"Drinking Companion" - March 13, 2025
A chance meeting at a quaint pub turns into a stark experience for one lone drinker...
Every Thursday, Silver Gecko Publishing highlights one of my stories, either a work of short fiction, a novel, or an audiobook. This week’s selection is the short story “Drinking Companion,” from the anthology 13 TURNS, available on Kindle, and in paperback.
Over the years, I have made a point to learn about my Irish heritage, and it wasn’t just about developing a taste for Guinness. Years ago, I had a good friend - who has since passed - who taught a bit of the Irish language. I took some courses from him, and he took me under his wing a bit to teach me the more nuanced elements like pronunciation and spelling (which for Irish is quite mad… but at least not as mad as the pronunciation and spelling of Welsh).
I’m far from fluent in Irish, and it’s been quite a few years since I flexed my Irish language muscles. I likely would make about as much sense trying to hack through the language as if I tried to speak German using what I had learned in high school. However, it gave me a new appreciation for Irish culture beyond what you see at St. Patrick’s Day here in the states.
The title character in this story is a bit cheap, and it’s admittedly pejorative to Irish culture as much as the stereotype of red hair can be. However, it was a breezy little story I developed during a rash of short-short fiction stories in the 90s.
In the end, I find it perfectly fitting for the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and because it’s so short you get the whole thing right here.
Sláinte!
-Kevin Carr
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Illustration by owlstudio_pl (@owlstudio_pl) from Pixabay
Drinking Companion by Kevin Carr
“Dia dhuit,” the little man said at the end of the bar.
“Excuse me?” Sean asked.
“That’s ‘hello,’ me boy,” the little man replied in a bright Irish accent. “Don’t you speak the language?”
“I never learned,” Sean said, picking up his freshly drawn pint of Guinness. He pushed his way past several people, and sat down in the bar stool next to the man. People bustled by them in tweed hats and wearing bright green. Saint Patrick’s Pub always got a little crowded on Friday nights, but that was Boston for you near St. Patrick’s Day.
“‘Tis a shame,” the little man said. “Well, lad, I won’t hold it against you. Won’t you join me for a drink?”
The man wore bright green like the rest of the patrons of Saint Patrick’s that night. However, he looked distinctly different, standing only about three feet tall and sporting a bright red beard. A glistening white smile spanned his face.
“I’m already drinking my Guinness,” Sean said, raising the dark beer and taking a sip. “But I’ll still join you.”
“Ah!” the little man said with a wink. “‘Tis the nectar from the heavens itself. I don’t mean to pull you from such a tasty spirit, but I have this whole bottle of whiskey. I don’t know if I can finish it myself. I was hoping you would help me.”
Sean looked at the bottle – dark brown glass with a crumbling label that had faded to the point of illegibility. He shrugged.
“Why not,” Sean said, pushing aside his Guinness.
“Now that’s the spirit,” the little man chuckled softly, grabbing an empty shot glass from the bar and filling it.
“Thank you,” Sean said.
“Go raibh maith agat,” the little man replied. Sean thought it sounded like go-rah-mah-hagat.
“What?”
“That’s ‘thank you’ in Irish, me lad,” the little man said. “When I share me whiskey, I teach some of the language with it.”
Sean nodded and took the shot glass. “Go raibh maith agat,” he said with a smile. He raised the glass to his lips and took a whiff. The whiskey smelled strong – like turpentine. Forcing back a queasy feeling in his gut, Sean threw back his head and took the dark liquid down his throat as fast as he could.
“Tastes good, doesn’t it?” the little man asked.
Sean slammed the shot glass down on the bar and breathed heavily. His throat burned; suddenly his vision grew very blurry.
“Whoa,” Sean said, stumbling from his bar stool and holding out an arm to steady himself.
“Are you alright?” the little man asked, leaping up and grabbing Sean’s arm. “Let me help you,” he said, guiding Sean to his own chair beside the bar. Sean nodded a thank you as he settled into the little man’s seat.
Man, Sean thought, why do I suddenly feel so terrible? His head began to ache, and his joints seemed to freeze and lock into place. His flesh felt terribly cold.
Sean looked up to the other man who had stepped back a bit. The little man’s appearance had changed. No longer did he look three feet tall, but instead of average height. Also, his beard had disappeared. The man smiled the same wide smile, tipped his tweed hat, then turned to walk away.
A wave of panic washed over Sean. He tried to move his arms, but could not. Only his eyes would obey his commands. Sean looked over to the bartender who was talking to a customer. Both men looked his way. Sean tried to call out, but his jaw would not move. He felt sick as he realized he was no longer breathing.
“Look there, Séamas,” the patron at the bar said.
“What?” the bartender asked.
“That wooden leprechaun statue you have sitting at the end of the bar... it looks funny... like it’s changed.”
Séamas squinted as he stared at Sean. Then he shook his head and turned back to the patron. “I think you’ve had a little too much whiskey tonight,” he said.