No Escape

I pull off N70 just past Killorglin, seeking shelter from the sheets of driving rain and the winds kicking up off Dingle Bay. Dempsey’s is the first pub I lay eyes on and I squeeze the motorbike between two cars right in front.

The place is dark and rather small, definitely a local watering hole. There’s one guy at the bar. I walk over and climb onto the stool next to the old coot. He’s hunched over his drink, an old tweed coat, head hung. His knuckles are gnarled and liver spots tattoo his skin. His white hair seems too long for his age.

Two couples in the back are gabbing. Someone laughs out loud.

A bored looking bartender lumbers over, nods.

“Pint,” I say. I rest my helmet on a stool and shake off some rainwater.

I turn my head to the old guy and nod. “Aye.”

It takes a minute, then he breathes, grunts.

I say, “Comin down out there it is.”

The bartender slides the pint of blackness in front of me. I down half in a long pull.

“You’re gonna die,” the old coot says, head still down.

I shrug. “Never knew anyone died from a pint.”

He doesn’t flinch. A long moment goes by. “You’ll die alright.”

I take another swig, shift on my stool. “Suppose.”

“There’s no escape,” he says. “Tell yourself what you will.”

“All right then,” I say with a smile and raise my glass. “Any way you want it. Cheers then.”

I get no reaction. I notice the items on the bar in front of me; a stack of old coasters that read: Dempsey’s Pub, a glass full of red stirrers, a clean ashtray and a stray bottle cap.

The old man clears his throat, says, “Fill your days.”

“With what?” I run my hand through damp hair. The smell of leather mixes with the sourness of the stained wood floor. “You’re a barrel a giggles, eh?”

“Could be round the corner,” he says.

I look around. The bartender is leaning on the end of the bar by the window, reading a paper. The rain pelts the glass and for a moment that’s the only sound in the place.

The old coot says, “Retired physician. Seen it over and over and over and over.”

“What kinda doc?” I say. “Goddamned oncologist I bet. Had an uncle did that. Was himself a miserable bastard.”

“Front of you,” he says and lifts his chin. “Next to you. Maybe inside you.”

“You from round here?”

“Tumors growin in many a bloke right now only the bloke doesn’t know it.”

I play along. “Guess he don’t.”

“Billion cells—one rogue rebel. Multiplying furtively till a critical mass is achieved. A perturbation of some function. Tis the primary indication.”

“If ya say so, doc.”

“An aneurysm. Festering for years. Arterial bubble. Waiting to burst.”

“Yup. Right here and now.”

“Noggin fills with blood. Surging mass of darkness compresses grey matter. Brainstem shutdown.”

He talks fast and then is quiet. His knobby fingers shake as he lifts the glass to his stubbled face.

I take a pull too.

He starts again.

“Plaque coats an arterial wall.” He slides the glass on the bar. “Years pass. Mud on a riverbank. Finally—occlusion. Brain or heart, bloodless. No oxygen. Dead.”

“Now you ain’t right, doc,” I tell him now. I ain’t gotta listen a this shit. “I come in for a quick pint and maybe a ‘hello, the fuk is new, how’re ya?’—kind of thing. Not this crap, ya old geeyser.”

“Infection. Microscopic structures. Virus, bacteria, fungus. HIV. Vessels teem with invaders til the battle is lost. It’s you or them.”

I get up. Down the last of my Guinness and throw some crumpled bills on the cracked wood of the bar.

He says, spewing it, sounding like a song: “Car, train, plane, bus, bike, motorcycle. Walking. Water. Electricity.”

“Bye ya old fuk.”

He turns his head to look at me for the first time. He seems to be smiling. Maybe a grimace. “Drag the timeline out long enough and there’re no survivors.”

“Right.” I say as I walk away.

I make it three stools. Behind me, louder now, almost a shout, I hear: “None!”

Over by the bartender, I shake my head. Zip up my coat. “Aye.”

“Aye,” he says, grinning. “Seen ya met old Doc Dempsey.”

“Fukin hard bastard he is.” I think about the name. “Dempsey’s. This his joint?”

“Aye,” He says, back to reading the paper. “Lovely wife died last month.”

“That sucks.”

“He himself just learned he got the cancer.”

“Double sucks then.”

“Don’t let em get to ya.”

“Kinda late for that,” I tell em.

I strap on the helmet and leave.

Outside, the rain has stopped and faint mist rises from the cracked pavement. In the sky, there’s a full rainbow straddling two green mountains in the distance.