The Murphy twins
"Retell the most recent joke you've heard as a short piece of fiction."
(This one, clearly, owes its existence to St. Patrick's Day.)
--
Brian set up a new tray of glasses at the end of the bar, keeping one eye on the clock (just after midnight, it read) and the other on the two men sitting down at the other end, a stool separating them like strangers, although they both were as regular as Brooklyn bar patrons get.
Jim Murphy had moved down a seat after some kind of argument Brian had only heard pieces of, but had seemed to involve some trick or another played thirty years ago back home in Ireland, one brother to the other. Now he and his twin Mike were sulking apart, each putting down the drinks as fast as he'd ever seen them do, not saying a word to each other.
Mike thumped an empty glass down with meaning, eyeballing Brian. "Barman!" he called. Brian used the walk down to the other end of the bar to swipe the bar clean with his towel, in absolutely no hurry to get there.
"You know, Mike, I have a name, which you've been known to use in politer moments," remarked the bartender as he cleared away the empty glass. "Get you something else?"
"You're mistaken, sonny," mumbled Mike. "Never even been in here before." Brian half-smiled and nodded, and regretted the offer of another drink. But, he knew the Murphys lived not two blocks from here, and they'd make it home eventually. Still, when Mike asked for another whiskey, Brian delivered it half whiskey, half water, hoping to help keep the man upright.
He looked at the clock again, and wished it would go faster. The two weren't mean drunks, and never had smashed up his bar or anything like that, but last call was always an ironclad, honorable reason to kick all the drunks out at the end of the night, and it couldn't get here soon enough. Sooner than later... Oh, damn. It had started.
"Hey fella!" Mike called over to Jim. "I couldn't help but notice you've got an Irish accent like me. Where are you from?"
Jim, a smile suddenly beaming on his face, scooted back to hs original place, argument forgotten, chance to mess with his way-too-drunk brother presented.
"Ah, and I'm from Dublin," he said, letting out the accent even thicker than usual. "What about yourself?"
Mike's eyes opened wide in surprise. "So am I!"
"Well, if that isn't a coincidence," Jim chuckled. "And if you don't mind me asking, then what street did you grow up on our fair Dublin town?"
Brian rolled his eyes. He could see where this was going, and started to busy himself washing up and checking the beer bottle stocks. He could parrot the next part of the conversation in his head: McCreary Street, it'd be, and what an amazing thing--
"A nice little area called McCreary Street," enthused Mike. "Lovely old part of town."
"What an amazing thing this is!" cried Jim. "I grew up on the very street, and went to St. Mary's school! Don't tell me you did too!"
"St. Mary's, it was!" Now Mike was falling off his stool in excitement and surprise at meeting a fellow St. Mary's boy so far from home. Jim was laughing openly now, but Mike didn't realize it was at him.
Jim went in for the final joke on his brother, seeing how far he could string the poor man along.
"But tell me, tell me-- what year did you graduate then from dear old St. Mary's?"
"It would have been... 1964!" Mike figured out the year with a triumphant shout. Jim's smile was as wide as the whole East River as he crowed, "1964? Me too! It's a miracle, it is."
Mike was completely gobsmacked at this news, and clapped his brother on the back. "A round down here! Barman! It's the damnedest thing, a sign from God himself! This one here was in the same year at school as me back home in Dublin!"
Brian sighed and brought a pair of glasses down to the brothers. "Is that so, Mike? Did you ask the man his name yet?"
Jim made a shushing noise at Brian, still angling for a drink on his brother's dime. "Let's have the whiskey, there."
For all his drunken stupor, Mike had heard the comment, and eagerly asked Jim, "What's your name, friend?"
"Ah, does it matter now, friend?" Jim tried out a charming smile. Brian couldn't help it, and tried to spoil Jim's fun by chiming in.
"That there is Jim Murphy, Mike." He waited for the drunken man to figure it out, but the revelation was greeted only with even more shock and awe.
"Faith, and that's my own brother's name as well! I don't know where he's gotten to or I'd have you over to meet him, but I can tell you one thing, that bottle's on me!" Jim laughed with the joy of accomplishment, the beginnings of a joke that would no doubt be told about Mike for years to come.
Oh, dear Lord, it was going to be a long night, Brian thought as he poured a few fingers into each glass. The Murphy twins were drunk again.
(This one, clearly, owes its existence to St. Patrick's Day.)
--
Brian set up a new tray of glasses at the end of the bar, keeping one eye on the clock (just after midnight, it read) and the other on the two men sitting down at the other end, a stool separating them like strangers, although they both were as regular as Brooklyn bar patrons get.
Jim Murphy had moved down a seat after some kind of argument Brian had only heard pieces of, but had seemed to involve some trick or another played thirty years ago back home in Ireland, one brother to the other. Now he and his twin Mike were sulking apart, each putting down the drinks as fast as he'd ever seen them do, not saying a word to each other.
Mike thumped an empty glass down with meaning, eyeballing Brian. "Barman!" he called. Brian used the walk down to the other end of the bar to swipe the bar clean with his towel, in absolutely no hurry to get there.
"You know, Mike, I have a name, which you've been known to use in politer moments," remarked the bartender as he cleared away the empty glass. "Get you something else?"
"You're mistaken, sonny," mumbled Mike. "Never even been in here before." Brian half-smiled and nodded, and regretted the offer of another drink. But, he knew the Murphys lived not two blocks from here, and they'd make it home eventually. Still, when Mike asked for another whiskey, Brian delivered it half whiskey, half water, hoping to help keep the man upright.
He looked at the clock again, and wished it would go faster. The two weren't mean drunks, and never had smashed up his bar or anything like that, but last call was always an ironclad, honorable reason to kick all the drunks out at the end of the night, and it couldn't get here soon enough. Sooner than later... Oh, damn. It had started.
"Hey fella!" Mike called over to Jim. "I couldn't help but notice you've got an Irish accent like me. Where are you from?"
Jim, a smile suddenly beaming on his face, scooted back to hs original place, argument forgotten, chance to mess with his way-too-drunk brother presented.
"Ah, and I'm from Dublin," he said, letting out the accent even thicker than usual. "What about yourself?"
Mike's eyes opened wide in surprise. "So am I!"
"Well, if that isn't a coincidence," Jim chuckled. "And if you don't mind me asking, then what street did you grow up on our fair Dublin town?"
Brian rolled his eyes. He could see where this was going, and started to busy himself washing up and checking the beer bottle stocks. He could parrot the next part of the conversation in his head: McCreary Street, it'd be, and what an amazing thing--
"A nice little area called McCreary Street," enthused Mike. "Lovely old part of town."
"What an amazing thing this is!" cried Jim. "I grew up on the very street, and went to St. Mary's school! Don't tell me you did too!"
"St. Mary's, it was!" Now Mike was falling off his stool in excitement and surprise at meeting a fellow St. Mary's boy so far from home. Jim was laughing openly now, but Mike didn't realize it was at him.
Jim went in for the final joke on his brother, seeing how far he could string the poor man along.
"But tell me, tell me-- what year did you graduate then from dear old St. Mary's?"
"It would have been... 1964!" Mike figured out the year with a triumphant shout. Jim's smile was as wide as the whole East River as he crowed, "1964? Me too! It's a miracle, it is."
Mike was completely gobsmacked at this news, and clapped his brother on the back. "A round down here! Barman! It's the damnedest thing, a sign from God himself! This one here was in the same year at school as me back home in Dublin!"
Brian sighed and brought a pair of glasses down to the brothers. "Is that so, Mike? Did you ask the man his name yet?"
Jim made a shushing noise at Brian, still angling for a drink on his brother's dime. "Let's have the whiskey, there."
For all his drunken stupor, Mike had heard the comment, and eagerly asked Jim, "What's your name, friend?"
"Ah, does it matter now, friend?" Jim tried out a charming smile. Brian couldn't help it, and tried to spoil Jim's fun by chiming in.
"That there is Jim Murphy, Mike." He waited for the drunken man to figure it out, but the revelation was greeted only with even more shock and awe.
"Faith, and that's my own brother's name as well! I don't know where he's gotten to or I'd have you over to meet him, but I can tell you one thing, that bottle's on me!" Jim laughed with the joy of accomplishment, the beginnings of a joke that would no doubt be told about Mike for years to come.
Oh, dear Lord, it was going to be a long night, Brian thought as he poured a few fingers into each glass. The Murphy twins were drunk again.
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