The CIty of Lost Ambitions
Galway is a bay city nestled in the Gaeltacht of Ireland, known for its music and arts. The locals refer to it as the City of Lost Ambitions.
A weathered man of forty-five leans across the bench at a local bar called the Rosin Dubh. The name means Black Rose, and the venue has a reputation for its eclectic concerts and late night hours. For now though it is early afternoon and the crowd is a tamer one. The man leans forward to tell his drinking mate something in confidence. His words are loud and thick his forward tilt is merely gesture to suggest intimacy.
“You know… I came here,” he pauses and drinks deeply from his fifth or sixth Guinness of the day. The thick whit foam catches in his five o’clock shadow just above hiss upper lip. “I came here you know, I came here when I was your age.”
He rocks a little closer pointing a thick calloused finger at the young lad across from him. The boy is no more than 19 and is nursing his own pint with great care. His face is not particularly attractive. His features are too sallow and bird like. But he is cleanly shaven and is dowsed with cheap colon bought half price at Pound World. His eyes are wide following the older man’s movements.
The man lean farther in, barely catching himself as he slips into his pint disturbing the black liquid within.
“Did you know that I came here to study law?” The man sputters like his sloshed drink.
“Of course. You had top marks.”
The older man looks confused, hurt even. He wrinkles his forehead pushing his brown-leathered skin up into his scalp. He is concentrating hard but his mind had begun to slow from his steady intake of alcohol. Suddenly either because he has forgotten what he was trying to drudge up, or because he found whatever it was to be funny after all -he bursts out laughing banging his hand against the bench.
“Ah! But you’re a smart lad! You won’t get side tracked,” the man turned to the bartender, “Bring my mate another round!”
A deep lull settles in around the pair. The rare afternoon sun streaming through the window softens the mood. The two of them drain their pints.
“You know?” The man drones, “I was your age.”
He slumps deeper into his stool, deeper into his stooper.
It will be well past supper by the time the two of them stumble home.
A weathered man of forty-five leans across the bench at a local bar called the Rosin Dubh. The name means Black Rose, and the venue has a reputation for its eclectic concerts and late night hours. For now though it is early afternoon and the crowd is a tamer one. The man leans forward to tell his drinking mate something in confidence. His words are loud and thick his forward tilt is merely gesture to suggest intimacy.
“You know… I came here,” he pauses and drinks deeply from his fifth or sixth Guinness of the day. The thick whit foam catches in his five o’clock shadow just above hiss upper lip. “I came here you know, I came here when I was your age.”
He rocks a little closer pointing a thick calloused finger at the young lad across from him. The boy is no more than 19 and is nursing his own pint with great care. His face is not particularly attractive. His features are too sallow and bird like. But he is cleanly shaven and is dowsed with cheap colon bought half price at Pound World. His eyes are wide following the older man’s movements.
The man lean farther in, barely catching himself as he slips into his pint disturbing the black liquid within.
“Did you know that I came here to study law?” The man sputters like his sloshed drink.
“Of course. You had top marks.”
The older man looks confused, hurt even. He wrinkles his forehead pushing his brown-leathered skin up into his scalp. He is concentrating hard but his mind had begun to slow from his steady intake of alcohol. Suddenly either because he has forgotten what he was trying to drudge up, or because he found whatever it was to be funny after all -he bursts out laughing banging his hand against the bench.
“Ah! But you’re a smart lad! You won’t get side tracked,” the man turned to the bartender, “Bring my mate another round!”
A deep lull settles in around the pair. The rare afternoon sun streaming through the window softens the mood. The two of them drain their pints.
“You know?” The man drones, “I was your age.”
He slumps deeper into his stool, deeper into his stooper.
It will be well past supper by the time the two of them stumble home.