Over ten years ago, I traveled to Ireland with my brother Pat and my childhood friend, Rob. We spent six days, driving around the country, with the primary goal of seeing as many "touristy" places as possible less than a week. We saw a lot: A literary bar crawl in Dublin, a St. Patrick's Day parade in Galway, and a tour of the
Cliffs of Moher. The most noteworthy experience relates not to the tourist attractions, but an unfortunate illness which befell my friend Rob and its effect (ie, doodie) on the unlucky town of Ennis.
The story begins with Rob's affinity for Guinness beer. The moment we set foot in the Dublin airport, Rob and I celebrated our arrival by ordering a Guinness. If you are familiar with Guiness, you know it is more like a milkshake than a beer. For this reason, it is very difficult for me to consume one quickly, let alone a second. My friend Rob, on the other hand, could put one down in about two seconds. His ability didn't diminish with a second one..or a third..or a seventh. My brother and I marveled at his peculiarity..or dark gift. Just like any dark gift though, this one had its downside.
After leaving Dublin, we traveled to Galway via rental car. Galway, Ireland, is a sea town on the West Coast, known for the famed Irish Fisherman's sweater. I know it as the place where they serve dirty beer. After walking around Galway on a March afternoon, my brother and I found Rob at a mangy old bar. An empty glass of Guinness sat in front of him. With his back facing us, he chatted with an elderly Irish Gent who looked to be about 107 years old (and who seemed to be sitting in that same chair for around 102 of those years). It seemed that Rob had found a kindred spirit. Their faces were close to each other as they appeared in deep conversation. Maybe they spoke of the old country and times long since passed as the ancient one bestowed his knowledge on young Rob. If so, the old man's advice didn't include a warning to not drink Guinness beer from keg lines that hadn't been cleaned since Darby O'Gill was the same size as The Little People.
The day we left Galway was the day Rob became ill with stomach problems. We could not travel more than an hour without Rob having to stop to visit the facility. When he wasn't at a rest stop, Rob could be seen slumped over in the back seat, eyes closed, in a cold sweat. The illness made poor Rob extremely lethargic. Rob was always two steps behind us, unless he had to go to the bathroom. After each each rest stop visit, he'd lumber into the backseat of the car and fall asleep. If I had been more aware, I would have known that Rob was leaving a path of destruction in our wake. I wouldn't be surprised if the folks in these small villages had to sleep outside for a couple of days, just like other disaster victims who lack faith in the soundness of recently affected structures.
Finally, we arrived in an Irish town named Ennis and stopped at a Bed and Breakfast. At least in 1997, the idea of a B&B basically meant that anyone with extra rooms in their home could hang a shingle outside and call it
charming. What this meant for us is that we were basically staying in someone's house. This house, I mean B&B, had one bathroom. In addition to our presence, the 'staff' included a mean-looking Maintenance Man, the owner, who was the spitting image of my deceased grandmother, and a mischievous
gnome.
We never saw the gnome. He was like a ghost in a horror movie whom you never can get a good look at..only shadows and glimpses. We knew about the gnome, because each time one of us would walk downstairs (where they lived) to take a shower, we'd see a little
shadow followed by a
whoosh. Then the bathroom door would slam shut, followed by the sound of the lock turning. Maybe twenty minutes later, we'd hear the lock turn again and the sound of the bathroom door slamming and another
whooosh, indicating the gnome's departure from the bathroom and back to his room. I guess he wanted us to know our place in the pecking order. Maybe he enjoyed inflicting frustration on unknowing travelers. Either way, he would pay dearly.
The morning we left the Ennis B&B was 'D Day.' As we began to pack our things and get on the road, Rob excused himself to visit the bathroom. This time, he beat the gnome. About ten minutes later he walked back upstairs. He looked a bit concerned but we didn't take note. For the past two days, Rob had moved sooo slowly. We were used to stopping while walking so he could catch up. On this morning, Rob moved like a seasoned Delta Force Commando with a mission to pack a suitcase and leave a building within 15 seconds. Without giving us time to even think, we heard Rob say "Guys, you look like you'll need some time to get ready. I'm gonna hang out outside. I'll see you in the car." Before we could respond, he was gone. Out of site. Like the gnome.
My brother and I looked at each other like "What the heck just happened? What's
his problem?" Keep in mind we were still waking up and not yet fully conscious. We proceeded to pack our bags. Then, ever so slowly, a MERCILESS ODOR quickly wafted into the room. We looked at each other again. This time, our expressions expressed panic.
We've been set up by ROB. Rob had known what happened in that bathroom and only knew one Law of Impending Disaster:
Every man for himself. Run. Flee. Save yourself, Man. Get out of there. As my brother and I stood in fear and bewilderment (and disgust), we heard the
whooosh of the gnome.
The gnome was racing towards the bathroom. The next few moments went as followed:
9:30 am and 19 seconds: whooosh
9:30 am and 22 seconds: slam! (door to bathroom)
9:30 am and 25 seconds: sound of the lock turning.
Count off slowly.....One, Two, Three.....
9:30 am and 29 seconds:
sound of the lock frantically turning the other way...Slam!.....Whoooosh!
The gnome had just walked into a cocoon of horror and got out of that bathroom as fast as he could. Though we didn't have the seemingly miraculous, cat-like reflexes of a reborn Rob, we knew we must get out of the building as quickly and silently as possible to avoid detection. Maybe they'd blame it on the gnome. My brother Pat went first and I followed behind. With our bags in hand, we exited the room, and proceeded to walk down the stairs.
It was early still, so we thought perhaps we could leave unnoticed. We still had the audacity of hope. As we walked down the stairs, we could see the corner that led to the front door, the door to freedom. Our chances improved with each step down. The morning sun peered through the windows of the first floor. But this is no After School Special and there's no happy ending. Every tale of woe has its victim and in this case it was my brother Pat.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, the door to the bathroom was right in front of us. Suddenly, a second door to the right,
furiously swung open. It was the angry-looking maintenance man, looking especially sour. Since Pat was in front of me, he bared the full fury of the maintenance man. Both of his hands were occupied. In case Pat needed help understanding the situation, the maintenance man held his hands up in dramatic fashion. In one, he held a match box and the other...a nice,
long match. His face contorted into a frightening configuration and he opened his mouth, as if to speak. Only he didn't. He was an animal now.
GRRRRRRR!!!!!!
He actually growled at my brother.
We didn't stick around to initiate diplomatic dialogue. The maintenance man reached his goal: to identify and shame the violator. In this case, the true violator was sitting in the car..probably checking out his hair in the rear view mirror or simply enjoying the Irish morning sun.
Epilogue: To this day, all three of us still recall the incident. Rob particularly enjoys the story. He has made me retell it numerous times, like the day after his wedding, in front of his extended family, including numerous 80-year old ladies. No matter who or how many people there are in the room at the time, Rob is always the one who laughs the loudest.
