Mulligans of Poolbeg Street by Hay Machine (e) (Appeared in the January 2010 Issue) Reels of film flying over a dusty lens the hot bulb, the whine fast images of conspiring men from McCairn’s Motors rolling in a silent quick-step smiling at the camera in nineteen fifty their soft hats cocked to show a light approach over to Mulligan’s golden facade flickering briefly on the silver screen This honeyed portal is unique the two swing doors their friendly squeak combed in an exaggerated yellow grain one to a wholesome saloon the other to a side-bar an altar to the deity of heavenly drink It is a cathedral made for a working congregation it took centuries to construct this extravagant faith medieval men’s ambitions drawn in the smoky air the neat stack of Afton the simple chair There are two back-rooms one a spacious area filled with a modest light big broad tables from the kitchens of the kings the walls shining with pipe-smoker’s paint a place to drink pints of Guinness without any time constraint The other back-room is a place for bishops should they come their own waiting inner sanctum its stained-glass doors are locked some people must have been ordained in there the table set for a meeting of the hierarchy The men from the Irish Press grey in Fred McMurray dress for years these oily men from printer’s ink set a discreet tone with knowing nod and willing wink talking to each other sideways The window seats in the main bar a light-filled alcove made for the high art of intimate talk the sun that finds its way down into the narrow street is magnified by the pearly glass warming the back of the neck like a magic scarf Two pints of stout snug into the half-keg with a companion a holy communion served by apron’d men the size of horses they rub the countertop with a grey wet rag sweeps of temporary varnish preparing the dry altar Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street a pro-cathedral for the working man where generations of altar boys have learned how to drink porter to respect a home from home where prayers and promises are offered to the gods where decent sinners can extol dressed protected in the very place itself a golden navy-jacket for the soul
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