Terry did the same, clinking his glass with the girl’s. “To new friends.” Terry moved the glass to near to his mouth. “…And the old ones, too.” Fiona nodded, as they both downed their drinks.
~~~
Terry knew no one in Galway besides his band, two possible werewolves, their friend, grumpy old man MacDonald, and Fiona the barmaid. He had nowhere to go but Rachel’s house, the hotel, the taxicab - count the taxi driver as someone else he knew - and the bar. For a moment he pondered where to go now.
Halfway through the moment he had already decided to stay in the bar.
“Say”, he said, trying to get the barmaid’s attention, but she had moved on to other customers while he pondered - the place had started to get busy since he had gotten here, he noted; evidently 4:00 was sloshing time in Ireland.
“Say,” he said again, leaning forward. She continued to absorb herself in pouring what looked like a double whiskey for someone in a rough overcoat. “Ah, hey, ah . . .”. Terry didn’t want to say “Hey, you!”, because she had been nice to him, and because he thought Rough Overcoat over there might puncture his kidneys if Terry was accidentally rude.
He was pondering this new predicament when a disgusted voice next to him said “Say ‘Hey, you!’ to her, ya Yank; she’s a barkeep, not a date.” Terry turned to find that Rough Overcoat #2 was sitting next to him, nursing some sort of pitch-black fluid (or maybe it was the glass) and gazing at him with a raging flood of scorn. Then he muttered something unintelligibly insulting under his breath and turned back to the smarter person on his other side.
In fact, the man’s broad fast-paced Irish made the entirety of his speech unintelligibly insulting, but Terry caught “‘’ey You!’” and something that sounded like “ya ya”, and garned the meaning anyway. It still didn’t seem right, but he figured that while in Ireland, he may as well do as the Irish did.
“Hey, you!” he called out to the girl, leaning farther forward on the bar. She still didn’t respond, so he tried again. “HEY GIRL!!”
“Shut your bloody fucking mouth, ya cocksucker!” roared Rough Overcoat #1 in response, giving Terry a breaking-your-organs kind of look. The barmaid finally did look over, though, and while the look she gave him had exasperation in it, it was also pleased. Terry sat back and tried to shrink into himself, but as the girl came over and the various toughs made no move, he figured that overall the move had been a success. Not one that should be repeated, though.
“My name is Fiona.” Fiona started off with when she got to Terry’s area. “Not a single other person in this bar has that name; shout it and I’ll come over as soon as I can. Now, what did you want so fucking badly?”
“Sorry, I just . . . “ Terry mumbled, then composed himself as best he could. “I’ve decided to stick around for a while and figure out where to go next. Could I have another drink?” Then, as Fiona started to turn away, “Better make this one coffee; I don’t want to be drunk for tonight.”
Fiona raised one eyebrow. “Laddie, you’ve already got this populace half against you with that public announcement just now. “Now, if they see you drink some fucking wussy coffee, they’re going to knock a crater in your head with their mugs and toss you out in the street for the cats and dogs to mop up. If you want to be welcome in Ireland, you’d better learn to drink.”
There was frustration in Terry’s eyes. “But I can’t be smashed for tonight. Isn’t there something you could give me?”
Fiona shook her head emphatically. “You’re going to drink beer or nothing. And if you drink nothing you’re gonna be ousted. But - “ she leaned in conspiratorily, “there is something you can do to stay sober.”
Terry’s face split into a smile “Fantastic.” he said. “Because I really don’t favor going out into that rain.”
“It’s not raining.”
Terry looked towards the door, and even through the smears on the pub window he could tell that the damp fog which had been everywhere when he entered was still on the rise. “It looks pretty wet to me,” he replied.
Fiona laughed mirthlessly, then turned away. As she rummaged around on the shelves behind the bar, she said “Believe me, this is sunshine. In good ole’ Ireland, when it rains, you’ll know it’s raining.”
Terry shrugged. “So, what’s the way of yours to keep me sober?” he asked.
Instead of replying, Fiona turned around, clutching a large shaker of salt in one hand and a plate of lemon slices in the other. She set them down on the bar in front of Terry, then took his half-finished beer and moved it towards her.
Then Fiona began an odd sort of ritual. First, she took one lemon slice and laid it straight on the bar in front of her. Then, she carefully poured a pile of salt onto the back of her right hand. A moment from pressing her lips against the beer mug, however, Fiona paused.
“You don’t have anything catching, do you?” she asked warily. Terry had the momentary insane thought to tell her he hadn’t had his werewolf vaccinations yet this year, but shook his head all the same. In response, Fiona did a ridiculous thing: She gulped down the half-pint of beer all at one go, slammed the mug down, snorted the salt with a vicious inhalation, and stuck the lemon in her mouth to suck on. After a moment, she took the lemon out and stared at Terry. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot now, but she didn’t look drunk at all. From either side of Terry, loud applause suddenly erupted, nearly making him let loose in his pants. He was that tense.