Before Christmas I met up with a good friend from my neighborhood, at a local pub called McGuinnesses. She suggested "The Old Man Bar" for our happy hour date because they do a bang up job at holiday decorations and also because it was likely that we would drink on the cheap.
At 5:30pm on a Tuesday, she and I tucked ourselves away into a corner of the packed bar where the median age was 70 and the predominant sex was male, and ordered glasses of wine. Two hours later we were still lifting glasses of wine to our lips in between hurried babbling when a spritely gentleman wearing snow pants with suspenders, a flannel shirt and a bright green baseball cap stopped at our table.
Liam, as he introduced himself, appeared to be pushing 80 but was full of enough vim and vigor to fuel the entire AARP section of the bar. He asked our names and when we told him, he leaned on the table and with a thick Irish brogue asked, “Do ye ladies have a sense of humor?”
We exchanged glances each thinking, “THIS is gonna be good,” and said yes.
Liam looked up and down at her, and then did the same to me. I was wearing a black dress and high black boots that left about four inches of my skin exposed. He paused at the gap that showed a decent amount of skin, and pressed the bill of his cap. Like an unexpected magic trick, the entire brim lit up and light shined down onto my legs.
“Ladies,” he said, with a serious look on his face, “If you’re gonna show a little skin, you have to shine a little light.” He scanned my legs with his light-up hat and then, with a huge grin on his face, turned and walked outside.
Let there be light, Liam. Let there be light.