Apparently, the Chancellor answers that question, since it’s not long before Malarkey leaves the Chancellor’s office and moseys down to central Citrus City, which is one of the quaintest of quaint towns in Southern California. So quaint, in fact, that it’s at the top of Hollywood’s locations list of “Quaintable Towns” and that’s why Hollywood often comes to Citrus City in order to film the “Midwest.” Like shooting day for night, winter for spring. Hollywood often uses Citrus City to shoot for Bloomington, Indiana or Urbana, Illinois or Iowa City, Iowa or any of a number of Midwestern towns and/or villages in which shooting on site would raise the budget. So, in order to reduce the budget, Citrus City often becomes Bloomington, Indiana or Urbana, Illinois or Iowa City, Iowa or any of a number of Midwestern towns and/or villages.
Citrus City has a lovely roundabout with a small plaza and fountain at its center surrounded by quaint antique stores, quaint restaurants and, of course, a quaint Starbucks on all four corners in case one doesn’t want to cross the street in order to buy a $15 Frappuccino Macchiato Latte Espresso with a dollop. Now imagine, there’s a neon sign that flashes, Flann O’Brien’s Pub, where, inside, you’ll now find Malarkey just walking in after having had his little tête-àtête with Chancellor Jones.
The pub looks exactly like Dublin’s “Mulligan’s,” complete with curved mahogany bar, paneled walls, blah, blah, blah. Malarkey could go into some lengthy description of the place, but that would be a waste of words so just Google Mulligan’s in Dublin and imagine it with the difference being on the walls of this pub are black and white caricatures of Beckett and Joyce, Yeats and Donleavy, as well as Flann himself. It’s somewhat deserted at that hour since most people aren’t drinking at 4:30 as Malarkey walks up to the bar where the thirty-something bartender, Paolo Liliano has his back to him. Malarkey looks puzzled by his presence.
“Where’s Seamus?” Malarkey asks with a typical Malarkian attitude.
Paolo turns as he dries off a glass. Paolo has dark features, a square jaw, chiseled chin, an infectious smile. If one were to cast him in a film, one might suggest Rufus Sewell. His temperament is completely the opposite of Malarkey’s.
“Seamus isn’t here,” answers Paolo.
“I may be old, but I’m not bloody blind,” Malarkey responds. “If he were here he’d be here, wouldn’t he? He’d be standing right where you’re standing, drying off the same fucking glass you’re drying off. But I didn’t ask you that, did I? I asked you where he was.”
“He took another job.”
“Where?”
“Kansas. Topeka.”
“Why the fuck would he go there? Who goes to Kansas? Jayhawks don’t exist. You know what a fucking Jayhawk is?”
“No, not a clue.”
“Jayhawks were guerrilla fighters who battled with pro-slavery groups from Missouri. Why the fuck Kansans would invent a bird to represent guerilla fighters is beyond me.”
“Me too.”
“So, why’d he go to Kansas?”
“Death in the family.”
That statement gives Malarkey pause. Death usually gives one pause, even Malarkey, whether it’s one’s own or someone else’s so he changes the course of the conversation.
“Right. So, who the hell are you?”
“I’m Paolo Liliano. And who the hell are you?” Paolo holds out his hand, but Malarkey doesn’t shake it.
“I’m Malcolm Malarkey and I came in here to get a stinkin’ drink. What’s it to you, polo?”
“Paolo.”
“Whatever. Why’s a fucking Italian bartending in an Irish pub anyway?”
Paolo stops wiping the glass and leans over the bar.
“All the Irish bartenders were too drunk to work. So, what’ll you have, Malcolm?”
“That’s Professor Malarkey to you.”
“Okay, Professor Malarkey what’ll you have?”
“My guess is you don’t know shit about drink making, do you?”
“Try me.”
“Okay, gimme a Black Nail.”
Paolo finishes drying a glass.
“Bushmills and herbal Irish Mist. You want it with or without the orange peel or would you prefer orange bitters?”
Malarkey’s eyes get wide.
“Surprise me,” he snidely answers.
What the Reader will eventually discover is that Paolo is not merely the bartender, but the new owner. Other things about Paolo will also be revealed, but now you’ve got to imagine it’s a few hours later in the day. In fact, there’s a Guinness Bottle Draught Wall Clock that reads, 7:30 so if the Reader is adept at reading and math then s/he knows Malarkey’s been there for three hours. He sits in a booth by himself, nursing yet another Black Nail when a tall, leggy, twenty-something blonde wearing excessively short cut-offs saunters up to his booth. She cocks her head to one side as if trying to think whom Malarkey is and points a finger at him. Malarkey, in his usual Black Nail stupor, doesn’t pay her much attention.
“I know you,” she says. “You’re Doctor Malarkey, aren’t you?”
Malarkey looks up and squints.
“Yes, but only during urgent care hours.”
“My name is Tiffany, Tiffany Tustin. I went to high school with your daughter, Andrea.”
Malarkey smiles and nods politely, but he’s clearly not interested in carrying on any conversation that could, potentially, lead him into a dalliance with one of his daughter’s friends, which could then lead to a possible affair, which could then lead to a possible video, which could then lead to the video going viral, which could then lead to it being viewed on Facebook or YouTube or any other social media outlet in the fucking universe, which could then lead to another meeting with Chancellor Jones, which would invariably lead to his dismissal. After all, he’s not Donald Trump and doesn’t think about shtupping his daughter or her friends.
“Come here often?” Tiffany Tustin asks seductively, leaning across the table, exposing her abundant cleavage and smiling a seductive smile.
“Maybe too often.”
“Could I buy you a drink?” Tiffany Tustin asks seductively.
“Maybe … when you’re older,” he answers with a smile and raised eyebrows.
“Too much for you to handle, eh?” Tiffany Tustin asks seductively.
“Not without outside resources,” Malarkey answers with a smile and raised eyebrows.
“Are you afraid of me?” Tiffany Tustin asks seductively.
“No, I think you’re the most attractive of all my daughter’s friends,” Malarkey again answers with smile and eyebrows raised.
Tiffany Tustin gets a very quizzical look on her face. She obviously doesn’t get Malarkey’s allusion.
“Huh?”
“Mais ou sont les nieges d’autun,” Malarkey answers, smile, eyebrows.
“Sorry?”
“That’s French for ‘have a good night.’”
Tiffany Tustin shrugs her shoulders.
“Nice seeing you again, Doctor Malarkey. Say hi to Andrea for me.” And Tiffany Tustin sashays away, her butt cheeks casually creeping beneath the fringes of her cutoff denims.
“Mon plaisir,” Malarkey answers and raises his glass.
Paolo has been listening to the exchange as have three other men sitting at the bar—who look a lot like Beckett and Joyce and Yeats—all staring at Malarkey wondering what he was thinking.
By now, the Guinness Bottle Draught Wall Clock reads 9:30 and Paolo is sitting with Malarkey in the same booth in which Tiffany Tustin had vainly tried to seduce him. Paolo, of course, is sober; Malarkey not so much and he tends to slur his words as he nurses a Guinness Bitter.
“My cousin moved to Philly from Arona about fifteen years ago. I came soon after,” Paolo says.
“Didn’t W.C. Fields say he’d rather be buried than live in Philly?”
“No, I think he said he preferred Philly to being buried.”
“Same thing. Where’s Aroma? It doesn’t sound Italian.”
“Arona, not aroma.”
“Whatever.”
“Outside Milan. On Lago Maggiore.”
“I don’t know one fucking lake from another over there. Are you mafioso?”
“Not anymore,” Paolo smiles as if there might be some truth to it. “I left that to my father.”
“So, you gave up the mafia life to become a bartender? It’s a bit of a step down, isn’t it?”
“No, I gave it up to be a father.”
“Where’s the mother? Having it off with Berlusconi?”
“No, she died of breast cancer.”
Malarkey is pained by that. Malarkey is often pained by those sorts of things since Malarkey’s mouth often works faster than his brain.
“Oh, fuck. Sorry … I’m …”
“How would you have known?”
“Sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain. It’s a disease. Too many black mails.”
“Nails.”
“That’s what I said.”
Malarkey takes another sip of Guinness.
“Listen, I think you’ve had enough, professor. You need a ride home?”
“No, I have my bike.”
“Does it have a seat belt?”
Malarkey pauses as if pondering the question.
“Uh, no, maybe.”
“Then you need a ride home. I’ll bring your bike inside.”
And so he does. Brings Malarkey’s bike into the bar before escorting him to the parking lot and gently tucking him into the passenger seat before gently securing a seat belt around him.
“So, where do you live?”
“Live?
“Yes. Where do you reside? Lounge? Eat? Sleep? That sort of thing.”
“Around the corner and down the block, over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the white and drifted snow!”
And so Paolo attempts to take Malarkey home.