The Full Pint

Tim wheeled his new Prius into the parking space in front of the Pub. It was O’Doul’s again, the one he had been frequenting lately when he had some time to kill before getting home. It was a ten-minute drive from home, even with the terrible traffic. Sally wouldn’t be there with the kids for at least another hour. She was making regular visits to her mother. Gladys was failing and they were letting the kids spend as much time with her as possible. Sitting there, he had a flash of the children in his mind, wishing he could spend more time with them himself, in spite of the job. The children are the best thing we’ve done with our lives, he thought.

It had been a tough week for him too, with his boss pressing everyone harder as the quarter-end was approaching. The crew needed another ten per cent in sales to achieve budget and everyone was pulling out all the stops. They had not been expecting the sudden downturn in business sentiment. Tim gave a big sigh and turned off the near-silent motor. He loved that about the car even though that could also pose a risk on the road if people didn’t hear him coming.

He had chosen the Irish pub because the other fellows rarely came here. He felt more relaxed not having to think about work, impossible when the other guys were around. He liked the silence, people pretty much keeping to themselves. It was only rowdy on weekends when a musician played. The dark wood of the bar and the fixtures, the low lighting, the friendly barman, it all suited him well these days.

Tim climbed out of the car, locked it. He smiled at the Irish good-luck four-leafed shamrock emblazoned on the door, with the dancing leprechaun above it, all in green. Entry through the heavy door was as into a dark cave. He halted a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, after the bright sunlight outside. There were very few patrons, and only one person at the bar. He walked over to the bar and chose a stool one vacant place over from the sole drinker. He rested a moment, waiting for the barman, busy stacking glasses, to approach him.

The man seated beside him, looked over and smiled at Tim, saying, “Fine day!”

The man, older, of middle height, looked to be in his sixties. A faded jean jacket over a blue work shirt, and soiled dark work pants, seemed to mark him as a construction worker. He wore the heavy yellow-hued leather boots common in that trade. The man showed a bald pate with a fringe of gray hair. He had sideburns extended to just a little rim of a beard around his jaw. A Yankee baseball cap rested on the bar beside a full pint of dark-colored liquid. Presenting an air of relaxation and calm, he was, somehow, different, maybe because he had such heavy grey eyebrows and piercing blue eyes.

“It certainly is that,” answered Tim.

“My name is Bernard,” said the man and reached out a hand.

 Tim reached out in turn and shook the offered hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Tim, keeping his distance.

The barman approached and Tim ordered, “I’ll have a draft Carlsberg Light, half-pint, I’m driving.”

The barman walked away to draw the beer. He returned quickly with the foam-topped glass. Tim paid him.

“Thank you,” said Tim and raised his glass to take a first swallow.

His neighbor raised his full pint glass, took a large swallow, saying,

“I’m afraid it’s only the Guinness for me”.

Tim gestured in a toast with his glass and took another drink.

“Do you come here often?” asked Bernard, raising his pint again,

“Once a week or so, lately” answered Tim. “Yourself?” he asked, taking another big swallow, still thirsty after a long day? His glass was now empty. He put it back on the countertop. The barman came over and cleared it away, wiping the countertop clean.

“First time,” said Bernard, taking a long draught, then putting his pint glass back on the bar.

Tim looked at him, and then looked at the man’s glass. He looked at the man again, then looked again at the glass.

“Forgive me,” said Tim, “but my eyes seem to be playing tricks on me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bernard.

“Well,” said Tim, “Your glass is still full and you’ve been drinking from it ever since I sat down. How could that be?

“That is curious, isn’t it?” The man smiled at Tim warmly. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. “This is a great drink!”

Bernard looked at Tim full in the face. His eyes seemed to glow as he smiled a broad smile.

“You have a job, don’t you?” asked the man? “And you get perks with your job?”

“Right,” said Tim, “I just got a new car from the company to help me cover my expanded sales route.”

“Well,” said Bernard, “The truth is I get certain privileges as part of my job, my glass never goes empty.”

Tim laughed uncertainly. He looked at the man, again, trying to get handle on the person with whom he was speaking. He felt a sudden chill and took a deep breath.

“C’mon, what kind of job is that? What’s your job?” he asked.

“I’m an angel,” said Bernard, taking a swallow of his Guinness.

“Now you’re pulling my leg,” said Tim gave an awkward laugh, not too close to any religion since leaving the parental home. “You don’t look like an angel,” he said skeptically.”

“What do you think angels looks like,” asked Bernard?

“Well,” said Tim, chuckling at the joke, “for starters, where are your wings?

 Tom looked around, to see if others were aware of what was happening at the bar.  His surroundings seemed misty, making him feel as if he was in a foggy cocoon, the barman distant, and the other patrons hardly visible.

“Yes, that is funny” said Bernard, “but we have to move with the times. We look ordinary, and we travel differently these days. You know, like Star Trek. We could have wings if we wanted too, you know, for special occasions,” Bernard smiled at Tim as he drank again.

Tim, tired from his work-week, was getting a little exasperated with the joke.

“An angel, eh! Can I ask you some questions?” Tim was now looking at his seatmate with suspicion.

“Sure, fire away,” said Bernard.

“What about Heaven and Hell, punishing the bad and rewarding the good?”

“ I don’t really know what those words mean. I think we have a warehouse where souls are stored. I’m not sure how it works. It’s really above my pay grade, but I believe that some souls are re-used while some others are discarded. You’d really have to ask my Boss to get the details.”

“Your Boss?” Tim looked at Bernard quizzically.

 “Well, we have a big operation, it takes a whole bureaucracy. You know it’s not just this solar system. There are a lot of other life forms in the Universe.”

Bernard smiled again as he took another drink.

“Now wait a minute! Hold on! How come you are telling me all this? Isn’t that supposed to be a big secret?”                                                                                                                             No longer laughing, Tim was becoming alarmed.                                                                                                “You are right, it is a big secret, but we are having a private conversation and nobody else can listen in.” Bernard smiled a slow sad smile.                                                                                                                                                “But what if I tell everybody?” Tim stood up.                                                              Bernard smiled. “As if anyone would believe you.

“C’mon, man, this is too much. You’re just kidding me. What’s the trick with the pint glass? I have had a long hard week, make it simple.” Tim remained standing.                                                                                                                                   “It’s as simple as that, my glass always remains full just like in the fairy tales” said Bernard in a gentle voice, smiling, speaking in a kindly way, tolerating Tim’s increasing impatience.

“So what do you actually do, Mr. Angel?” Tim asked sarcastically. “What do angels do?”                                                                                                                 “Angels have many different tasks. Personally, I do collections. Actually, I’m here on a job.” Bernard smiled sadly. “In fact, Tim, I came here tonight to meet with you.”

Tim looked around himself wildly. The mist had closed in. He felt as if he was in a bubble.

“How do you know my name? What is this? Why are you telling me all this? Why are you here?”

Tim stepped away from the bar. He was not enjoying the conversation anymore. Not at all!

Bernard turned in his seat to face Tim, gazing down at him with a piercing look, sad, but kindly. Bernard’s lips moved soundlessly, but it seemed to Tim as if he was whispering in his ear.

“Tim, I have come here to collect you. I am never told why. The why is beyond our understanding.”

“You’re off your rocker! This is not funny.” Tim shouted out, “enough is enough!”  

Now more than alarmed, Tim had raised his voice, but nobody seemed to notice. Through a seeming mist, Tim could see the barman had remained at the other end of the bar, and the other patrons had not stirred from their conversations.

Tim rushed at the door, fiercely pushing it open before him. Bernard sat quietly and continued drinking his Guinness. After a moment or two, from outside the pub there suddenly came a screeching of tortured rubber, a very loud crash, and the sounds of breaking glass. Almost immediately, there was the shrilling of sirens. Everyone in the Bar looked up. Bernard reached out for his glass and emptied it with one giant swallow after another. He put his glass back on the bar.

“Back to work,” Bernard said to no one in particular, taking the Yankee baseball cap off the counter and fitting it onto his head. He descended from his stool and strode smartly out with the stride of a young man. The bar top was empty where he had been seated.

A fairy tale in honor of St. Patrick’s day.