FLASH FICTION:I DON'T KNOW what manner of beast we get in this shebeen, but I seem to spend more time cleaning The Sweety Bottle than serving drink. I was scooping fag ash out of a glass when Sam walked in. I say walked, but it was more of a stumble. Looked like he was too steaming to notice, so I spat in the glass to loosen a stubborn smudge, wiped it and filled it with his usual. Tonic wine. Or Wall-Climber as the punters had taken to calling it.
“You all right, JB?” he asked.
I nodded. “Aye, Sam. Dead on.” He pulled at the knot in his tie and plonked his elbows on the bar. Sam never sat. Even when he was legless. He liked to hold court, you see.
Attention seeker. He sang for his supper down the Dockers, but that wasn’t enough. He’d come here to unwind, but still sing and shout and spout off. That was just Sam. And sure, it faded into background noise after a while.
I handed him his Wall-Climber and he dropped a coin on to the bar, gave me a brief look of gratitude, then fixed his eyes on the prize. Next time he looked at me, it was through the bottom of his cloudy glass. He slapped it down and tapped the rim. I filled it up.
“Quiet tonight,” Sam said.
“Aye, the pubs haven’t shut yet. It’ll be another half hour before we come to life.” Sam nodded and ran his fingers down the crease of his lapels. That’s when I noticed the dull brassy badge on his breast pocket. I squinted at it. A simple embossed profile of James Connolly ringed with a green band; the dates 1868-1916 stamped along it.
“I didn’t think you were political, Sam,” I said, pointing at his pocket.
He looked down and blinked as if he’d forgotten it was there.
“Ah, JB.” He patted his greased-back hair. “It’s not really the politics, it’s the sentimentality, you know?” I tilted my head.
“This badge belonged to my da. And before him, his da. And he got it from his da who worked for the GPO down in Dublin when he was a wee lad.” I did a quick calculation in my head. 1916 to 1974. Four generations of men in less than 60 years. They must marry young in Sam’s family.
Sam chattered on. “This badge is my birthright. An inheritance that means more than money. Priceless. Although, technically it’s an antique as well. The day my da handed it to me, I don’t mind telling you, I nearly cried like a wee girl. One of those touching moments that happen once in a lifetime. God. That’s the important stuff, you know, JB?” I nodded slowly and he smirked.
“I’ll give you a brandy for it,” I said.
He slipped it off, kissed it lightly and handed it over.
“God bless you, JB. But make it a large one.”
Flash fiction will be a regular item in The Irish Times.E-mail a story of no more than 500 words to flashfiction@irishtimes.com
