This afternoon
I'm sharing chapter 32 of "Thawing A.C. Nielsen". I hope you'll read
it. I'm trying to share a chapter or two a day, although at some point I
will have to take them all down as the book starts to go to press.
Very
excited! My new novel, Thawing A.C. Nielsen, is now up and available
for "pre-sale" (just $2.99 for Kindle or other ebook format, then price
goes up before the holidays) on Kindle here:
http://amzn.to/2bULRD1
Selling
like crazy- please go to that link and consider ordering the ebook or
at least sharing the info with other book enthusiasts! It's already
hitting top 100 various genre lists on Amazon!
Newly
posted there-- a 5-star review from one of the top reviewing companies!
Until it goes "live for sale" there won't be any customer reviews or
samples-- that happens Oct. 18th. There will also be a paperback version
up soon. Check it out and please spread the word. I need all the
publicity help I can get since I am not giving away my book to a
mainstream publishing house!
I
am wondering if any of you would consider reviewing the book. It will
be released on Amazon/Kindle on October 18th. I need reviews from
regular folks posted to amazon on the release day, if possible. You get a
FREE pdf, word.doc or .mobi (Kindle ebook file) copy and plenty of
time between now and mid-October to read it. Let me know, friends!
Chapter 32 was great fun to write! After all, it's got a dive bar, Irish folk music, $1 PBR in a can, and an epic bar fight. Enjoy!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Kate, you finally picked up. Where are you?”
“At the lab,
Aria—working. We’ve got a make it or break it event coming up. I’m going over
everything for like the zillionth time.”
“How can you spend so
many hours straight, looking through microscopes? You’re taking supernerdiness
to new heights.”
“What? Talk louder. I
can’t hear you. Are you in a bar or something?”
“Yes I am, and I said
you’re a nerd for working so many damn hours. Listen, I’m at The Skanky Barmaid, the Irish pub.
Next to the sex shop where you get your flavored condoms, right? That is where you get them, I assume. I’m
playing fiddle for the Arse Bros—you know, Patrick and Colm. They’ve got
buck-a-can PBR tonight.”
“Oh yeah, Patrick—my favorite
male chauvinist sleazeball.”
“Stop it. He likes you.
He just doesn’t know how to say it without insulting you. Give a poor Irish lad
a break. Besides, is that such a big fault?”
“Oh no, that’s nothing.
And neither is it a fault that he accidentally
rubs up against my boobs whenever we’re in a crowded room and he thinks he can
get away with it. So other than your desire to invoke the unholy trinity of
Patrick, flavored condoms, and PBR in a can, why are you calling, Aria?”
“Patrick has something
to show you… and it’s not his freckly unit. This is really interesting. Can you
come?”
“Why aren’t you playing?
Why are you on the phone with me? And besides, I’m in the middle of running a
computer model here.”
“We’re on break, Kate.
It’s something people do. They work for a while and then rest or play for a
bit. You should try it sometime. Oh damn, some guy spilled beer on me. Fuck.”
“Sounds like a great
time, Aria, but I think I’ll pass.”
“No, really. You have to
come see us and hear Patrick’s guitars tonight. Something weird is going on.
Come on. PBR in a can! One lousy buck. You know you want it.”
“I’m rolling my eyes
now. Can you see me?”
“Seriously, Kate, come
down here. I mean it.”
“Oh, all right. I guess
I can call it a night here. How busy is it?”
“For a Wednesday it’s a
good crowd. Wait ’til you hear the music.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay,
I’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Where can I park?”
“Off the alley out back.
I think you can squeeze in right behind my car. You’ll just barely be on the
bar’s property so the city can’t ticket you there. Squeeze in tight—pretend
it’s Patrick and you.”
“Shut up!” Kate yelled
and hung up.
Kate parked her car and walked around to the street to
enter The Skanky Barmaid. The
Arse Bros, Patrick and Colm, with Aria on fiddle, were in the middle of a set
covering Chieftains tunes.
The place was dark and weary, but no one cared as long as the Guinness was
flowing. A countdown clock, reading six days, two hours, thirty-two minutes, and
fourteen seconds to St. Patrick’s Day teetered on the edge of the splintery old
stage. Kate grabbed a seat at the bar and smiled up at Aria, who winked back
and then bounced her bow hard on double-stopped strings, propelling the beat
forward on a rollicking new version of “The
Foxhunt.” Patrick strummed his guitar like a madman while Colm was
twittering away on a pennywhistle that looked like it had been through all “the
troubles” of Ireland starting in 1968. “Oh crap—in five-four-three-two-one,”
Kate muttered.
“Hey there, can I buy you
a drink?” said a voice. It presently had no face or body attached to it as Kate
had no intention of looking where it came from. Why can’t a girl ever go in a bar and just be left alone for once, and not be pestered by men? she
wondered.
“No, that’s okay,” she
said, initiating evasive tactics by fumbling inside her purse.
“Oh, come on, I won’t
bite. Hey, you like this band?”
“Maybe. They’re okay.
Listen, I’m getting a PBR for a buck. I’m sure I’ve got four quarters rolling
around in here.”
“That’s funny. You’re a
funny girl. I like that in a woman.”
“Um-hmm.” She yawned.
“You sure I can’t buy
you a drink?”
“Nah, I’m okay.”
“Well suit yourself. I’m
here all the time. Name’s Sean—a relative of the owner. Seriously, I’d like to
buy you a drink. Something nice, not a Pabst. How about a Guinness or a half and half?”
Kate finally looked up
at the fellow. Oh geez, he looks just
like what’s-his-name—Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver. Watch out Mr.
Creepy Eyes, my friend Aria might spear you with her violin bow if you get out
of hand.
“No really, I’m fine,”
Kate said pointedly, putting ‘Travis’ in his place, and officially, from this
point onward, on ignore. She turned to watch Aria take a solo, her blonde hair
glowing and bouncing as she fiddled madly and tapped her right foot hard on the
stage.
“Okay, suit yourself.
What, I’m not good enough for you? I’m not your type, eh? Is that it? Hope you
have a nice evening, bitch!” Sean snarled, sliding down the bar toward another
unsuspecting young maiden.
Ah, well there would be the manners I knew would come out
eventually. Yeah, very Travis-y, very Bickle-y of you, Sean of the Dead. Eh,
forget about it. “Hey, can you get me a
PBR?” Kate shouted at the bartender. “The epic one-dollar special. I’m thirsty
here!” In a little bit she was rewarded with a can of the sickly sweet,
corn-based bubble-water hipster delight.
Kate had nursed her one can of PBR as the band reeled
through five or six more tunes. Patrick finished the set with an acoustic
version of the old folk song “The Lark
in the Clear Air” on his twelve-string guitar. Patrick had a remarkable gift
for shaping a melodic phrase. The guy might be a wise-ass jerk, but he sure
could play. Kate finally got another PBR and headed backstage to meet her
friends in the green room.
“Kate, do you realize you
still have your lab coat on under your jacket?” Aria asked.
“Oh, oops. I wasn’t thinking.
Hey, guys, great set.” She looked around at the green room—a total dump with
graffiti everywhere. It was clear that the many signs posted by the management
were being ignored on a daily basis, the most obvious being a NO SMOKING sign,
since the room reeked of cigarettes and pot.
“So you liked us, huh,
Kate? Does Kitty-Kat want to rub up against my leg now?” Patrick quipped,
making a kissy face at her.
“Of course, Patrick. But
first you should go defend my honor. There was a guy hitting on me. I want to
you to smack him over the head with your guitar—your most expensive guitar, to
prove your love for me.”
“That won’t be
happening, Kate,” Colm said. “Did you hear his twelve-string there tonight?
’Twas absolutely steel—no wait, platinum bollocks, now, eh?”
“Yes, platinum bollocks,
of course,” Kate replied. These two were a hoot. Weird but funny. Colm was the
older brother, about thirty. Tall with a ratty orange beard attempting to eke
out a semblance of existence on his pale face. Patrick was two years younger
and even taller, about six four. He was the more handsome brother. Their
popularity with both old and young Irish music aficionados took them across the
Midwest to venues much more highbrow than this dank little joint. Occasionally
they would tour Ireland and Scotland as well as Germany, where for some reason,
Irish folk music was quite popular. Aria played her neon-green electric violin
with them whenever the Arse Bros schedule didn’t conflict with her Milwaukee Symphony
job. Her blonde good looks made the band even more popular with the male
demographic between the ages of eighteen to forty-nine, according to Aria
herself.
“Okay, Kate, here look
at this package,” Aria said.
“She’d rather look at
mine, I bet,” Patrick countered.
“Shut up, dummy. Kate,
here’s the package for the new strings Patrick put on the twelve-string. And he
restrung his mandolin and the Dobro with this same brand and series of special
strings. They all sound amazing tonight, right? Here, read the label.”
CRYO-WHOMPERS
PH-PH-PHROZEN FOR A
PHAT-ASS PHUNKY SOUND
HSK STRING CO.
LAGUNA BEACH, CA
“Cryo guitar strings,
really?” Kate asked, looking dumbfounded.
“Ha, you’re not the only
lab rat freezing the hell out of stuff. Heck, now I gotta try freezing my
violin strings.”
“Guys, what do you make
of this? Where did you find them?” Kate asked.
One of the waitresses
stopped by with four free pints of Guinness. Colm tipped her ten bucks. “Here,
Kate,” he said, passing her a glass, “now you can stop drinkin’ that American
piss-water. Slàinte!”
“We saw them at Krazy
Larry’s guitar shop and thought we’d give ’em a try,” Patrick said, rubbing
carnauba wax on his twelve-string. “Only problem is my fingers are icy-cold
now. I can hardly wiggle the wee lads, damn froze strings.”
“Stop clowning, Patrick.
So, you like these strings?”
“Sound great, feel
great. They sound like bells or somethin’, like crystal bells, maybe.”
“Kate, we haven’t seen
you in ages,” Colm said. “Where have you been hiding? Aria says you’re doing
cryo-something. That you’d be really interested in these strings. So what do
you freeze? That’s what cryo is, right? Freezing stuff?”
“Yes, Colm. We chop off
people’s heads, freeze-dry them, then put them on spikes.”
“The heads o’ the
English, I hope, right, Kate?” Colm said.
“Of course. To be sure, laddy.
The bloody English. Their ugly mugs make righteous Halloween decorations, don’t
you know. And, Patrick, you’d be pretty scary if we could get our hands on your
head, I must say.”
“Katey KitKat. You can
put your hands on my head anytime you want,” Patrick said, still in lewd with
Kate. “Like maybe now? In the hallway?”
“I’m not sure I could
find it in the dark. Aria says she saw it once and that it’s a wee tiny pecker.
It might take me all night to find it.”
“All night is fine,
Katey. Mm hmm,” he moaned.
“All right, enough
clowning, you two. Kate, honestly you just make him worse,” Aria pleaded.
“He’s probably got blue
balls now from talking about sex. He’ll play better if he’s frustrated. Just
watch,” Kate announced triumphantly.
“Well, time to go back
out,” Aria said. “You’re staying, right?”
“Sure. And maybe I can look
up this company’s website while I’m sitting there fending off drunken lads.”
“You do that, Kate. Save
yourself for me. Don’t let the English drag you away from your valiant Irish
lover,” Patrick wailed, in a mock drunken voice.
“Bye now. Play good!”
She blew Patrick a kiss.
The band was a few tunes into the next set when
Kate saw a table open up right near the front. She could leave the crowded bar
and have some room to relax. She ordered another Guinness and headed on over—no
more stinking PBR for the evening. Patrick set his guitar down and grabbed his bodhrán and began to bang out a raucous,
driving rhythm. The crowd clapped frenetically to the beat, and eventually Aria
and Colm joined in on the electric fiddle and an amplified hurdy-gurdy. The
crowd cheered as Patrick leaned in to his mike and began singing the up-tempo
classic “The Rocky Road to Dublin.”
“In the merry month of
June, from my home I started,
Left the girls of
Tuam, nearly broken hearted,
Saluted me father
dear, kissed me darling mother
Drank a pint of beer,
my grief and tears to smother,
Then off to reap the
corn, and leave where I was born,
Cut a stout
blackthorn, to banish ghost and goblin,
In a brand new pair
of brogues, go rattling o’er the bogs,
Frightening all the
dogs, on the rocky road to Dublin.
One, two, three,
four, five!
Hunt the hare and
turn her down the rocky road
and all the way to
Dublin, whack-fol-la-de-da!”
“Ah, Geez, I gotta pee.
There’s the darned PBR catching up,” Kate mumbled. Why now? I wanna stay and listen, they’re really jamming now. And where
are the bathrooms in this joint? In back on the left, right? Head on down—oh
yeah, here they are. Listen to that crowd clapping, they’re actually staying
with the beat. God, this bathroom is filthy. What does the men’s room look like
if this is the condition of the lady’s room?
“In Dublin next
arrived, I thought it such a pity,
To be so soon
deprived, a view of that fine city.
Decided to take a
stroll, all among the quality,
My bundle it was
stole, in a neat locality,
Something crossed my mind,
when I looked behind,
No bundle could I
find, upon me stick a wobbling,
Enquiring for a
rogue, they said me Connacht brogue,
Wasn’t much in vogue,
on the rocky road to Dublin.
One, two, three,
four, five!
Hunt the hare and
turn her down the rocky road
and all the way to
Dublin, whack-fol-la-de-da!”
Kate suddenly realized
that she was yawning over and over. Dang,
I gotta get home and get some sleep. This is fun but it’s getting late. Get off
the toilet, girl, and wash your hands. And make sure you don’t look wasted,
right?
“The boys of
Liverpool, when we safely landed,
Called meself a fool;
I could no longer stand it,
Blood began to boil,
temper I was losing,
Poor old Erin’s isle
they began abusing,
‘Hurrah my soul,’ sez
I, let the shillelagh fly,
Some Galway boys were
nigh, saw I was a hobbling,
With a loud hurray,
they joined me in the fray.
Soon we cleared the
way, o’er the rocky road to Dublin.
One, two, three,
four, five!
Hunt the hare and
turn her down the rocky road
and all the way to
Dublin, whack-fol-la-de-da!
One, two, three,
four, five!
Hunt the hare and
turn her down the rocky road
and all the way to
Dublin, whack-fol-la-de-da!”
The crowd was belting
out the one, two, three, four, five
and the whack-fol-la-de-da with
the band as the tune ended. Damn, they’re
a hit with this crowd tonight. Listen to that applause. So how do I look? Hmm,
no—not drunk, just a little sleep-deprived? I’m pretty good-looking, even when
I’m tired, even if I do say so myself. “You
should wear more makeup.” Wasn’t that
what Gloria Dunham said? “You’re not
beautiful, but you’re pretty—like Kansas pretty.” Yeah, she said that to my
face, damn old witchy bitch! Okay, stop staring in the mirror and wrap it up,
Kate. Get back to the music. Oh, Aria’s singing now!
“I’ll tell me ma when
I get home
The boys won’t leave
the girls alone
They pulled my hair
they stole my comb
But that’s all right
till I get home.
She is handsome, she
is pretty
She is the bell of
Belfast City
She is counting one,
two, three
Please won’t—”
Crash! Crash! Crash! The music abruptly stopped and people were screaming. Kate
raced out of the bathroom as fast as she could. She fought her way through the
commotion, pushing through screaming people trying to get free of the ruckus,
while others moved closer, yanking out their cell phones to capture whatever
mayhem was going on. Kate finally squeezed past an overturned table and saw the
source of the noise. Patrick was pounding some guy to a pulp. She looked closer
and realized it was Sean, the scrawny creep who had hit on her.
“What did ya put in her
drink, then, eh?” Patrick screamed. “You thought no one was lookin’? I saw you.
Come on, what were ya doing?” Patrick stopped punching and held Sean by the
collar. A circle of men surrounded Patrick and Sean now, waiting to see what
Patrick would do to him next. Kate joined Aria about fifteen feet from the
altercation. Aria grabbed her hand and squeezed it.
“Jesus, Kate, he just
dropped his guitar and leaped off the stage at that guy. Look—he broke two tables
and there’s glass everywhere. Say, did you happen to walk away and leave your
drink sitting there?”
“Oh darn, I did, Aria. I
knew that guy was a creep.”
“I’ll bet he was putting
date rape drugs in your drink. What else could it be?”
“I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.
You’re all crazy,” Sean yelled at Patrick.
Pow. Patrick head-butted Sean, breaking his nose. Blood sprayed
everywhere. The men cheered while the women groaned. Some people decided it was
time to split. An older man came huffing and puffing out from the back of the
pub.
“Patrick, what are ya
doin’?” said Brendan Flaherty, the owner of the pub. “You’re here to play
music, not bust up my tables.”
“Flaherty, this guy was
puttin’ somethin’ in my girl’s drink. He’s a criminal. I saw ’im do it. Ya thought
no one was watchin’?” Patrick screamed in Sean’s face.
“What—what the hell,
that’s my nephew, Patrick. Sean, what are you doin’ here? You’re supposed to be
home with yer ma tonight.”
“He’s here makin’
trouble, Flaherty,” Patrick barked. “At your damn dive bar.”
“Show me what you put in
her drink, ya bastard,” Colm chimed in, rather calmly. He knew someone had to
play good cop when Patrick was this upset. “Show us yer pockets, little Sean.”
“I got nothin’ there.”
“Then turn ’em out. Let
us see, eh?” Patrick demanded.
“Yeah, feck off.”
“Sean, you don’t really
want to get Patrick any angrier now,” Flaherty said. “I’m telling ya now. You
better turn out the pockets, Sean.”
Patrick let go of Sean, then
shoved him into the circle of men, who laughed and pushed him right back like a
human pinball to Patrick. Finally realizing he was totally trapped, Sean slowly
went from pocket to pocket, emptying their contents. He hesitantly pulled a
baggy of white powder from his back pocket and handed it to his uncle. Patrick
grabbed the bag away and held it up for all to see.
“Aye—there it is!
Nothin’, you said?” Patrick bellowed to the agitated crowd as he grabbed Sean
roughly by the collar again.
“It’s just health
stuff,” Sean protested. “Protein powder. She looked tired. I was doin’ her a favor.
You got this all wrong.”
“I tell you what,” Colm
said, “how ’bout you swallow your protein powder. You don’t look
so good yerself right now.”
“I ain’t doin’ that,” Sean
sputtered, still trying, now and then, to squirm out of Patrick’s grasp.
“Don’t make ’im,”
Flaherty said. “He’s my nephew, Patrick. Please.”
“Yeah, you already told
us that. You must be righteous proud,” Colm said. “Tell you what… Brendan, go
get your phone and call the police. And make sure they send an ambulance. Yer
darlin’ nephew’s gonna need attention, I bet.”
Patrick poured some of
the powder into his left hand, closed the Ziploc bag and handed it to Colm.
“Now here’s what’s gonna happen now, little Sean Flaherty,” Patrick explained,
finally calming down. “You’re gonna swallow this big heapin’ lump o’ special
protein powder of yours I got here in my left hand, or I’m gonna break yer jaw
with my right. Understand? You already got a broken nose—do you want the jaw t’
match?”
“Or, Patrick,” Kate
interrupted, “just tell him he has to say what the powder really is, okay?
You’ve hurt him enough, okay? Please. Enough’s enough.”
“Brendan, are you
callin’ the police or not? Do it right now and I’ll do what Kate wants,”
Patrick said. The whole circle of men laughed again at the squirming Sean,
dwarfed by Patrick, who was still holding him like a rag doll.
“Yes, Patrick, I’m
calling them right now,” Flaherty said. “Sean, dammit, just tell the Arse Bros
what the feckin’ powder is. And do it now.”
“Sorry, Uncle Brendan.
Okay, I’ll say it—it’s a drug that messes you up. She wouldn’t let me buy her a
drink. I was mad. She wouldn’t even look me in the face. Like she’s better than
me.”
“What I thought.” Aria
squeezed Kate’s hand. “A date rape drug, eh, you little weasel? You’re a
pathetic excuse for a man!” Aria yelled.
“Yeah, it’s GHB. So
what? You’re just a worthless fiddle player. I’ll be out in three months or
less. You’ll see. And you can all go feck yerselves.”
Patrick reared his fist
back—everyone anticipated the blow to the jaw so much they were already wincing
before the fact. However, he then slowly opened his left hand, flattened it
out, and then blew all the GHB powder right into Sean’s eyes and nose, causing
him to wheeze and choke furiously, then pass out. The crowd broke into a cheer.
Aria and Kate let out an enormous collective sigh of relief, giving each other
a huge hug.
“You know, Kate, that
crazy redheaded Irishman there was looking out for you,” Aria said. “Ever have
a man fight for you? To protect you? ’Cause I sure as hell haven’t.”
“No. It’s a first. I
guess I’ll have to be nicer to him from now on, huh?”
“Yup. Guess so.”
“Wow, what a night.”
“So, maybe you learned a
lesson tonight about keeping your drink safe in a bar, Katey-Baby?”
“Maybe. Hmm, yeah, I
suppose. But there’s a bigger lesson.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t ever step foot in
a dive bar so scummy that they serve beer for a buck, Aria-Mommy—Dearest.”
