Author’s note: Parts of this story refer to events that occurred in : The Inspection, and Aftermath.
Saint
Patrick’s Day
John Gage paused, his fork poised midway between his plate and his mouth as the telephone rang. There must be an invisible signal my phone sends out when I eat that says: Call me! He sighed and placed the fork on his plate. Johnny wiped his hands with his napkin and answered the phone. "Hello?" he said with a slightly annoyed tone. He cradled the receiver between his cheek and shoulder as he grabbed a piece of bread from his plate. He took a bite.
"Hi Johnny," Roy DeSoto’s voice came over the receiver. "Sorry if I bothered you during dinner."
"That’s okay, Roy." John’s tone softened. He waved the bread in the air. "What’s up? I thought you were taking Joanne and the kids out tonight."
"We were, but then something came up," Roy said disgustedly "That’s why I’m calling. I need a favor."
"Sure, Roy. Name it." John took another bite of the bread.
"I wondered if you could water the plants and keep an eye on the house while we go to Joanne’s mother’s. She’s in the hospital."
"Sure. No problem. I hope it’s nothing serious," said Johnny. He polished off the slice of bread.
"No," sighed Roy, "it’s not. She stepped into a pothole in the grocery store parking lot and broke her leg. She’s in a cast and can’t get around very well. So, we have to go help her out. She’s being discharged tomorrow afternoon."
"Can’t Joanne take the kids and go?"
"No," said Roy, flatly. "Since Mother missed her last visit, Joanne thinks this would be a great time for all of us to see the Old Bat."
"Better not let Joanne hear you say that, or you’ll be sleeping in the doghouse with Sparks. When are you leaving?"
"First thing in the morning. I stopped the mail and the newspaper, and we’re taking the dog with us. I let Headquarters know I’ll be gone for the week. I don’t know who you’ll get as a replacement." Roy paused. "I hope, for your sake, it isn’t Brice."
"Won’t happen. I don’t think he’s back to work yet," replied John. "Animal said he’d be out for about five weeks. I guess that simple nose fracture was a little worse than we originally thought. I’ve only been back for two weeks, which means Brice is due back next week." He unconsciously scratched the site of the gunshot wound Brice’s brother had inflicted at the liquor store. "I’m not going to worry about it. I’ll work with whomever they give me."
"You’re probably right. I’ll stop by the Station in the morning and drop off my house key. If you guys are out on a run, I’ll leave it in Cap’s office."
"Okay," replied Johnny. "I’ll keep an eye on things. Good luck with You-Know-Who."
"Thanks," replied Roy glumly, "I’ll need it."
John hung up the phone and returned to his dinner. Poor Roy. He put a piece of the now cold chicken in his mouth and chewed. John dropped the fork on the plate and scratched his chest. A mental image from one of his nightmares of Josh Brice standing over him with a smoking gun made John shudder. Snap out of it! Brice won’t be back for another week yet. You’ll probably get Animal for a replacement, or Big Mac. They’re both looking for overtime. Quit spooking yourself. Appetite gone, John picked up his plate and scraped the remnants of dinner into the garbage can. He put the plate in the sink and grabbed his running shoes. John headed outside into the refreshing evening breeze.
####
"Morning, guys," John said as he walked into the kitchen at Station 51. He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table.
"Morning, Johnny," replied Marco. He pushed a section of the newspaper towards Johnny. "Too bad about Roy’s mother-in-law."
"Thanks, Marco," Johnny said as he opened the front section. "Yeah. She should be okay. I just hope Roy comes home in one piece." He paused for a moment and looked curiously at Marco. "How did you find out? Did he drop off his key?"
Marco sat silently for a moment and glanced at Chet, who pored over the Sports page. "No, Cap must have mentioned it."
"I wonder why Roy can’t stand her?" asked Chet. He opened the newspaper section and sipped a cup of coffee. "He and Joanne have known each other since grade school, right?"
"Yeah." Johnny shrugged. "Roy mentioned something about her interfering. Maybe she still treats him like he’s a kid."
"Hey, John," Mike Stoker stood in the doorway. "Cap wants to see you in his office."
"I’ll be right there," Johnny slid the chair away from the table and stood. He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the table.
"What did you do now, Gage?" asked Chet as he closed the Sports section. He slid it across the table towards John. "Hand me the front page, will ya?"
"Nothing, Chet," John retorted as he slid the first section towards Chet. "I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve been my sweet, charming self since I’ve been back."
Chet rolled his eyes and read the headlines.
John walked out of the kitchen and into Hank’s office. "You wanted to see me, Cap?" He stopped short when he saw Craig Brice standing next to Hank’s desk.
"Morning, Craig," said John.
"Good morning, Gage," Craig said. He shifted uncomfortably.
Hank closed the door. He rubbed his hands together and leaned against his desk. "I’m sure you’ve probably figured out the reason I called you in here." Hank gestured to Craig. "Since DeSoto’s helping out his mother-in-law, Craig will be your temporary partner."
Johnny looked puzzled. "I thought you were still out on disability. Didn’t you have to have surgery on your nose?"
Craig nodded. "I did, but it was very minor. I saw Brackett yesterday and he cleared me to return."
"Craig got assigned here because he requested overtime shifts," added Hank. "DeSoto called early, and Craig was at the top of the paramedic overtime list." Hank paused to let this sink in. "I realize this will be difficult for the both of you, in light of recent events." He looked at both paramedics. "I want an honest answer. Whatever you say will not go beyond this room. Do you think you’ll be able to work together?"
Johnny shrugged. "Well...yeah, Cap." Johnny scratched the back of his head. "Craig and I had a chance to talk things out," he looked at Craig, "and we have an understanding. Don’t we, Craig?"
"We do, Gage," Craig said. "Captain Stanley, I assure you that we will work as a team." He looked at John. "We’re both professionals and will be able to overcome any personal differences we may have. Won’t we, Gage?"
"That’s right," said John. "You won’t have to worry about us, Cap."
"Good," said Hank. "I hoped you’d say that." Hank looked at his watch. "I’ve got a phone call to make before roll call. Do me a favor and assemble the rest of the guys."
"Yes, Sir," said John. He motioned to Craig. "Let’s go. Oh, since Roy’s not here, I’m driving."
"Fine," said Craig as he stood and walked towards the office door. "Then the drug box is mine."
"Fine," said John. He opened the door and gestured for Craig to pass. Craig nodded to Hank and left the office.
"John?" said Hank.
John turned around. "What is it, Cap?"
Hank motioned for John to close the door. John leaned against the back of the door and crossed his arms. "I’m sorry, Pal," apologized Hank. "I don’t know how this happened. If things don’t work out this shift, let me know. Maybe we can get somebody else on Friday."
John smiled wanly. "I’m sure things will work out okay."
"If you need anything, I’ll be here."
John nodded and opened the door. "Thanks, Cap. I appreciate that."
###
The men of Station 51 assembled in front of the squad. Chet and Marco snuck glances at Brice and Johnny standing beside each other. They snapped to attention as Hank stepped out of his office.
"Good morning, all." Hank did a cursory inspection of each firefighter. "I’m sure everybody knows that Roy was called away on a family emergency. Craig Brice will be working with Johnny until Roy returns." Hank looked at the impassive faces of the men and continued. "Headquarters is supposed to drop off some information about that new industrial park on Figueroa. We have to check the hydrants on Alameda, between Kensington and DelAmo. We’ll split the street between the Squad and the Engine, so we can finish it more quickly." Hank looked up from his clipboard. "Marco, you’re our chef for the day. What’s on the menu?"
"Since we’ll be out for a good part of the morning, I thought we’d have tacos for lunch. I plan on making Arroz Con Pollo for dinner."
"Sounds good." Hank looked at his clipboard again. "DeSoto was scheduled to cook this Friday. Any volunteers to take his place?"
Everyone looked at Chet expectantly.
"Why is everyone looking at me like that for?" Chet asked, as he looked at each of his colleagues in turn.
"Well, Chet," said Marco, "Friday is Saint Patrick’s Day, and you’re the most Irish of all of us. You should cook."
"Oh, no," Chet shook his head vigorously. "You’re not pinning this on me again. Just because I’m Irish doesn’t mean I can cook like my ancestors. Remember last year’s fiasco?"
"He’s got a point there, Cap," said Mike. "Even Henry got sick."
"Right, Stoker," said Hank as he patted his stomach. "How could I have forgotten?" He surveyed the rest of the men. "Okay, who wants to cook an edible meal this St. Patrick’s Day?"
"I’d like to give it a shot, Captain Stanley," volunteered Brice. "My mother’s family hailed from County Claire, and her recipes were given to her by her grandmother. I might not cook as well as they did, but I promise it will be edible."
"Okay, Brice," said Hank. "You’re our St. Patrick’s Day chef. I have one request."
"Yes, Sir?" asked Craig.
"Please, don’t put green food dye in everything, like Kelly did last year."
"No problem, Captain," replied Craig.
"I was only trying to be festive," muttered Chet.
"Okay," continued Hank. "Stoker, it’s your turn to do the locker room. Gage, you get the latrine. Lopez, you have the kitchen and the dishes. Brice, you have the dorm, and Kelly, the hose room is yours. Let’s get to work. We have a busy day ahead of us."
###
"There’s only one more hydrant to check," said Craig as he crossed another one off his list. "It’s about three blocks ahead of us." He looked at his watch as John started the squad. "We should be back in plenty of time for lunch."
"Good," replied Johnny. "I’m getting hungry." He drove in silence for a few minutes.
"There it is," said Brice as he pointed out of the front window, "on the right, in front of that bakery."
John parked the squad near the hydrant. "Let’s go." He grabbed his tools and started to open the door.
"Wait a minute, Gage," said Craig.
John turned to Craig. "Something wrong?"
"Listen, Gage," Craig said as he exhaled. "I appreciated what you said in Captain Stanley’s office this morning. I half expected you to tell me to get the hell out of the station, especially after what Josh did to you."
Johnny sighed. "Craig, you weren’t the one who tried to rob that liquor store. Your brother did. You weren’t responsible for his actions. We’re just the lucky ones who have to live with the results." John unconsciously ran his hand across his shirt, at the site of the wound. "I have to admit, I was surprised to see you this morning. Animal said you wouldn’t be back for a while. What did they do to your nose?"
"That foul ball knocked it out of joint," said Craig. "The surgeon straightened it, and opened up part of my sinuses."
Johnny grimaced. "Sounds painful."
"It was, but only for a few days. I’m just happy I can breathe better." Craig said. "How are you doing?"
"I feel okay," said John. "My right arm gets pretty stiff and sore sometimes, but physical therapy has helped a lot. The therapist said that the muscles were in spasm because of the location of the wound." He shrugged. "I’m almost back to normal. It’ll just take some time."
Craig looked at John. "Captain Stanley said that he could get a different replacement for DeSoto if you wanted one. If the novelty wears off and you don’t want to work with me, I’ll understand."
"I know," sighed John. "He told me that, too, after you left the office." John paused for a moment. "Listen, I don’t want a different replacement," John half-smiled. "Not yet, anyway. You haven’t been as insufferable as you usually are."
"Thanks," said Craig. "I’m trying to lighten up a little."
Johnny tapped his palm with the tool. "Besides, if you’re not here to cook Friday, I’ll probably get stuck with it. Somehow I don’t think I can pass hamburger off as something authentically Irish." John opened the door of the squad.
Craig smiled slightly and got out of the squad. He inspected the hydrant and wrote the number on the pad. He removed one of the bonnets on the side of the hydrant and stood back. Craig looked into the bakery window as Johnny turned the stem nut on top of the hydrant. Water gushed through the hose outlet into the gutter. Brice held a tube in the stream. "Good flow pressure," Brice reported.
Johnny cut the flow and Brice replaced the cap. They followed the procedure with the other two hose outlets. Craig moved closer to the bakery window as Johnny cut the water flow.
A sign in the window read "Authentic Irish Soda Bread and Desserts. Order yours for St. Patrick’s Day!". Beneath the sign, a plate of scones sat between a round loaf of bread and a mouth-watering, ring-shaped cake covered with orange frosting. Orange bits were scattered over the cake. Craig jumped as he felt somebody tap him on the shoulder.
"Are you ready?" John asked as he peered into the window. "Huh. That cake looks good. That raisin bread doesn’t look too bad, either."
"That’s not raisin bread, Gage," corrected Brice. "It’s Irish Soda Bread. The Irish used baking soda instead of yeast in that particular bread. My mother’s soda bread always tasted like cardboard, no matter what she put in it. That cake looks like something my grandmother used to make. I have to see if it’s what I think it is." He opened the door and walked inside.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" asked a middle-aged woman with a soft brogue. She stood behind a short display case filled with pastries and cakes.
"Yes," said Brice. "I’d like to order a loaf of the soda bread." He pointed towards the display outside. "What kind of cake is that in the window?"
"It’s an Irish Whiskey Cake," answered the woman. "It’s from an old family recipe."
"I thought so," said Brice. "I haven’t had one of those in years. I’d like to order one for Friday."
"Certainly," replied the sales clerk. "Will that be all, then?"
Johnny tapped Brice on the shoulder. "Umm, Craig?" he whispered and pulled Craig away from the counter.
"What is it, Gage?"
"What the hell are you doing?" John hissed under his breath. "We’re not supposed to have whiskey on the job!"
Craig gave John a pained look, and smiled at the clerk. "Gage, the heat of the baking process burns off the alcohol and leaves the flavor of the whiskey in the finished product." He paused for a moment. "Didn’t you know that?"
"Yeah," stammered John. He cleared his throat. "Sure. I knew that. I was just... checking." John walked away and faked interest in a display of cookies.
"Yes," said Brice to the clerk. "We’ll probably pick it up in the afternoon." He gave the sales clerk his name.
Brice’s Handie-Talkie beeped three times. "Squad 51, what is your status?"
Brice raised the antenna. "Squad 51 available."
"Squad 51, possible heart attack. 1453 Umberton. One-four-five-three Umberton. Cross street Millbrook. Time-out: 11:45."
"Squad 51, 10-4." Brice nodded to the sales clerk. "Have a nice afternoon."
###
The squad stopped in front of a small house. A police cruiser was parked in the driveway. John and Craig got out of the squad. Craig opened the passenger-side compartments and grabbed the oxygen and the heart monitor. He noticed John standing by the compartments on the driver’s side, looking impatient. "What’s the matter, Gage?"
Johnny gestured to the closed compartments. "Aren’t you going to open this side, so I can get the drug box and the biophone?"
"Why?" asked Craig, genuinely concerned, "Is your arm bothering you?"
John sighed. "No, Craig," he said impatiently. "Didn’t you lock them like you normally do?"
Craig shook his head. "No, Gage, I didn’t. Is the door stuck?"
"Oh," John coughed and quickly opened the compartments. He grabbed the equipment. "I thought you always locked the doors. Regulations and all."
"You know the old saying, ‘when in Rome?’"
John nodded as they walked towards the front door.
"Well," said Craig, "`when at 51’s’ is my new philosophy. I told you, Gage, I’m trying to lighten up."
"I’ll say you are," said John as he shook his head. "Roy will never believe it. I almost can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned for Friday."
A Sheriff’s Deputy ushered the paramedics inside the modest home. A slightly disheveled-looking elderly man sat in a tattered easy chair. He leaned forward in the chair, and rubbed his chest. His respirations came in quick gasps. An elderly woman stood beside the easy chair. Her hand rested on the man’s shoulder.
"These are the Paramedics, Mrs. O’Reilly," said the Deputy. "They’ll take good care of your husband."
Mrs. O’Reilly nodded as John and Craig set their equipment on the floor. "I hope so," she said as John handed a blood pressure cuff to Craig. "We’ve been married for 45 years and I don’t want to lose me Coo just yet."
"Don’t worry, Mrs. O’Reilly," said Craig. "We’re highly trained professionals in direct contact with a hospital." He wrapped the cuff around the man’s arm. "We’ll do everything possible for your husband. What’s his name?"
"Connor," said Mrs. O’Reilly. "Connor Owen O’Reilly. Coo, for short."
Johnny placed a high flow oxygen mask on Coo. "How long has he been having trouble breathing?"
"About a half hour," said the woman. "He was fine this morning. He wasn’t having heart pains like he sometimes does. So we went to the market and I got the fixin’s for our traditional St. Patrick’s Day meal. Coo may have a bad ticker, but come hell or high water, he has to have his corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day." She shook her head. "We stopped at Flannery’s down the block for a spot, and there was the most delicious aroma floating out of their kitchen. So we couldn’t help but get an early start on our celebration. Their corned beef melted right away in your mouth." Mrs. O’Reilly rubbed her husband’s back. Connor nodded in agreement. "He enjoyed it so much, he had two helpings."
"Pulse is 110 and irregular, BP is 180 over 90. Respirations are 24 and shallow," reported Craig. "Does your husband have any health problems besides his heart trouble?"
Mrs. O’Reilly thought for a moment. "Well, his doctor said that his kidneys didn’t work so good, but no, he’s been pretty healthy."
"Yeah," said Connor, a twinkle visible in his eye, "Me langer....doesn’t work...like it used to. Guess I...can’t do...the pub crawl...this year."
Mrs. O’Reilly lightly slapped her husband on the back. "Connor! Such language in front of company. You incorrigible old fool!"
He winked at Brice. "That’s...one reason...she married me." Connor looked curiously at Craig. "Didn’t I... meet you...last year? You were...there with....your cousin."
"It is possible," replied Craig. "There are portions of the event I don’t recall." Johnny tilted an eyebrow at Craig.
"Does your chest hurt, sir?" John asked Connor.
Connor shook his head.
"Do you have any pressure in your chest?" asked Brice.
Connor nodded. "Feels like," he gasped. "I’ve got an elephant...setting there."
"Rampart, this is Squad 51." John spoke into the biophone. Craig placed EKG patches on Connor.
"Go ahead 51, this is Rampart," Doctor Brackett answered
"Rampart, we have a male, approximately..." John looked at Mrs. O’Reilly.
"75," she replied.
"75 years old, with a history of heart and kidney troubles who experienced chest pressure and severe shortness of breath after eating two helpings of corned beef and cabbage." John repeated the vitals into the biophone. "Does he take any medications?"
"Here," Mrs. O’Reilly handed three pill bottles to John.
"Rampart, the victim takes Lasix, 40 milligrams twice a day, Digoxin, 0.125 milligrams once a day, and Nitroglycerin tablets, 0.3 milligrams as needed for chest pain." John rubbed his nose. "We have him on 15 liters of oxygen, and have patched him in for a strip. This will be lead two." He flipped a switch on the biophone.
"51," replied Doctor Brackett. "I read atrial fibrillation. Did the patient take his medications this morning?" John held up the biophone, and depressed the handle.
"He took his heart pill," replied his wife, "but not the water pill. We were going out, and Connor doesn’t fancy to sit on any pot but his own."
"Did you copy that, Rampart?" asked John.
"I copy," said Doctor Brackett, amusement evident in his voice. "Start an I.V., with D5W, T.K.O, and administer 80 milligrams of furosemide, I.V. Give Nitroglycerin, 0.3 milligrams, sublingual. Also give 2 milligrams of Morphine Sulfate. Continue to monitor vitals, and transport as soon as possible."
Johnny repeated the instructions into the biophone and hung up. Brice started an I.V. line while Johnny administered the nitroglycerin tablet. Johnny reached into the drug box and pulled out a syringe of epinepherine. He tossed it back into the box and sighed. This could be a long shift. He grabbed a vial of furosemide. Johnny drew up the appropriate amount in a syringe and administered it. The ambulance attendants arrived with their stretcher.
Craig administered the morphine while Johnny packed up the rest of the equipment. "We’re taking him to Rampart General Hospital, Ma’am," said Craig. "Would you like to ride in front?"
"I’d like that very much, lad," said Mrs. O’Reilly. "Are you planning on doing the pub crawl this year?"
"Probably not," answered Craig. He, John, and the attendants lifted Coo onto the stretcher. "I’m working Friday," Craig said disappointedly.
"I picked up a flyer at Flannery’s," said Mrs. O’Reilly. "This year they’re having it on Saturday, and they’re expanding it. It starts at 4 in the afternoon, and goes until whenever the last straggler wanders in, or 2 am. There’ll be plenty of pretty lassies for a fine, strapping young man such as yourself. You ought to bring your friend, there." She pointed to Johnny. "The lassies won’t be able to get enough of the both of you." Mrs. O’Reilly retrieved her purse. She opened it and fished around the inside for a moment. She removed a folded piece of green paper and handed it to Brice.
"Thank you, ma’am," Craig said as he put the flyer in his shirt pocket.
They wheeled Coo out of the house and loaded him into the ambulance. John handed the equipment to Craig and closed the ambulance doors. He gave them a thump. The rig pulled away. Johnny loaded the rest of the equipment into the squad. Craig Brice, bar hopping? He shook his head and smiled as he got into the squad. This I’d have to see.
###
"Good morning, everybody," Hank said as he looked over the faces of the assembled men. "It’s Friday, and it’s Saint Patrick’s Day. I have a feeling we’ll be busy, especially after the bars close. Brice, you’re the chef for the day. What’s on the menu?"
"For lunch, we’ll have Gaelic chops with Colcannon. I’m making an Irish Chicken Stew and a special dessert for dinner."
"Colcannon?," said Chet as he made a face. "What, no corned beef and cabbage?"
"Certainly you know there’s more to Irish food than corned beef and cabbage," replied Craig. "Besides, Colcannon has cabbage in it, Kelly. You have to expand your palate."
"Okay, fellas," interjected Captain Stanley. "Enough." Hank looked at his clipboard, then at the crew. "We have a memo from HQ to check our ropes for unusual wear and fraying. It seems the company has issued a recall notice after some defective lines turned up in Illinois. Gage, Brice, there’s an inspection at the Art-House Theatre on Arlington. Also," sighed Hank, "Headquarters wants every station to participate in a team-building exercise." Hank pulled the memo from the bottom of the pile. "The Chief thinks that we can build morale and improve our efficiency if we have a team that knows each other well. We have to complete the exercise and file a report by the 31st." Hank looked at the group. "The department lists some ideas, like a scavenger hunt around the station and some role-playing games. Any suggestions?"
Nobody spoke.
"Help me out here, guys," pleaded Hank. "I know this sounds kind of far out, but we have to do something."
"Gee, Cap," said Marco. "I think we work very well together." He looked at the rest of the crew. "I don’t know what you guys think, but when we get a call, we all know what we have to do, and we work together to get the job done. I know I can count on you in a pinch."
"Well said, Marco," added Mike. "I think we know each other fairly well, and I don’t see any problems with our morale." The rest of the men nodded in agreement.
"I agree with you there, fellas," said Hank. "But we still have to go through the motions on this one."
"Captain Stanley," started Craig, "does the memo give any specific guidelines about the structure, format or content of the activity?"
Hank read the memo again. "No, Brice, it doesn’t."
"Does it limit us to on-work hours, or do we have to do something at the station?" asked Brice.
Johnny gave Craig a curious look. Uh oh. I wonder what the Walking
Rulebook has in mind?
Hank shook his head. "No." Hank paused. "Did you have a suggestion for an activity?"
Craig pulled his wallet from his pants and opened it. He pulled out the green flyer and handed it to Hank. "This is an event that will not only provide us an appreciation of the multicultural aspect of the county that we serve, but also will test our...intestinal fortitude and teamwork."
I don’t believe this. Johnny stared at Craig. The side of John’s mouth curled slightly into a smile. Craig smiled back at John.
Hank unfolded the paper and read it carefully. "The Race for the Green?"
"Yes, Sir," replied Craig. "The object of the race is to go to each of the establishments listed on the flyer, and consume an alcoholic beverage in each. The bartender of each establishment stamps a card once the beverage is consumed. Last year, some of the establishments added contests of skill for each team. This year, the team to make it to the end of the night with the most skills completed wins a small sum of money."
"Brice," said Chet. "What’s so multicultural about going out drinking?"
"I’m happy you asked that, Kelly," replied Brice. "Each of the establishments listed is an authentic Irish pub, or Irish-themed bar. You’ll get to experience some real Irish food, music, women, and dance. We even have a day off to recover before our next shift."
"It sounds like a lot of fun, Brice," said Hank, "but I don’t think this is quite what the Chief had in mind. Besides, if we all get as drunk as I think we will, we might not remember enough to write the report."
"Don’t worry about that, Captain," said Craig. "If you read the fine print, you’ll notice that one of the rules states that one member of the party has to stay sober to drive. That person will be able to provide enough information to complete the required paperwork. I would be happy to assist with the preparation of the report to bring us in compliance with the regulations."
Hank shrugged. "That takes care of my reservations." He looked at the rest of the crew. "What do you guys think? Should we go through with it?"
"Cap," asked Marco, "I hate to bring this up, but will your wife let you do this?"
"Emily is taking the kids to visit her mother’s for the weekend," replied Hank. "They left this morning. She’ll never know."
"I think we should do it," said Stoker. "This is one time we can have fun with a mandate from Headquarters."
"Is everybody agreed on this?" asked Hank. All of the men nodded their heads.
"Captain," interjected Brice. "There is a small entry fee that covers a free buffet at the halfway point and souvenirs for each team member. The proceeds get donated to the Children’s Fund at Rampart."
"How much is the fee?" asked Hank.
"Thirty dollars per team," said Brice.
"That’s only five bucks a head," replied Hank. He looked at the assembled men. "Any objections?"
Silence greeted Hank’s statement.
"Then ‘The Race for the Green’ it is," said Hank.
"So who’s going to be our designated driver?" asked Johnny.
"I was thinking about that, Gage," said Hank. "I’m glad you volunteered."
Johnny pointed to himself. "Me??? Wait a minute, Cap." John started to shake his head.
"Didn’t we all just hear John volunteer to drive?" asked Hank. The rest of the crew nodded. "After all, John, your Land Rover is the only car big enough to fit all of us. Plus, you have that mattress in the back in case anyone passes out. We have to think of our safety, too."
"If that’s the case, you might as well just sleep over," John said disgustedly.
"That’s a very generous offer, Gage," said Craig. "After all, none of us will be in any shape to drive home after this is over. We should all bring sleeping bags and meet at Gage’s house at approximately 1500 hours. That way we can be sure we’ll get to Flannery’s at the appointed time."
"Next time, I should just keep my mouth shut," muttered Johnny.
"Did you say something, John?" asked Hank.
"No, Sir," John replied quickly.
"Good," said Hank, a smile playing at his lips. "We appreciate your initiative and contribution to the team. Let’s get to work."
###
"Welcome to Flannery’s!" A tall blonde young woman, wearing a green T-shirt with the bar logo on the front, greeted the men as they filed through the pub’s door. Her name tag read "Anne". She pointed to a small table just inside the door where a blonde man sat next to an attractive brunette. Both employees wore shirts identical to Anne’s. Photographs of participants from prior years lined the paneled wall behind the registration table. "Check-in for the pub crawl is right over there," said Anne. "Enjoy your evening."
The guys walked over to the table. The man, whose nametag read "Ed", registered a group of men in dress shirts and loosened ties. "Welcome to The First Annual St. Patrick’s Day Race for the Green," said the brunette. Her nametag read "Sheila". She pointed her pen at each of the guys. "What’s the name of your team?"
"Team 51," replied Brice. "I called yesterday to register."
Sheila peered at her list. "Yes, I have it right here." She placed a check mark by a name farther down the list. "That’s thirty dollars, please." Craig handed her the cash. Sheila picked up a green pamphlet and gave it to Craig. "Here’s a copy of the official rules. You have a maximum of an hour in each establishment to have a drink and complete the skill contest. The first team that makes it to Magginity’s and completes their contest, wins the prize money. Every team that completes the crawl will get an ‘I Survived the Race for the Green’ T-shirt for each of its members." Sheila picked up a handful of green nametags with the pub crawl logo, and gave them to Craig. "These are for each member of the team. Who’s your designated driver?"
John scanned the patrons of the bar. There were several women wearing matching T-shirts crammed into a booth at one side of the room. A petite redhead smiled and waved at Johnny. He smiled back at the woman and waved.
Hank slapped John on the arm. "Quit flirting with the competition, you twit!" He motioned towards Sheila. "She just asked for the designated driver."
"Sorry, Cap," said John as he rubbed his arm. He smiled at Sheila. "That would be me," he offered.
Sheila held up a different-looking nametag. "This sticker indicates that you’re the designated driver. All of your drinks are free. If you’re caught imbibing any of the alcoholic brews, your team is immediately disqualified. Is that clear?"
John nodded and took the nametag. He wrote his name on the front and peeled off the paper backing. He stuck the tag onto his shirt.
Sheila handed Craig a card with the names of all the establishments on it. "This is the most important piece of paper for the night. Each time you buy a round, you give it to the bartender. He’ll place a check mark in the ‘beverage’ column." She pointed the columns out to Craig. "In each pub, there will be a specific person in charge of each skill contest. You’ll give the card to them when you’re ready. Once the activity is completed, you’ll receive a check in that space. When you reach Magginity’s, the person in charge of the contest will keep the card. You’ll complete the contest and have your ‘after’ photo taken."
"An ‘after’ photo?" asked Chet.
Sheila nodded. "Yes. We take photos before and after the crawl. You’ll have your ‘before’ photo taken here. Your team will get copies of both pictures, and we mount another copy on the wall. It’s our little ‘Hall of Fame.’ She pointed to the rows of pictures behind her. "These are the participants from last year. Everybody had a great time." She smiled at the guys. "Are there any questions?"
The guys shook their heads.
"Great!" Sheila smiled as she pulled a camera from beneath the table. "Now, I need you to stand beneath that banner." She pointed to a "First Annual Race for the Green" banner that was strung over the small bandstand at the rear of the pub. She got up and walked to a spot a few feet in front of the bandstand.
The guys crossed the small dance floor. As they approached the bandstand, a round of wolf whistles echoed across the room, followed by a spate of giggling. "Where did that come from?" asked Hank as the group stepped onto the stage.
"From those women," said John, as he gestured to the ladies seated at the booth. The redhead lifted a glass of ale in a toast. Johnny flashed his best smile and nodded at her.
"Gage," said Hank. "Remember, you’re with our team. Not theirs. If you screw up our effort to win this thing, you’ll have latrine duty for the next year. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," sighed John as Stoker stood beside him. Brice took a place next to Stoker, while Chet and Marco sat directly in front of John and Mike.
"Perfect," said Sheila. "Smile," she directed as she snapped the picture. "Wait a minute, guys. The flash didn’t go off." Sheila wound the film and raised the camera to her face. "Smile!" She depressed the button on the camera and the flash momentarily blinded the guys. "Great!" Sheila said as they rubbed their eyes and blinked. "Go ahead and get started on your first round!"
###
"That’s five drafts and one Coke," said the waitress as she put tall glasses of the dark amber liquid on the table. The guys were seated at a large round table near the bandstand. She handed the card to Brice, who tucked it in his shirt pocket. Hank pulled out his wallet.
Brice shook his head and gave the waitress a twenty dollar bill. "I’ve got it. The pub crawl was my idea, so the least I can do is buy the first round."
Hank put away his wallet and lifted his glass. "That’s mighty nice of you, Brice," he said. "Here’s to team building," he said as he raised his glass toward the middle of the table. The rest of the guys raised their glasses and clinked them over the center of the table.
"Remember," said Craig, "to prevent getting sick, we need to stick to ale or beer. No whiskey. If you mix, you’ll be dying in the morning."
"Right," said Marco. "I don’t think Johnny’d appreciate it if we got sick in his Rover."
"Don’t worry, Marco," said John. "I stashed a couple of bags in the back of the truck, just in case."
"Good thinking," said Chet.
"It’s starting to get pretty crowded, Cap," said Stoker as he took a drink.
Hank looked over his shoulder. "I’m sure some of these people are regulars." Hank turned and looked at John. "Don’t look now, John. Here comes your little friend." John glanced at three women crossing the dance floor. "She’s bringing reinforcements."
The redhead, a short blonde, and a tall woman with long brown hair approached the table. Each woman wore a gray T-shirt with the name: "McCarthy Insurance" written on it. Each carried a mug filled with a dark ale.
"I feel the need for some life insurance right now," said Chet as he grabbed his heart.
Stoker poked Chet in the ribs as the women reached the table. The redhead’s nametag read "Maggie," the blonde’s read "Erin", and the long-haired woman’s read "Eileen".
"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" exclaimed Erin as she grinned broadly at the guys. She pointed to her colleagues. "We thought we’d come over, say hello, and wish you luck in the evening’s festivities!"
Hank turned around. "Well that’s very nice of you, " he said as he stood. "Chet, get chairs for the ladies."
"Oh, don’t trouble yourselves for chairs," said Erin as she peered at Hank’s nametag, "Hank. I’ve never seen you in here before. Where are you from?" She sipped her beer.
"We’re firefighters with the County Fire Department," answered Hank as he sat down.
"We’re from Station 51, in Carson, in case you’re ever in the neighborhood and want to stop by," said Chet. "We’d be happy to give you the grand tour."
"We just might take you up on that," said Maggie. "I really should learn CPR, especially with the number of older clients we serve." She looked at Johnny. "Think you’ll be able to give me tips on doing mouth-to-mouth?"
John turned beet red while Chet choked on his ale. Erin gave Maggie a dirty look and slapped her on the shoulder. "Maigret Katherine Gertrude O’Malley, I’m ashamed of you," said Erin. "Not only are you’re embarrassing this poor guy, but you made that one choke." She pointed to Chet. "Look at him, Maggie. He’s barely breathing."
Maggie flashed a dirty look at Erin and walked behind Chet’s chair. "It’s the 70’s," she protested. "I’m a liberated woman!" Maggie patted Chet’s back. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you choke."
Chet wiped his mouth on a napkin and took another sip of his drink. "I’m fine," he said.
"Don’t worry about Chet," said Brice. "He’ll be okay. John, over there, and I are paramedics."
"You don’t say?" said Eileen. "My cousin Jerry is in paramedic training right now. He starts his clinical next week."
"Really?" said John. "Where has he been assigned?"
Eileen thought for a moment. "I don’t remember. He said he was working with someone by the name of Bellingham."
"That’s Craig’s partner," said John. "Looks like he’ll be riding with Craig and Animal."
"Animal?" asked Maggie.
John nodded. "He’s the biggest slob in the department. They nicknamed him ‘Animal’ because of it."
"Should be interesting," said Eileen. "My cousin’s a good guy. I think you’ll like him."
"I’ll be happy to help him out as much as I can," said Brice.
"Great," said Eileen. "I may have to stop by the station to check up on him." She winked at Brice.
"Animal and I aren’t at 51," said Brice. "I’m filling in for John’s partner for a few days. I’m normally at Station 16."
"I don’t know where that is," said Eileen. "Why don’t I just give you my phone number? That way you can give me directions."
John sat in stunned silence.
"Great!" said Brice. He pulled a pen from his pocket and gave it to Eileen. She wrote her number on the back of a napkin and pushed it towards Brice. Craig momentarily studied it, neatly folded it and placed it into his wallet.
The whine of the microphone interrupted the conversation. "Looks like they’re going to start with the contest," said Erin. "We’d better get back to our team, ladies." She nodded to the guys. "Good luck. May the best team win!" The three women turned around and strolled across the dance floor. The phone number of the agency was screened on the back of their shirts.
"Borrow your pen, Craig?" asked Marco. "My car insurance just went up, and I’ve been thinking of switching companies."
"I’m sure Maggie’d be happy to give you a quote," said Craig as he passed the pen to Marco.
"No, she either wants CPR lessons from Gage," answered Marco, "or to do the Heimlich on Chet. I’d like to talk to Erin, if she’s willing." He wrote the number on the napkin and handed the pen to Chet. Chet wrote the number on his napkin and gave the pen to Craig.
"Come on, guys," admonished Hank. "They’re about to start."
###
Ed stepped onto the small stage and tapped the microphone. "I’d like to thank you all for participating this year. I’m impressed at the great turnout. The proceeds from the pub crawl will help purchase toys for the kids on the Pediatric Units at Rampart General Hospital. Our first contest of skill involves an important pub tradition...the toast. In the spirit of good sportsmanship, a member of each team will come forward, raise their glass high, and toast their team, and their competition." He looked at the list of contestants. "We’ll start off with the team from McCarthy Insurance."
Ed stepped away from the microphone as Erin took the stage. She lowered the microphone slightly and raised her nearly finished pint of ale. "Thirst is a shameless disease, so here’s to a shameful cure!" She lowered her glass and took a healthy drink.
She gave Ed her card. He marked the card and Erin left the stage to hearty applause. The ladies downed their drinks and rose to leave the pub. Maggie blew John a kiss.
Ed returned to the stage. "Next, we’ll have a member of The Pot of Gold Accounting Firm."
A man dressed in a dress shirt with the neck open, his tie askew, and the sleeves rolled up, strolled to the stage. "Bob" was written on his name tag in bright green. He handed his card to Ed and faced the microphone. "May you never make an enemy when you could make a friend - unless you meet a fox among your chickens." Bob chugged the last of his beer and took the card from Ed. He left the stage to polite applause.
"I don’t get it," said Marco.
John leaned over the table. "It means never knowingly piss someone off unless you know they’re messing with you."
"Oh," replied Marco. "Makes sense."
"Yeah," replied John with a slight grin, "and I’m not even Irish."
Ed read the list. "Next we’ll hear from Team 51."
"I’ve got this one, Cap," said Chet. He pushed his chair away from the table and took the card from Craig. He stepped onto the stage. He gave the card to Ed and raised his mug. "May the roof above us never fall in, and may we friends gathered below never fall out." He lowered his mug and drained the last of his ale. Chet received the card from Ed and stepped off the stage to a round of applause.
Craig drank the last of his beer and put his mug on the table. "Let’s get going, guys. Next stop, Hennessy’s." The guys finished their drinks and filed out of the pub.
###
"Boy, I’m starved," said Stoker as he surveyed the buffet at McDowell’s Irish Pub. "Let’s start through the line while Marco gets the beers."
Brice gave Marco the card, now with half of the spaces occupied by check marks.
"Good thinking, Mike," said Hank as he patted Stoker on the back. "That’s what I like about you, Stoker. You’re always thinking." He shook his head. "You may not talk a blue streak, but I know those gears are turning." Hank picked up a plate. He spooned boiled potatoes from a chafing dish onto it. "All the time you spend polishing the engine, I know you’re not just polishing. Oh no, not my Engineer. He’s doing some deep, deep thinking." Hank stabbed a sausage with a serving fork and dropped it onto his plate. "It shows when we’re on a call."
John and Chet looked at each other in disbelief. A loud snort escaped from Chet’s mouth. John bit his lip and looked down to keep from laughing.
"Something wrong, Chet?" asked Hank.
"No, Cap," said Chet as his shoulders trembled from suppressed laughter. He paused for a moment. "Something must have gone down the wrong way."
"Oh, no," said Hank, concern in his voice. "You’d better get something for that cough, Kelly. I think another pint will do the trick. Heaven forbid you should get sick and have to bail out. Gage," Hank said as he waved the serving fork between John and Chet, "you’re the paramedic. Take care of your fellow firefighter."
"Right, Cap," said Johnny. He pulled Chet out of earshot. They turned away from the buffet line. John looked over his shoulder to see Hank looking their way. John lightly patted Chet’s back. "My God, Cap’s wasted."
Chet snorted again. "Totally, man, and he’s only had four beers!" He shook his head. "I wish I had a tape recorder."
"Uh-oh," said John as he looked over his shoulder. Hank beckoned for them to return. "He’s waiting for us. Think you can contain yourself?"
"It’ll be hard," said Chet, "but I have a feeling I’ll have latrine duty until I retire if I start laughing."
"Amen to that," replied John as they rejoined the group at the buffet line. He and Chet filled their plates and followed the rest of the group to a table.
"So, Stoker, what do you think about when you polish the engine?" Hank asked.
First, Mike peered over his right shoulder, then his left shoulder. He took a careful look around the room and behind his back. He put his fork down and raised his finger to his lips. "Shhhh," he said as he looked around again. "You have to promise to keep this very, very quiet." He looked at all of the guys in turn.
Each man nodded in response.
Mike looked over both of his shoulders again, then leaned inwards. "Racing stripes, mag wheels, and a powertrain that can kick some serious ass."
"What!?" said Brice and Marco.
Stoker gave a self-satisfied nod. "Michael E. Stoker is going to build the most powerful fire engine known to man. Then, I’m gonna market it, make a bizillion dollars, and retire to Hawaii." He gyrated in his seat and made hula motions with his arms. He leaned across the table again. "It’s gonna be just me and the girls on my private estate in Maui." He picked up his fork and motioned to the rest of the guys with it. "You can come visit any time you want. I’ll even have a girl who won’t run the other way from you, John." He sat up straight in his chair. "Shhh, here comes the competition."
Erin, Maggie and Eileen strolled over to the table, plates loaded with ham, cabbage, and stew, in hand. "I see you’ve found the buffet," said Erin. "Have you found the contest yet?"
"Not yet," said Hank. "We planned on eating first. Where is it?"
"Over there," Erin pointed to a dartboard at one side of the room. A member of the accountants’ team pitched a dart at the board. It hit the rim of the board and dropped off. "It’s harder than it looks. We’re having Bridget do it."
"Who’s Bridget?" asked Marco.
"Our designated driver," said Erin. "She’s our ace in the hole. She used to be on a darts team at a pub near her college. See you guys later." Maggie winked at John as they left.
Hank clapped John on the shoulder so hard, John lurched forward and knocked over his water glass. John pulled the napkin off of his lap and sopped up the spill. "Well, Pal," said Hank, "It’s your turn to defend the honor of Station 51’s "A" shift. If you can start an I.Gee on yourself while lying on the hosebed of the engine, you shouldn’t have any trouble hitting the bullseye on that little dartboard."
"Yeah, John," said Marco. "That bullseye is a lot bigger than your vein."
"That’s I.V., Cap," said John as he finished wiping the spilled water. He looked over at the dartboard. The accountants had completed their turn, and another team started to throw.
"You mean," said Brice in a slightly astonished tone, "you put a line in yourself on the back of the engine?" He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "When? Where was DeSoto?"
John opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Marco. "He did it when he got bit by a rattlesnake a couple of years ago. Roy was at Rampart with the victims from a car wreck. Chet and I watched John do it on the first try!" Marco pointed to Johnny. "He’s a natural with a needle."
"Wow," said Brice. "You are good." He gave the card to John.
###
The guys finished their dinner and gathered around the dartboard. The team from the insurance agency stood close by. They cheered as Bridget, a tall, slim woman with dirty blonde hair and natural beauty, aimed her first dart. It hit the bright red center of the dartboard. Her teammates applauded.
"Lucky shot," scoffed Brice. He stood next to Erin. "Bet she can’t do it again."
Erin looked at Brice. "She can. Just wait and see."
Bridget aimed and threw a second dart. It hit the center of the target, knocking the first dart off of the board.
"Told you so," said Erin.
"Pure luck," said Brice. "I’ll bet she can’t do it again."
"Put your money where your mouth is, Hose-boy," said Erin. "Who said a woman can’t beat a man?"
"I never said a woman couldn’t beat a man," said Brice. "I just said this woman won’t get another bullseye. What do you want to wager? Or are you afraid the laws of probability will prevail, and your team will lose to the skilled arm of my colleague?" Craig asked as he repeatedly squeezed Johnny’s bicep.
"Ah, Brice?" John asked as he removed his arm from Craig’s grasp. "She’s good. Don’t you think you’re going a little too far?"
Craig waved Johnny off. "Oh ye of little faith," said Brice. "I’m going to get us a free round of beers." Brice turned to Erin. "Okay, the loser buys the next round for the winner’s team," offered Brice. "Bridget vs. John."
"Brice!" hissed John as he pointed to his chest. "I’m buying?!"
Brice looked innocently at John. "Sure, all your drinks are free. You’ve only had to pay your part of the entry fee and gas for your truck." He leaned closer to Gage. "What are you so worried about? You’ll beat her." He turned back to Erin. "So, Erin, what do you say? Are you liberated enough to take the challenge?"
"You bet, Hose-boy," replied Erin. "I’m going to enjoy our free beers." She nodded to Bridget, who had stopped to watch the interchange. Bridget grinned, and aimed her last dart. She threw it into the center of the dartboard. "We’ll have Guinness for our next round," Erin said smugly.
"Go for it, Gage!" encouraged Hank as Johnny stepped up to the line. John handed the card to the attendant, who gave him three darts in return. "No pressure, John. No pressure," said Hank. "Does ‘latrine duty for a year’ have any meaning?"
John looked at Hank, who gave him a thumbs-up. No pressure. Yeah right. I only hope he doesn’t remember any of this on Monday. John sighed and shook his head imperceptibly as he aimed the dart. He tossed it, and it landed in the center of the board.
"Yeah!" said Chet as the rest of the guys clapped. He put both fingers in his mouth and whistled.
Craig looked at Erin and raised his eyebrows. Erin rolled her eyes in response. "It’s only the first shot."
John aimed the second dart and tossed. It landed adjacent to the first dart. He raised his eyebrows in surprise as the guys applauded. John squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter.
"Don’t get cocky, Gage," said Brice as he applauded. "You still have one more."
John shot a dirty look in Craig’s direction. He aimed, and threw the dart at the board. It knocked the second dart off the board as it landed in the center.
"I told you he was good," Brice said to Erin as she politely applauded.
"We’re tied," said Erin. "We can’t leave it like this."
"I agree," said Brice. "How about one dart, best throw?"
"Okay," said Erin. "Who goes first?"
"Ladies first," said Brice. "I don’t want to be accused of being ungentlemanly."
"I’d never do that," said Erin.
John stepped back to allow Bridget to step to the line. Bridget nodded to John and aimed her dart. It landed just to the right of the bulls-eye.
Brice rubbed his hands together. "Okay, Gage, you’re up. Make this, and our next round is free." He smiled sweetly at Erin. She raised her eyebrows at him.
John took a dart from the attendant and toed the line. He aimed. As John brought his arm forward to throw, a member of the accounting firm’s team brushed past and hit his arm. The dart landed on one of the outer right sections of the board.
Erin smiled at Brice. "Looks like the next round’s on you, Hose-boy." She gestured to her colleagues. "Come-on, ladies, we’re off to the next stop."
"That’s not fair!" protested John. "That guy hit my arm!"
Erin shook her head. "Tough. We never said anything about take-overs. It was one throw only. All’s fair in beer and darts." She gestured to her teammates and they followed her out of the bar.
John looked at the attendant for help. The attendant simply shrugged.
Mike clapped John on the shoulder. "You were robbed. ROBBED. We’d better get going. We don’t want them to beat us to the next place. This means war!"
Brice took the card from the attendant. "Good try, Gage. I hope you brought enough money with you. Guinness is expensive." He followed Mike towards the entrance.
"Too bad, John," said Chet. "You would have beaten that chick." He burped as he walked past.
"Damn accountants," said Hank as he passed John.
Marco shook his head and patted John on the shoulder. "Nice try."
Hank turned around at the door. "Come on, Gage! Let’s get moving!"
###
"I tell you, Marco," said Hank, as he paid the waitress who brought their final round of drinks. "If you wear a red shirt on Star Trek, you’re gonna get killed!"
"You know, Cap, " replied Marco as he sipped his beer, "I noticed that, too. I wonder why?"
Brice shrugged. "I wonder if red is the universal target color. It’s easy to see, and easy to aim at." He looked at John as the paramedic sat next to him. Brice snorted and started to laugh. "Look!" He slapped Mike on the elbow and pointed to Johnny.
John wore a casual red shirt with small yellow flecked pattern. The long sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. John looked curiously at Mike and Craig as he grabbed a handful of pretzels from the small bowl in the center of the table.
Mike burst out laughing and tapped Marco. "Hey, Marco. Maybe that explains things."
Marco looked at John’s shirt and burst out laughing. "You’re right!"
"What’s so funny?" asked John.
"As your Captain, and protector of your person," said Hank, "I’d advise you to never wear that shirt in public, or on any extra-planetary expeditions."
"Huh?" asked the confused paramedic.
"But, Cap," said Chet, "our uniforms are blue. That wouldn’t explain all those little side-trips to Rampart."
"You’re right, Kelly," said Hank, thoughtfully. "Unless he’s hiding a red shirt somewhere when he works." He turned to John. "Gage, what color underwear do you wear to work?"
John looked at Hank in disbelief. "What?"
"I said," Hank swayed slightly in his chair, "what color underwear do you wear to work?"
"Why?" asked John. "You already know the answer to that one. You guys see my underwear every shift."
Mike paused for a minute. "We certainly do." He paused. "Do you ever wear red?"
John shook his head. "I don’t think so." He shrugged. "I have an undershirt and a pair of shorts with some red on them. One of my regular shirts must have bled on them in the laundry. Why?"
Hank slapped the table, startling John. "I knew it!" He pointed to John. "We’ve just figured out the reason you get hurt so much! It’s your red underwear! You are John Gage, the Red-Shirted Paramedic!" He waved his arms. "Cursed throughout the universe! Duly picked to be rubbed out by any and all alien species we may encounter."
"Umm, Cap?" said John, tentatively. "We don’t encounter any aliens."
"Oh, yeah?" said Hank. "What did you think of that bunch we pulled from that ditch yesterday? All that green hair and those green faces! They looked like a bunch of aliens to me!"
"Oh, no!" said Chet, with a horrified expression. "Next time, we could all be killed with him!" He looked at John. "What color underwear are you wearing now? Please let it be white. I don’t wanna die!"
"Don’t worry, Kelly," said Brice. "They only go for the red shirts. It must be a universal honor code or something, to not kill anyone wearing a different colored shirt. Maybe it’s like a bullfighter and a red cape. Red must really piss off an alien." He looked at John. "Okay, fess up. What color underwear do you have on?"
"White, if you must know." Johnny looked towards the door as the team from the Insurance agency walked in. "We’d better hurry and finish the contest. Those chicks are here."
"Pheewww," said Chet. He appeared greatly relieved. "I thought I was a goner."
"What is the contest?" asked Marco. He picked up a napkin from the table and studied it.
"I can’t tell," said John. "It looks like something to do with potatoes. They’ve got half of the dance floor roped off with traffic cones."
"Hey, Chet!" said Marco
"What is it, Marco?" replied Chet.
"Do you know what your last name means in Gaelic?"
"No." Chet shook his head.
"It means either contentious, or, get this, sacred prostitute!" said Marco. Everyone at the table, except Chet, started to laugh.
"It does not!" protested Chet. "Where did you see that?"
Marco showed him the napkin. "Says it right here. These are trivia napkins."
"I’d vote for contentious," said Mike. "Especially the way you and Gage go at it sometimes." He picked up the napkin from beneath his pint. "Did you know that the average citizen of Ireland eats 286 pounds of potatoes a year?"
"No, I didn’t," said Chet. He picked up his napkin. "Did you know that there’s no word for either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in Gaelic?"
"Is that why you’re so long winded, Kelly?" asked Brice.
John rolled his eyes. "Guys, need I remind you there’s a contest to complete? We could win the prize money if we finish it first." He turned in his chair and looked towards the bar and the contest area. "Those chicks are checking out the contest. If they spot us, they’ll go for the money!"
Hank looked at John. "Don’t get those red shorts of yours in a knot. Your fearless leader has everything under control." He looked at the rest of the crew. "Okay,
Stoker, umm, what does the E. in your name stand for?"
"Engineer," said Mike. "But if you ever talk to my mom, humor her, and say it’s really Edward."
"Okay, Mr. Stoker, beam us over to the contest," said Hank. "I smell a victory for Team 51."
Victory isn’t the only thing I smell. John waved his hand in front of his nose after Cap passed.
###
"Hi fellas," said Eileen as the guys arrived at the contest area. "We really enjoyed the Guinness." Maggie was poised at the starting line with a potato precariously balanced on a spoon.
"Hello, Eileen," said Brice. "The Great Potato Famine Maze." Brice read the sign. "Looks interesting."
An attractive blonde wearing a green "Magginity’s" T-shirt stood at the entrance to the course. Her nametag read "Teresa". Yellow lines of masking tape outlined a path between and around stew pots filled with cabbage and potatoes, a leprechaun lawn ornament posed next to a fake rainbow and a small black pot of gold "coins", a patch of clover, a statue of St. Patrick, and stuffed toy sheep with a doll dressed as a shepherd standing next to a fence. She smiled at the group. "The object of this game is to balance a potato on this spoon, and make your way around the course. You drop the potato in the pot in the little cottage at the end. If you go outside of the lines taped on the floor, or you drop the potato, you’re disqualified. Any questions?"
"No, Ma’am," said Hank. "That’s very clear."
"Now, we’ll demonstrate how to do it properly," said Eileen, "and win the prize money. Since you were good sports about the dart toss, we’ll buy you a round."
"We really don’t need sympathy beer," said Brice. "You’ll buy us a round because we’ve earned it. You may go first, but I’ll bet you won’t be able to finish the course. Same as before, loser buys the winner a round of Guinness."
"You really want to buy us another round?" Eileen cupped Brice’s chin with her hand. "You’re either a really nice guy, really drunk, or a real sucker."
"I’m a really nice guy," said Brice. "Maybe you can find out, next Friday?"
Eileen grinned. "You’re on."
John stood there, stunned. He’s almost better at this than I am.
Teresa turned to Maggie. "Are you ready?"
Maggie nodded.
"On your mark, get set, go!"
Maggie walked quickly past the pot of potatoes and stumbled slightly around the first turn. She recovered her footing and continued.
Eileen let out the breath she held.
Bridget sidled between John and Craig. "What’s going on?"
"Maggie’s doing the Potato Maze," answered John. "Where’s Erin?"
"Passed out in the back of my truck," she answered. "At least she didn’t get sick. I hate it when that happens. It’s so hard to get the smell out."
John nodded. "I know. I packed a couple of barf bags in case I needed them. Do you want one?"
Bridget smiled. "That would be very nice, thank you." She gestured to Maggie, who tottered by the leprechaun. The potato wavered on the spoon. "I have a feeling I’ll need it. Soon."
"What kind of truck do you drive?" asked Johnny. "I’ve got one, too."
"It’s an old Chevy," said Bridget. "It used to be my father’s. He gave it to me when I moved out here. I put a cap on the back, piled my stuff in it, and drove out here."
She watched the potato drop off Maggie’s spoon. "Oh, well. I guess we won’t win the prize money."
Brice looked at Eileen, and smiled sweetly. "Our next round will be Guinness."
Bridget looked at Johnny. "I guess we’re treating for beers. What do you drive?"
"I have an old Land Rover," said John. "I bought it used, packed everything up, and moved out here."
"Those are neat. Is that yours in the parking lot?" She raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Is that a bed in the back?"
John cleared his throat and nodded as they watched Maggie pick up the potato. "I slept in it on the way out here. Since I go camping a lot, I never took it out." Maggie completed the maze and dropped the potato in the bucket. Her lip quivered as she gave the spoon to the attendant.
"I’m soo sorry, ‘Leen!" said Maggie as she hugged Eileen.
"There’s nothing like sleeping under the stars," said Bridget. "We went camping a lot when I was a kid. Where are you from?" asked Bridget.
"Montana," said Johnny. "We have a ranch near Lame Deer. What about you?"
"Wyoming. My family has a ranch near Jackson Hole." She paused. "Wow, two country kids in the big city. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only dumb hick around here."
"I’m soo sorry, Bridge!" Maggie said as she threw herself around Bridget. She burped loudly as she pulled back. "Sorry," she said as she patted her mouth. She looked at Johnny. A dizzy, twisted smile turned into a frown. "Uh-oh," said Maggie as she clapped her hand over her mouth. She started to cough.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call you a dumb hick!" said Bridget quickly as she blushed. "I’d like to take you up on that barf bag offer if it’s still good."
"No offense taken," said John. "I know how you feel sometimes...about the hick part. Let me know when you’re ready, and we can go to my car."
"Thanks!" Bridget grabbed Maggie’s arm and John watched as she quickly guided Maggie towards the Ladies Room.
"We’ll get your ‘after’ picture later," Teresa said to Eileen. "Next!"
Hank turned to the guys. "Who wants to win one for the Skipper?"
"I’ll do it," offered Marco.
"That’s probably not a good idea," said John. "You did the ‘Pin the Shillelagh on the Leprechaun’ a couple of pubs ago. Remember what happened after all that twirling? How’s your stomach?"
"A little better," admitted Marco. "That little session in the men’s room helped a lot."
"I think it’s my turn," said Brice. "I haven’t done any of the contests, yet."
"Then you’re it, Brice," said Hank. He slapped Craig on the back. "Go get ‘em, Tiger."
Craig stepped to the starting line. He gave the team card to Teresa. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and took the spoon from Teresa. She balanced a potato on top of the spoon.
"On your mark, get set, go!"
Hank walked over and stood beside John. They watched Craig quickly stroll past the pot of potatoes and the first turn. The potato wiggled slightly as Craig weaved around the leprechaun statue. He stopped momentarily. Each of the spectators held their breath as the potato stopped moving.
Hank and the guys let out their breath.
"Lucky," said Eileen.
Craig resumed the maze. He navigated a hairpin turn around the clover.
"Good going, Brice!" yelled Chet.
Hank grabbed Johnny’s arm enthusiastically. "He’s almost got it. If he can get through those sheep, we win!"
Craig wove his way around the small plastic fence with a plastic shepherd figurine posed by it.
Hank’s grip tightened on John’s arm.
John’s eyes started to water from the pain. "Cap?" he asked as he started to pry Hank’s fingers off his arm.
Craig stopped at the doll-house cottage, and dropped the potato into the pot. He held up the spoon in triumph.
"Yes!" Hank yelled as he released John’s arm. "Chalk one up for Station 51!" Hank held his hands in the air and gave a high five to Brice as he returned the spoon to Teresa. The guys high-fived each other in turn.
Teresa carefully checked over the card and marked the last spot. "Congratulations, guys! Team 51 is our winner!" She smiled. "I need you to stand over there for your ‘after’ picture." She pointed to a spot on the opposite side of the dance floor. A banner identical to the one at Flannery’s was stretched across the back of the pub.
Eileen extended her hand graciously. "Congratulations, Craig. You deserve it."
Brice shook her hand. "Thank you. Your team was worthy competition."
"I’ll go order that round," said Eileen as she headed for the bar.
###
John whistled as he walked into the locker room. He opened his locker and started to change into his uniform. He peered over as the locker next to him opened. "Roy?"
Roy looked over as he took his shirt off. He smiled tentatively at John. "I heard you had Brice for a partner, so I came back early." He paused. "How did it go?"
John shrugged. "It was fine." He finished buttoning his uniform shirt and changed his pants.
"You spent two shifts with the bane of your existence," said Roy in disbelief, "and all you can say is that it was fine?"
Chet walked inside. He stopped quickly upon seeing Roy. "Oh, you’re back," he said with disappointment in his voice. "I thought Brice would be here for one more shift."
"Roy came back early," said John as he laced his shoe. "Look, Roy, I’m happy to see you come back, but Brice wasn’t all that bad." John closed his locker. "He’s lightened up a little. See you at roll call. I’ve got a phone call to make."
"You calling Maggie?" asked Chet.
"Nope." John smiled and shook his head. "Bridget." He waved a business card. "She gave me her direct number while I helped her get Maggie settled." He whistled as he left the locker room.
Roy shook his head and tied his shoes. "Brice, tolerable? I don’t get it, Chet. I just don’t get it."
"Brice wasn’t that bad, Roy. I guess people change. He was still pretty stiff at the station," said Chet, "but get him out...Oh, boy." Chet looked at his watch. "We’d better get to roll call."
Roy finished tying his shoes and stood for a moment in the empty locker room. They actually went out with him? Who are Bridget and Maggie? I really need to hear about this! Who knows, maybe people can change. Even the Old Bat was tolerable for once. Roy closed his locker and left the locker room.
Authors note: The facts for the trivia napkins came from the book: How to Be Irish, Even If You Already Are, by Sean Kelly and Rosemary Rogers. I’d also like to thank my beta readers, Carol, Mary and Margaret-Anne.