The Sweeney Mongrel
By the time it hit 10:30 we had been buzzing around Grafton Street all night. My mates were already in the midst of conversation with scruffy looking guys, he was easy on the eyes.
I sipped the froth of my third Guinness, it tasted crisp as the night air. The back ally of The Sweeney Mongrel faces Dame Street. The door has a mural of Jimi Hendrix and a multicolor mosaic overhang that looms over the narrow cobble-stoned road. The porch walls are decorated with nonsensical graffiti. Inside, dim lighting and a collection of vintage rock n’ roll posters smother orange floral wallpaper. Waves of young people flow in and out of the large double doors. A local band called the 68’s is covering Pink Floyd.
Photo Cred: google images
I purposefully take an exaggerated drag of my cigarette and let the burning butt fall to my side. “Are yee Spanish then?” asks a fellow next to me. He is wearing a tacky New York Mets hat and a greasy white hoodie. “Do you honestly like the Mets?” I return. He laughs, obviously unaware of my sarcasm.
With no excuse to stay outside with the rest of these tourists and blubbering drunkards, I make my way towards the dance floor. A few elbows and nudges finally brought me face-to-face with handsome musicians rocking out, “HEY! TEACHER! Leave those kids alone!” The entire bar joined in on the chorus. As always, I was spilling beer all over my dress, “Oh Crap” I groan. I pushed through the noisy crowd of hip twenty-something’s and head towards the downstairs bathroom. Couches and tables are full of canoodling couples who were likely strangers until that night.
I am out of place with my long black dress and bulky leather jacket. I looked like Trinity from the matrix meanwhile girls paraded their figures around in sparkly mini-skirts and wicked cool haircuts. There is no room at the bar but I order another beer with a combination of eye contact and hand motions. Four-eighty Euro for a pint of Guinness- no wonder all of my money has been disappearing. I find a seat at a green bench against the backstreet doors. Trying to pass the time I begin rolling another cigarette. Tobacco spills on the table but, I don’t bother to save it. I look over my shoulder and hold a gaze with a tall man with a long black ponytail and a thick leather jacket. The band begins a new cover set; I think it was AC/DC. My eyes search outside for a familiar face.
She is admiring an energetic fellow playing an Irish jig on his tin-whistle. A guitarist and lap-drummer contrast his fast-paced melody. I join her and lean against the psychedelic-blue painted brick wall of the lively pub.
“The instep of your shoe suggests you are a contradiction” someone behind me mutters. I turn around to find myself next to the handsome man in the leather jacket. He takes a gulp of his beer and looks away uninterested, as if he was merely stating a simple observation to no one in particular.
“Excuse me?” I say, struck by his allusiveness, “What is your name?”
“Orestes, but everyone calls me Romeo,” he answers with a toothy grin.