast around here, huh?”

  “Small town,” he says, handing me a receipt that’s way too small for what we ordered. “Plus, Ty’s a great guy. So…”

  I smirk, paying the bill and leaving a generous tip. “I agree,” I say. “You’re not so bad yourself, cutting my bill in half like that.”

  “
Least I can do for a friend of Ty’s,” he says. “So, another round?”

  I nod and he sets about filling two more glasses with ice. “Now I know why he called them ‘Cara’s Specials,’” he teases.

  I blush, watching him cover the ice cubes with soda and cranberry juice. Waiting for him to pour the vodka in, he slides them across the bar instead. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask.

  He smirks, nodding as he spears two maraschino cherries to float on the top of each drink.

  “No, I mean… the alcohol?”

  He winks. “No alcohol,” he insists, sliding them closer still. “Ty was very insistent about that.”

  I pause, a smile inching across my face. Suddenly, it all makes sense: the green beer, the layered drinks, the Irish coffee and now… soda and cranberry juice. No wonder I’m as sober as a judge; Ty hasn’t let me have a drop of alcohol all day!

  “You little stinker,” I say, returning to the porch with our drinks.

  “What’d I do?” he asks, hands up in mock horror.

  “Got every drink,” I remind him, sinking back into my seat. “Every single one. Green beer and tequila, Bailey’s and coffee, Irish whiskey and god knows what else, and… I’m so sober I could walk a straight line