Barstool of choice

Larry had been frequenting his pub of choice, The Shamrock, since he moved to Fridley last summer. It was the kind of establishment where mullets, white tennis shoes, and denim were accepted and encouraged. The first time he walked in to the bar, Motorhead was blasting from the jukebox. Therefore, Larry became a regular.

He started coming twice a week, then three or four times a week, eventually he was here pretty much every night. He drank Michelob Golden Light and smoked Marlboro reds.

The Shamrock was a local’s kind of place. Everyone knew each other, even if they didn’t necessarily speak to each other. It was a comfortable domain.

Then one night things changed in a peculiar way. A beautiful man walked through the door to the tune of Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town”. Larry would not normally call a man beautiful, but that is the word that immediately came to the front of his brain. The man was with two other squirrelly looking men. They came in sat in a corner booth and kept to themselves until closing time. They were drinking Guinness and smoking American Spirit cigarettes. All the regulars went about their routine: shooting stick, playing cards, and pumping quarters into the jukebox for Motorhead. All the while keeping one suspicious eye on that corner booth.

The next night all the regulars came back plus the beautiful man and his friends. Then something crazy happened, two young, thin, blonde girls opened the front door. They apprehensively scanned all the bodies in the building until their search found it’s aim. Once their eyes locked on to the beautiful man’s they strolled in as casually as two giddy blondes could. They sat at the adjacent booth the beautiful man and his squirrelly entourage and ordered a couple shots of courage.

The following nights followed the same pattern. Within a week, the place was packed nightly with young woman trying their luck at wooing the beautiful man. Larry sat at his barstool of choice, facing the front door, trying to glean insight from the bar chatter. Apparently, the beautiful man was a film actor. Larry heard the man’s name was Colin Farrel. Larry had never heard of him.

After a month, The Shamrock had turned into an MTV-spring break-girls gone wild kind of place. Tanned young ladies baring their boobs in tabletop dances. Mickey the bartender furiously scanning his bartenders guide to find recipes for exotic mixed drinks. Colin sitting quietly in the corner, unfazed.

Then the actor stopped showing up. The nubile young princesses quickly receded. Larry walked in on Wednesday night to a silent smattering of locals, sat down at his end of the bar, ordered a Guinness, and lit an American Spirit.