Red Roses for Me

As days go by, so do the last of the Red Roses for Me. An ale like this should not leave this world unrecognized. With that, we offer this.

Red Roses for Me

An Ale’s Eulogy

            Poor Paddy had lost his way. Drifting is easier to do when this happens. But drifting is not a happening one should wish easy to do. In tiny limbs Paddy was content. In larger limbs he was confused. An evening in a pub. Like never before. Poor Paddy had lost his way.

            “Another pint for Poor Paddy?” Asked the publican O’Patrick.

            “Please,” Poor Paddy mumbled. Feigning pleasantries. He had forgot to put on his left shoe that morning. Instead of turning around to retrieve the shoe Poor Paddy plodded on. Walking the dirty downtown streets with one shoe. Children had noticed. One shoe! Had you ever seen such a thing?

            “Why’d you put on only one shoe, Poor Paddy?” Asked the publican O’Patrick earlier that day. “D’ya favor one foot over the other?”

            Paddy cleared his throat and smirked. “Of course not. I simply thought that while my life is uneven my gait must be too.”

            “Faith. That’s a silly thing, is it not Poor Paddy?”

            “Faith to you, fine sir. Silly is a guise. While the truth. Well. The truth is a pancake.”

            Poor Paddy had lost his way.

            His girl Sal had gone. She was pleasant. Her hair was like a comfort Paddy forgot to thank. She had soft smooth skin and a warm treat bellow her belly. But she had grown tired of Poor Paddy and his predictably piss poor ways.

            “Why don’t you get a job, Poor Paddy?” Sal would ask after she pleaded with him to bath his putrid body.

            “A job would mean I would have to early wake. To early wake would mean I would have to early sleep. To early sleep would mean I would have to be home. To be home would mean I would have to leave the pub. To leave the pub would mean I would have to be sober. And to be sober. Well. Quite frankly. To be sober is something that I am not prepared to encounter yet.”

            His girl Sal had gone. And with her took the only string of normalcy in his life. This is not a bad thing to lose a single string of normalcy. But to lose the only string of normalcy you have is paralysis. The rug will be pulled. The curtain drawn. Yet his girl Sal still loved him so.

            “Another pint for Poor Paddy?”

            “Please.”

            O’Patrick, the publican, sympathized with Poor Paddy. He had seen many a man lose everything. Only to gain some back and to take some away at his pub.

            “Would you like a Red Ale this time Poor Paddy? It is said to heal a man’s heart.”

            “Please, fine sir.”

            “White collar?”

            Poor Paddy feigned a smile. “Could any other be worth?”

            O’Patrick poured his man Paddy a pint. It frothed in the glass. And bloomed in the nostrils. And would ease the belly. And satisfy the heart.

            Poor Paddy eyed the rest of the pub. Two drunks. A young couple. College boys.  None ever was or will be as happy as Poor Paddy had once been. He drank the pint and insisted on none other. Poor Paddy stood and said a prayer.

            “May the Lord God remember in His Kingdom. Our Holy universal Supreme Pontiff MacGowan. The Pope of Rome, our most reverend Archbishop and Metropolitan Behan. And our God loving Bishop O’Brien. And the entire priestly, diaconal, and monastic order. Our civil authorities. And all our armed forces. The noble and ever memorable founders and benefactors of this holy Church. Our suffering brethren. And all you believers. Always. Now and ever. And forever.”

            O’Patrick watched Poor Paddy curiously.

            “The doors. The doors. In wisdom let us be attentive. Absolve. We beseech Thee, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant Poor Paddy. From every bond of sin. That being raised in the glory of the resurrection. He may be refreshed among the Saints and Elect. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

            The two drunks stood.

            “Amen”

            O’Patrick laughed.

            “What was that Poor Paddy? Sunday School memoirs?”

            Poor Paddy sat. Gesturing for a new pint.

           

            Now.

           

            He lost

           

            himself.

           

            A flutter of angels took him by the hand. Leading him into the backroom. Poor Paddy collapsed. He was greeted by a jug. He unscrewed the top and sipped. The jug shattered in his hands. A serpent slithered from the broken pieces. 

   "What is this, Poor Paddy?" Asked the publican O'Patrick from his pondering position.

   Poor Paddy began to cry. It wasn’t fair. His left arm trembled uncontrollably. A shiver shot up the spine of the serpent. It tweaked. Where had his shoe gone? Don’t laugh. Poor Paddy was sailing up the shit stream in a boat without a sail pitifully holding up a sail without a boat. He was sailing without a left shoe, too. He stopped pouting. He prayed. He laughed. He gasped for a breath. Finally, he gave up.

   "Poor Paddy. Poor Paddy."

   Poor Paddy asked for forgiveness. A breeze met his face with a comfort. He turned back towards the watering room. And in the doorway. Well. In the doorway. Stood his girl Sal. And in her hands. She stood.

           

            With a bunch

           

            of  Red Roses

           

            for Me.