262 - Bloody Sunday


O’Grady sits in a lawn chair outside the bar, wrapped in his green feather boa just as he was the day before. Faded construction paper clovers, verdant tinsel, and green glitter- mushed and matted together from months of rain –form a brittle carpet around his feet. Dressed in a shirt with bright green lettering that reads “Kiss Me, Some of My Best Friends Are Irish”, he sips stale green beer from a pewter mug.  

“Don’t you think you’ve taken this St. Patrick’s Day celebration a little too far, O’Grady?” you ask.

The old man’s reply is heavily slurred, partly from the stroke and partly from the mass quantities of alcohol he consumes daily, but you believe he says something to the effect of “Did the Provos take it too far in Belfast, young lady?”

“O’Grady, I’m twenty-three and I have no idea what that means, but I think maybe you should switch themes. It’s September.”

O’Grady lets out a weary sigh. “Perhaps you’re right, there. September hasn’t been very good for Irish uprisings, not since ’42, at least.”

“Come on inside, Mr. Irishman. I’ll buy you a Black and Tan.”

The defeated expression on O’Grady’s face fades quickly and is replaced by one of hot rage. “Insult me, will you, by offering me the drink of the oppressor? You can fuck off back to England with that god damned traitor Michael Collins! I’ll be just fine here on my own personal emerald Isle, you god damned tory.”

“Fine, O’Grady,” you concede. “Make sure not to win any international soccer matches while you’re out here.”

“That’s a low blow, missy. Even for the fucking English.”