When Irish Eyes Are Sparkling

by Tom Collins

  “Sure. I figured you’d be back ‘cause you’re my uncle’s partner, so I picked some up this weekend. It’s just—you know—part of the job.”

  “Part of the job…Ok. Well, that sounds great. Thank you,” he smiled, really smiled. I felt my eyes dilate. I was a deer in headlights.

  “Gimme a beer,” Uncle Gabe said in his gruff tone, startling me into motion. “And separate checks tonight.”

  “Right. Special’s fish‘n’chips.” I leaned over Oliver’s shoulder to point out said selection on the menu. “If you’re gonna get the fish any night of the week, I’d suggest tonight ‘cause the oil is fresh today.” I heard him inhale and looked in time to see his nostrils quiver a little.

  “Fried in canola oil?” he asked. I straightened up.

  “You bet,” I answered.

  “You sold me. No tartar sauce, extra lemon, please.”

  “You got it. What’cha havin’, Unc?” I looked at my uncle, but watched Oliver out of the corner of my eye, trying to decide if Jill’s vanilla extract was working or not. He was looking at my legs, but I couldn’t tell if he was just looking like, “Why’s this dude in a skirt?” or if he was checking me out.

  “The fish, and bring out an onion ring starter for us to split—my treat, the rings here are fresh, beer battered and fantastic, but I can’t eat a whole order on my own, so I only order them when I’m with someone, ” he explained to Oliver.

  It struck me as weird, this explanation of his onion ring eating habits, as if he didn’t want Oliver to feel he was giving him charity, or something. I shook my head and wrote down the rings on Uncle Gabe’s ticket.

  “I’ll be right back with your drinks, fellas.” I sauntered away.

  I glanced back to see if Oliver was watching and it looked like he was. My heart sped and I my cheeks started to hurt from grinning as I put in their food order and got their drinks together.

  “What in hell are you wearing?” Aunt Rose demanded from my left, making me jump.

  “Jeeze!” I gasped. “Enough with the sneaking, Okay?”

  “Don’t blame me for your being off in La-la Land and not noticing me walk up next to you, but to reiterate, ‘What in hell are you wearing?’”

  I gave her no pretense of ignorance; that would only irritate her. “Why can’t I wear a kilt if I want?” I asked. “Jill and you other ladies working here can wear skirts instead of pants so long as they’re black. Well, this kilt’s black, and it’s modestly knee-length—which some of the girl’s skirts aren’t—so there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Don’t get smart with me.” She sounded pissed now.

  “I wasn’t being smart, Aunt Rose, I was being genuine. Men have been wearing kilts in one form or another since before recorded history. The Irish, the Scots, the Gaels from whom they came, the Romans and Greeks, the Egyptians, Babylonians, Sumerians—Gilgamesh and Moses wore kilts—”

  “Last I looked you weren’t Moses or Gilgamesh,” she retorted, “and I’m well aware of the history of kilts, thank you very much.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just pointing out that they’re perfectly respectable, professional and masculine; plus they’re easier for me to move around in, not to mention cooler. So why not?”

  She stood, blinking at me for a second. She was chewing the inside of her cheek, trying to think of a way to counter my argument. Air blasted from her nostrils.

  “Ok,” she allowed before her eyes narrowed, “but if I find out you ain’t got yourself under control under that thing—” she sliced her hand through the air, “that’ll be the end of it. Hear me?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I smiled. She headed back into the kitchen.

  I carried Gabe and Oliver’s drinks out to them, snagging their onion rings on the way past, smiling all the way. I danced a few steps of a country reel, one with a bit of a bob and swirl, enjoying the feeling of freedom. It felt good to win a victory, even a small one.

  “Room temperature Guinness,” I said setting my uncle’s beer on a coaster. “Iced, green tea.” I set Oliver’s drink in front of him, wishing I could stroke the stubble on his cheek. “Onion ring starter. Anything else I can get you?” I asked, setting the onion rings between them and looking at Oliver.

  He opened his mouth to say something just as Erin rang the bell and called, “Order up table seven.”

  “That’ll be your fish,” I told him, “I’ll be right back.”

  I was hauling their order over to their table, with plenty of tartar sauce and malt vinegar for my uncle and extra lemon for Oliver when another customer flagged me. I gave him the nod so he’d know I’d be right there. I delivered Uncle Gabe and Oliver’s orders, lingering over it as much as possible, but I had to be quick. Folks in here were used to fast service and got antsy quick. I caught Oliver staring at the “Kiss Me I’m Irish!” button and gave him a crooked grin when he caught me catching him. I hurried off to my other customer, wishing I didn’t have to.

  It was a single customer, fresh off the street and wanting his Monday fish’n’beer. I ran his order up and was about to head back over to see if Oliver needed anything when Aunt Rose called my name through the pass through.

  “Liam, fill some vinegar bottles, it looks like most of the tables are running low.”

  I sighed, letting my shoulders slump. Duty called. I took my tray out and collected vinegar bottles. I set them up at a free table that would give me a good view of Oliver. The place had quieted for the moment and wouldn’t pick back up for about an hour, so I had time for some meditative admiration. I went in back, got a gallon jug of malt vinegar, and carried it out to my work place.

  Positioning myself so I could see Oliver, I sat down and gave the pouring enough attention to keep from making a mess. In my mind, I was crawling under Oliver’s table, running my hands up the insides of his thighs and moving in slow to press my face into the V of his crotch. I nosed in and inhaled—I imagined he would smell powerfully musky after a day out in the rig with my uncle. My abs and nuts tightened and my breathing became a bit ragged.

  My fantasy became a bit ragged too; not knowing what he liked or what it’d be like caused the daydream to devolve into a river of misty images featuring Oliver’s blissful face and my hands, my mouth and tongue doing to him everything I’d ever wanted to do to a man. A pulse pounded in my groin. He was clutching my hair and moaning, close to orgasm, when Jill knocked on the table and yelled my name.

  This startled me so bad I leapt to my feet crying, “What?!” and dropped the gallon of vinegar. I stepped back and bent over to grab the bottle before too much could spill and whacked my forehead on the table. The sound of contact reminded me of a bat striking a softball. I jerked back upright, clutching my head and exclaiming—possibly in a foul manner—and kept going over as my feet tangled on my chair. I hit the floor like a sack of grain and didn’t move because the world was spinning enough already.

  I was blinking, trying to clear my double vision, but I could hear people scrambling around me and Jill saying, “I didn’t mean to scare him. I was just trying to get his attention. He was daydreaming and wasn’t hearing me calling him. I’m sorry.”

  Uncle Gabe said, “It’s Okay. We’ll see to him.”

  Someone was kneeling in front of me. I caught his shirtfront to steady the rotation of the room and the right side of the world went white with light. The light flicked to my left eye, washing the world away and leaving pink and yellow spots behind in both eyes as it retreated. Oliver’s voice, right in front of me, declared, “Pupils equal and responsive.”

  *Oliver*

  I blamed myself when Liam went down. I’d been wishing all evening to get a glimpse of what was under that kilt and I finally did, in the most unexpected way.

  From the moment Liam strode up to our table wearing that kilt, I’d been obsessed with it. I think that’s why, even though I’d come into the pub relaxed and focused, the hopeless stick-in-the-mud part of me had taken over. I mean, Liam had made iced green tea special fo
r me, and I still couldn’t help but grill him on whether the fish was fried in canola oil.

  It was the kilt. The new hair cut as well. It made him look less like a boy—a lot less—and more like a sexy young man. A very, very sexy, hip and savvy young man.

  I didn’t miss the implications of where he’d pinned that “Kiss Me, I’m Irish!” button either.

  “He’s about as subtle as a train wreck,” Gabe remarked wryly, once Liam had deposited our order before us and left. “Normally I’d tell you to take your time,” he added, shaking malt vinegar over the fried cod then scraping tartar sauce on it with his knife. “But I think you’d better let him know tonight which way you’re leaning. If you don’t he might tattoo your name across his ass in desperation, or nail a neon sign to his forehead that says, ‘I’m bi-curious! Ask me how!’”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I agreed. My gonads had already made up their minds, of course, but the rest of me was taking seriously what Gabe had said earlier. It was no light matter to be someone’s first, especially if they were going to hand you their heart along with their virginity. I squeezed lemon on my fish and watched Liam gathering up vinegar bottles. Watched the way the kilt swished about his knees, and flipped up now and then to flash a muscled bit of thigh.

  I was drooling and it had nothing to do with the excellent onion rings. A kilt. Liam was too clever for me. I wanted to be responsible, but every time I looked at him, all that came to mind was a prayer, Please, God, give me a glimpse under that skirt….

  Tearing my eyes away, I forced myself to concentrate on dinner. I was almost finished with the fish and half the fries when I caught sight of the flyer under the salt. It was a half-photo, half-painting advertising an upcoming concert here at the pub. I’d glimpsed it when we sat down, but hadn’t paid it any attention. Now I did because it featured Liam. The picture was taken here in the pub, before the grand fireplace. Liam held an electric guitar, head thrown back as if in ecstasy, green eyes aglow from the light. Near by was the waitress with the colorful hair—lake blue in this picture—pounding on a set of drums.

  Most striking of all was the painted part of the flyer. Rising up behind and above Liam was a dragon, done up so well, it looked like it had been photographed. Claws and wings and head morphed out of the sooty brickwork and then caught fire. The suggestion was that Liam’s powerful music had called forth this dragon and made it burst into flame.

  Had Liam painted it?

  I took one of the flyers for a closer look.

  “My nephews’ band,” Gabe mumbled around chips dipped in tartar sauce. “Plural. Two of them are in it. Not half bad, but don’t tell ‘em I said so.”

  Liam was a musician, too? I didn’t know whether to be enchanted or intimidated by someone with so much talent. I folded up the flyer and slipped it into a back pocket. My gaze left the remains of my meal and searched for Liam. I found him seated at a table, refilling vinegar bottles from a gallon jug. His large eyes were dreamy, and there was an afterglow smile on his face that made my breath falter.

  The waitress stepped up behind him, and seemed to say his name. When he didn’t respond, she rapped on the table and said it nearer to his ear. He jumped up as if he’d been buzzed with an electric shock, the jug fell to floor, he went after it, cracked his head on the table and—I don’t know what happened after that; except that his kilt flew up as he went down and I got an eyeful of a tight, muscled bubble butt in a jock strap.

  Oh, baby!

  It was not a moment I was proud of, I, who wanted to call myself a paramedic. I heard him hit the floorboards, and the only thing on my mind was the glimpse I’d gotten of his hairy thighs, killer ass and barely covered package—and a wish that I could rewind to see it all again in slow motion. Gabe, as always, was ahead of me. He reached Liam first. I skidded in after.

  “I didn’t mean to scare him,” the waitress was saying, upset, she went on, but I tuned her out as Liam grabbed my shirt. I pulled my pen light from my pocket and braced him as I scanned his eyes. When he’d stepped up earlier to take our order, I’d smelled vanilla from him. Now I smelled only the spilled vinegar, sharp and strong. Funny thing was, I found it equally sexy. Beer, vanilla, vinegar, I didn’t care. I just wanted to stay this close, near enough to kiss him, to gaze into his eyes.

  “Pupils equal and responsive,” I heard myself say, but my mind was on other things; like my hand, which had slipped down from holding his elbow to touching his thigh under the kilt. I wanted to reach up higher and make his pupils dilate.

  “Wha?” Liam said, muddled.

  “That means you’re not concussed,” Gabe said. He was gently examining Liam’s head. “You’re going to have one hell of a goose egg. Good thing it was your head you hit and not anything important.”

  It was quickly apparent that Liam had only hurt his dignity in his fall, but Gabe insisted he stay seated until he was steady. The busboy, on top of things, showed up with a mop and while the waitress cleared the vinegar bottles, he soaked up the spill.

  Gabe, on his feet again, waved to me and I joined him.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said in a low voice. “Do what you like with him; just take him off our hands.” He sighed and shook his head. “His brother and sister are almost sane. I don’t understand it.”

  I knew he was joking, but I also knew he was right in his way. This infatuation, on both sides, was whacked. The two of us, it appeared, were hopelessly and perilously distracted by one another.

  “I’ll stay with him a while longer to make sure he’s alright,” Gabe went on, “then I have to pick up Connor from my parents. Can you get home?”

  “Yeah,” I said, getting out my wallet. I handed him some money. “My part of the tab.”

  Gabe nodded. As he turned away to assure his anxious sister that her waiter would live, I slipped out a five dollar bill. Taking a pen from my front pocket, I snagged a napkin from the holder and scribbled my phone number on it then I folded the money around the napkin. I went over to Liam who was now seated in a chair, gingerly touching the sore spot on his skull. He eyes came up as I neared, both woeful and afraid, as if I was going to tell him off.

  I slipped the money and napkin into his apron pocket, right under the “Kiss me” button. “Tip,” I said into his ear, leaning close enough to feel his breath on my cheek, to smell that weird mix of vanilla and vinegar, and stir, with my words, his newly cut hair.

  “You earned it,” I added, straightening up and heading out.

  I sounded easy and confident, but I felt no such thing. My pulse was racing and I was scared out of my mind. What if he did call? Hell. What if he didn’t?

  Not up to you, Oliver, I reminded myself. The ball was now well and truly in Liam’s court. What happened next was all up to him.

  *Liam*

  My brains were still a bit scrambled when Oliver came over and, leaning down close, stuffed something into my apron pocket. I didn’t see what it was because I was too focused on his hand being almost to the holy land. Another distraction came in the form of his humid breath tickling along my neck and into my ear. I detected the lime scent of this morning’s shaving cream and felt a heating in my cheeks. My entire ass tingled as he said something about me earning my tip. Before I could think of how to reply, he was gone.

  Later, as I cleared up from the last of the late dinner rush, I brooded about how badly I’d blown it this time. Who knew how long it would be before he came back in. The worst part was I wasn’t sure I should keep trying. Tonight’s seduction had been a fiasco.

  I hadn’t had the nerve to check Oliver’s tip. When I took it out of the apron pocket, I saw it was money folded around a napkin. I stuffed it into a pocket on my kilt. Erin and Jillian were quiet on the subway, Bren too, having heard the whole story. Every now and then, someone would breathe as if he or she meant to say something, but after holding it a second, they would let it go unsaid.

  I went to my room and sat on the twin bed, staring at the wall of drawings I�
�d taped up: ideas for dragons mainly. I wasn’t thinking about anything, just feeling bad, defeated. Turning, I lifted my leg up onto the bed, knee bent so my foot still hung off the side and flopped back to stare at the pictures I’d taped on the ceiling. My bruised skull ached.

  Oliver’s tip burned like a coal where it rested against my leg. I wondered if he’d meant just the money rolled around the napkin, or if the tip he’d spoken of was the napkin.

  “He must’ve written something on it, but what?” my brain nattered for the millionth time.

  I couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. I shot my hand into the roomy pocket and pulled forth what was either a messenger of hope or doom. I unrolled the crisp, curly bill from the napkin, noting without much interest that it was a fin. I stared at the roll of soft, white paper in my trembling hand. I was more scared at this moment than in recent memory. That’s saying something, considering I’d just made it through my sophomore year of college.

  Steeling myself, I opened soft the paper. “Oliver—555-6911,” I read from the center. Joy surged through me, until the numbers themselves registered. Sixty-nine-one-one? No way. He had to be messing with me. That couldn’t possibly be his real number. My heart plummeted and my stomach roiled. I couldn’t take all this uncertainty and constant rollercoaster of emotions.

  Now began the debate of whether I should to call now or in the morning. I pulled my iPhone out and activated it. There were many good reasons to put it off until tomorrow, but there was one overriding, hindbrain reason to call now. I had to know if this number was real or if it was a particularly cruel brush off.

  I punched the numbers in, having to stop and back up a couple times due to shaking thumbs, and stared at them until they taunted me enough to make me touch on the green “call” option. I put the phone to my ear and held my breath.

  It rang.

  I almost hung up because I couldn’t decide which scared me more, him picking up or it being some random person by coincidence.