By Daniel Hagan
Allison begrudgingly settled into her barstool, convinced she would never follow Dr. Steinberg’s advice again.
“Try going to the pub alone,” her therapist had suggested in their recent session.
Then the worst part. “You never know what might happen when you open yourself to possibility.” Sometimes Allison couldn’t decide which fact was more baffling: that this woman held a PhD in clinical psychology, or that she paid $150 an hour, out of pocket, for her services.
Maybe it didn’t matter much, because either way she found herself nursing an amber ale at O’Shea’s. The place wasn’t a fancy establishment, the words “CASH ONLY” sharpied atop a laminated food menu Allison halfheartedly perused. But it did offer a couple dusty television screens above the bar, where local men would congregate to watch the Celtics blow yet another lead.
Frankly, none of them appeared worthy of the effort Allison had put forth tonight. She’d slipped into those jeans that made her ass look flattering. She’d straightened her hair into silky blonde strands. Hell, she’d even bothered with eye shadow. And for who?
Two seats to her left, a guy with a mullet raced his buddy to see who could chug their pint faster. They tossed their lagers back, gulping until mullet dude slammed his glass down onto the wood. A victorious belch erupted from his gut.
Whistles blared from the television speakers, announcing a Celtics defensive three-second violation. Allison had seen enough.
She rifled through her purse, searching for a five to square away the beer tab, when she felt a presence approach from her right. A dark-haired young man pointed to an empty barstool. “Is this seat taken?”
Before she could answer, his eyes drifted to her torso. Great. Was this asshole really going to be so blatant in checking her out? Then she remembered what she was wearing: a Bill Russell jersey. Not a single inebriated soul had commented on it that evening.
He spun away, ordering two Guinnesses from the bartender. Who did this guy think he was anyway? Buying her a drink after barely uttering a few words. If he’d bothered to ask, he would have learned that Allison wasn’t exactly a stout drinker.
She couldn’t ignore such audacity; when he faced her again, he was going to receive an earful. Instead, he hoisted his pints and crossed over toward the booths. A man with disheveled tufts of gray hair waited there, fingers twitching with impatience. He practically snatched his beer from the younger guy’s grasp.
Allison sat in silence. Being snubbed in favor of a thirsty retiree was a new low, even for her. She began rehearsing ways to tell Dr. Steinberg her license should be revoked.
As she made her way to the exit, the gray-haired man burst into laughter. Allison may have ignored it, may have continued walking out into the foggy streets, had his gaze not been directed at her chest. First the son, now the old man? Enough was enough. She marched up to their booth, hands on her hips.
“You got a problem, buddy?”
The gray-haired man barely budged, taking a leisurely sip from his pint.
“Actually,” he started. “I was hoping you could settle something for me and my nephew here.” He gestured across the booth. “Now I think this is bullshit of course, but he says there’s no way a lady as pretty as yourself knows who Bill Russell is.”
Allison glanced down at her attire, then at the younger man. His cheeks burned bright red. “For the record,” he murmured, “that’s not quite what I said.”
She tilted her head sideways. “…So you’re saying I’m not pretty?”
“No!” His pupils widened. “You’re beautiful. Uh, I mean.” He looked like he was ready to melt. “I just haven’t seen a lot of Bill Russells in here before.”
The old man chuckled through his pint glass. “Nice save.”
“Well,” Allison shrugged. “It shouldn’t come as that big of a surprise. The guy was a Bay Area legend.”
“True.” The younger man’s posture began to relax. “You have great taste.”
“You really do,” his uncle agreed. “Would you believe I saw a bloke in here last week sporting a Kyrie Irving jersey? Fuckin’ traitor.”
Allison fought the subtle smile grazing her lips.
“Don’t worry, you’re amongst friends here.” The old man raised his Guinness. “Come on. Join us for a drink.”
For a moment she froze. Such an invitation was flattering, sure, but which side of the booth should she sit on?
Mercifully, the old man began to stand. “I’ve got to take a leak,” he announced. “Here.” He slid his nephew a twenty. “Get this lovely lady whatever she’d like.”
And with that, Allison found herself headed for the bar. Again. Mullet dude had moved on to tequila shots, wincing as he squeezed a lime between his teeth.
Two stools remained open beneath the glow of the televisions. They took their seats, then let instinct handle their drink orders. “Another amber, please,” Allison requested from the bartender.
“And I’ll do another Guinness,” the nephew added. “Thanks Charlie.”
He nodded upward at the screen. “Well, would you look at that.” Allison hadn’t noticed how blue his eyes were earlier. There was something disarming about them, something kind.
She peeked above to see what he was referring to. The Celtics were dribbling out the clock, having hung on long enough to end their losing streak.
“I can’t believe they did it,” Allison stammered. “At the end of the third, it didn’t seem possible.”
Their beers arrived. The nephew handed over the amber ale, clinking his glass against hers. “To possibilities.”
Shit. Dr. Steinberg was going to earn that $150 next week.
* * *
Daniel Hagan is a writer and psychotherapist from the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has appeared in 101 Words, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Flash Fiction Magazine. When not at his keyboard, he enjoys tending to his fish tank, listening to Drug Church, and spoiling his rambunctious black kitten.