Nolan came into McMinimin’s, looking for his favorite bartender, Caitlin, a good old-fashioned Irish girl with ginger hair, a pale complexion accented with freckles, and a few piercings in her left ear. A stranger stood behind the bar, a big man, balding, with a slight hint of a mustache that looked like he’d be attempting to grow it for a few weeks. His facial hair wasn’t filling in right, making the hair missing from his head much more apparent. A toothpick jutted out from his lips, not helping the mustache look any better.

“What can I get you, bud?” he asked Nolan, who sat on the nearest barstool.

Nolan’s eyes darted around the bar, searching for Caitlin, but she was nowhere to be seen. That was unusual, even for her. She was a workaholic, always on duty. The bald bartender’s stare bore into Nolan. “I said,” he pushed himself up on the bar with both hands, almost even with Nolan’s face. “What can I get you, bud?” The tension in the air was palpable.

Nolan sighed. “Pitcher of IPA, please.” Baldy nodded, turning around to pour the beer. “Do you know if Caitlin is workin’ tonight?” Nolan was tired. That’s when the Irish inside him showed through, particularly in his accent. Words at the end of his sentences were shortened or abbreviated. The mirror in front of the bartender showed Nolan his expression of zero emotion.

“Caitlin?” His tone made it sound like he was curious. He wasn’t. “Caitlin? She ain’t workin’ tonight. I am.” He slid the pitcher across the bar to Nolan, along with a warm, empty glass. “That do it for ya?” He pointed at the pitcher with his toothpick.

“I’m Nolan.” He offered his hand to the bartender, who scowled at Nolan, disgusted and almost bored, like he wouldn’t be bothered by another Irish immigrant who frequented an Irish microbrewery.

“So?” the bald bartender spat. “You want a medal for that or something?”

“Just tryin’ me best to be friendly.” Nolan sat back on the barstool, picked up the pitcher, and poured the IPA into the warm glass. It was turning into a rough evening for a Friday, considering he wasn’t excited to return to southeast Portland and his empty one-bedroom apartment. An avid reader, Nolan had a copy of Catcher in the Rye sitting on his bedside table that hadn’t been touched in several days. He thought tonight might be a good night to start rereading it.

Friday night all the televisions were locked in on four different golfing events. Not the usual fare for the brewery but it was better than watching cricket. At least Nolan thought so. Even football was less boring than cricket, but golf? That was a way to kill the energy in a place, especially a microbrewery like McMinimin’s. The place was all but deserted, Nolan, the bartender, four other patrons, a couple at the opposite end of the bar where Nolan was seated, and one table with two young guys. Nolan guessed they were in the early twenties, based on the number of empty pitchers on the table. As inattentive as the bartender was, it came as no surprise to Nolan that their table had four empty pitchers, the fifth quickly being drained. The couple at the end of the bar were watching the match. Nolan had a problem with that. Who takes a date to watch a golfing match? But the longer he took drinking his beer and watching the couple, the more he realized that the man was a golfer, and his date? She looked like she spent a lot of time outside, too. Both were bronze, highlighted with their light colored hair, his looking a bit thin.
Nolan finished his first glass, watching the boys at the table, thinking about introducing himself to them until they started doing their impressions of the Whassup Budweiser commercials. He sighed, looking up at the monitors overhead, seeing the bartender turn his attention to the empty pitchers on the boys’ table. He snapped his fingers a few times to get their attention, both of the younger men deep into their own whassup impressions.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” A tall, thin stick of a man stood up from the table, his Stucci hat sitting on the back of his head. He dressed like a skater without a skateboard. The hat was reminiscent of New Kids on the Block, a flannel shirt tied around his waist, with a pair of white Nike’s on his feet. What skater would be caught dead wearing Nike’s Nolan didn’t know. Tony Hawk would laugh just looking at this young wannabe.

“If you don’t settle down over there, bud, you and your friend are gonna have to leave.” A bar towel hung over his left shoulder, his toothpick pointing forcefully at both young guys.

The other young man, dressed like you would expect for Beaverton in the late 1990s. Jeans. Nirvana t-shirt under a blue flannel and a pair of black Doc Martins. Unlike his friend, his blonde hair was a little longer, barely touching his shoulders. He had more muscle than his friend, looking like he could or did play high school football. Probably someone who caught the ball, not a blocker. He wasn’t big enough for that. “Jared, just cool it, okay? You don’t need another incident with the cops tonight,” he tried to whisper, but after ingesting a lot of alcohol, whispering isn’t easy.

“Yo, boys!” Now, the bartender was shouting. Slapping the towel on the bar, he charged from behind the counter. “Did you NOT hear me?” Blood flowed into his face, turning it a bright red color, almost as red as Caitlin’s hair. “GET. OUT. NOW!” His fat index finger pointed at the door, the skinny dude charging at the bartender. Nolan didn’t think that was smart for the kid, but he watched what he expected to be a violent attack.

The football player grabbed onto his friend, knocking the hat off his curly-haired head. “Leggo of me, bro!” He screamed at his friend, kicking and hitting him. “I’m gonna kick that fat bartender in the head!” They both hit the floor with a thud, the skinny guy landing on his friend. “Let me go!” he kept screaming.

Nolan continued drinking, finishing the second glass of beer and glancing at his watch. Forty-five minutes until the next bus. He sighed. The bartender pulled the cordless phone from behind his back. Nolan wasn’t sure if it came from his apron or if he had it in hand the whole time. He didn’t care but knew that 911 was on speed dial. Caitlin programmed it herself. The couple at the end of the bar left. Nolan wasn’t sure exactly when that happened, maybe after the bartender came out from behind the bar. No trace of their plates or glasses was seen on the bar.

The fat man held out the phone, screaming at the two men. “GET OUT NOW!” He was sweating profusely, soaking through his black shirt, his hand with the phone shaking. “OR I CALL THE COPS! GOT IT?!?” Rolling atop his skinny friend, he punched him in the ribs. “Oww!” the skinny guy shouted. “What’dya do that for?!” The receiver stood up, snatching his friend off the floor while he rubbed his ribs. “That really freakin’ hurt, dude!”

“We gotta go, Jared. Like right now.” He threw the bartender two twenties. “That should cover it, right?”

The bartender was shaking like a leaf, sweating, and now his left eye started twitching.
The football player forced Jared to walk out of the establishment as he rubbed his ribs where he got punched. “Can’t believe you hit me, dude.”

Nolan drained the beer from this glass, laid a twenty on the bar, and stood up to leave. Before he made it to the door, the bartender passed out. He fell onto his face, bubbles coming out of his mouth. Nolan, picking up the phone, pressed the one-key on the phone.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

“My name is Nolan Hanratty, and I’m at McMininim’s on Hall Boulevard. I think my bartender had a heart attack. I need an ambulance.”

So much for reading tonight, Nolan thought.