The Beer Sitter

“Man, even the I.R.S. would laugh at my bank account,” Casey Cassidy laments as he checks The Mean Fiddler’s receipts for a second time. The forty-three-year-old restaurant owner runs his hand through his generous mop of dark hair, worrying how much longer it will be before it starts falling out.

Wiping his sauce-covered hands on his smock, Cisco Soto comes out of the kitchen. The wall-eyed cook looks at Casey apprehensively. “We makin’ any money, boss?”

“We’re so far in the red I should be callin’ you comrade.”

“So, no?”

“We’re an Irish bar without Irishmen, a family restaurant without families. A lot of our customers never came back after the pandemic,” Casey says. “We’re gettin’ by with what we take in at the bar. The Mean Fiddler has become a bizarro world version of Cheers. It’s now the place where everyone knows your name and your rap sheet. But don’t worry Cisco. You’ll get paid, even if I have to commit larceny.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

Bixby “Bix “Burns enters the restaurant. “How about a burger deluxe, a Guinness, and a shot of Jameson for lunch?”

“Wow, did the Red Sox cover your bets last night?” Casey asks.

“And then some. Today, I’m the king of Boston,” the elderly but still spry redhead says, displaying his capped white teeth in a broad smile. “And I’m gonna get a pot of gold tonight when Sean McManus knocks out Osvaldo Mercado.”

Casey waves his hand dismissively. “McManus is gonna lose.”

Bix gawks at Casey in mock shock. “He’s a twelve-to-one favorite. Boy, if I didn’t know you know nothin’ about boxin’, I’d say you know nothin’ about boxin’.”

“You haven’t picked a winner in a boxin’ match since Lincoln was in office,” Casey shoots back.

Casey gathers up his receipts, following Bix to the bar. “Mercado’s wins have all come within three rounds. He’s a power puncher. McManus always moves forward, which makes him the perfect target for Mercado’s uppercut. McManus made it to the top contender spot fightin’ tomato cans. I know you believe in all things Irish, but there’s never been an Irish-born champ and there won’t be one tonight either. McManus’ chin is as strong as a sheet of Xerox paper.”

“May Saint Peter strike you dead,” Bix jokes.

Casey goes into the kitchen, returning with Bix’s lunch. The bookie digs in between sips of beer.

“This meat is a bit tough, Casey.”

“That’s because I only ran it over once with my truck. Next time I’ll back up a few more times in order to tenderize it for you.”

“Very funny, Bob Hope. How’s Orla?”

“Mean as a grizzly sittin’ on a cactus.”

“Well, be sure to tell her old Bix was thinkin’ about her.”

“If she stops yellin’ at me long enough for me to tell her.”

A scruffy man, his sandy hair mostly covering his boyish features, steps up to the bar.

“Well, well, fresh from Sing Sing Prison,” Casey says. “Did your penance for breakin’ and enterin’ I see, eh, Ryan?”

“Don’t lecture me, Casey.”

“I’ve spent the better part of my life tryin’ to penetrate that thick dome of yours. A lot of good it did.”

“We can’t all run swanky bistros like you, big brother,” Ryan says, pulling out a rumpled five-dollar bill.

“I should take a picture of this. You have money!”

“I actually earned it working at the prison library.”

“You didn’t happen to accidentally read a book while you were in there, did you?”

“Yeah, I read about Cain and Able. Gimme a Harp Lager.”

“Do you think you can stay out of the slammer long enough to drink it?”

Casey takes a deep breath before quietly pushing open the door. Even at 3:30 a.m., he’s afraid he’ll have to face Orla, whose usually well into a prescription-induced deep sleep by then.

His stealth is pointless. Orla is waiting for him in the kitchen, her wheelchair pointed in his direction like the cannon of a deadly Sherman tank, her flaming red hair matching the intensity of her burning blue eyes.

“Took a few liberties with your stock of whiskey before you slithered home, didn’t you? I can smell it from over here.”

“The Mean Fiddler is like a refuge to me. I just needed a few extra moments there to relax before I came home to World War Three.”

“You feel you need to hide from me?” she screams.

“Right now, I do,” he says, turning away.

“Till death do us part,” Orla shouts, wheeling after him. “That’s what we swore to!”

“Well then, kill me now.”

“Why do you have to be such a drama queen?” Orla taunts.

“Me? You’re the one who sits in that chair all day barking at the TV, yellin’ about how immigrants are invadin’ the country, that the LGBTQ is pervertin’ children, and the COVID vaccine is a way for the government to control us.”

“Truths!”

Orla’s wheelchair nearly slides into Casey as he turns to face her. “What’s all of that got to do with us? Remember us, Orla? We used to have date nights, go to concerts, take vacations in Ireland, but most of all, we used to laugh. Now, all we do is scream at each other.”

“It’s all your fault! You did this to me!” Orla rants bitterly.

“I made a choice four years ago. It was the wrong one.”

“You left me in the back seat of that car to die.”

“No. I went to help the people in the other car. Your brother and his wife were dead. I thought you were dead too, so I tried to save that family from burnin’ to death.”

“But you didn’t, did you? The doctor said if I’d been pulled out of the car sooner, I might be able to walk…”

“You can walk. You just choose not to in order to spite me.”

“You deserted me,” Orla snarls, tears streaming down her face.

“But I’m here for you now.”

“You’re here because of your guilt. That restaurant is your woman, your life.”

The crowd gathers in front of the bar’s blaring television. Bix and three of his friends throw down shots in anticipation of the big fight.

“Gonna be a doozy,” Bix says, patting an oval-faced man wearing a Red Sox cap on the back.

“Last chance to become a millionaire!” Bix shouts.

The men in the bar gravitate to Bix, hurriedly passing him more cash.

“All on Mercado? Have you no faith in a fellow Irishman?”

“If he was tryin’ to outdrink him, he’d be a shoo-in,” the man in the cap says, laughing.

Cisco comes out of the kitchen, placing a stack of bills in front of Bix.

“Mercado,” he says confidently.

“How much is this?”

“Three thousand.”

“All in twenties I see,” Bix notes.

“It’s all the money I have.”

Bix pushes the money back toward Cisco.

“I don’t wanna bankrupt you, Cisco. You worked hard for this.”

“Mercado will win, I know it. He’s Columbian like me. We’re tough.”

Bix sweeps away the money “All right, young man. We’ll see how tough you are.”

Bix turns to find Frankie “The Fist” Fitzgerald staring down at him. His angular face a mass of scars, his hands the size of cinder blocks, the former head-banging pro linebacker is now breaking legs for local gangsters.

“…Well, hello, Francis,” Bix says sweetly.

The Fist reaches into his jacket pocket. The crowd collectively responds by stepping back, expecting Bix to be shot down.

The Fist hands Bix an envelope. “Ciaran O’Brien wants all of this on McManus.”

The Fist leans down, pressing his torn features close to Bix.

“Mr. O’Brien says you told him McManus can’t lose… I like you, Bixby. I liked Jimmy Hoffa too. I don’t wanna have to take you to where he is.”

The crowd gives The Fist a wide path to tread as he leaves.

“You’re better off keepin’ company with Jack the Ripper or Joseph Stalin,” Casey comments.

Casey eyes the only man in the room not paying attention to Bix’s antics. The anemic-looking man has a pointy chin, and a narrow forehead, with scheming, hooded eyes, projecting the type of feral look Casey has come to mistrust.

The stranger stares straight ahead, deep in thought.

Pointing at the beer the stranger’s been nursing for an hour, Casey says, “They don’t give birth on their own. You have to drink them and then buy another.” 

The man gives Casey a half-hearted smile.

“Great. A beer sitter,” Casey comments. “I’m just sayin’, if you’re gonna take root…”

“Fine, give me a shot of Jameson,” the Beer Sitter says.

A man with a salt and pepper beard moves next to him, signaling to Casey for his usual drink.

“That guy’s a real jerk, even for a bartender,” the Beer Sitter says.

“He’s got his reasons. His brother-in-law and sister-in-law died in a head-on crash he was in when the brother-in-law nodded off at the wheel. His wife was crippled but he walked away without a scratch. He’s got survivor’s guilt, a wife who turned into a shrew, and a restaurant that’s hemorrhaging money. The only thing he’s got left is his coin collection.”

The beer collector’s blasé attitude brightens. “He’s a coin collector? What’s he got?”

“I hear he’s got a collection worth a couple hundred thousand.”

Ryan enters through the side door. Moving toward the bar, he stands next to a pasty-looking man nursing his drink.

The two young men nod respectfully at one another.

Casey moves toward their end of the bar.

Ryan pulls out a rumpled ten-dollar bill. “Guinness.”

“Don’t you have any money that looks like it hasn’t been in a dryer for two days?”

“You should be happy I’m not mooching off you. Besides, that coin collection of yours is full of old dirty money.”

“Let’s not talk about that now,” Casey says, glancing at the Beer Sitter, who is looking away, appearing to be disinterested.

When Casey walks away, the Beer Sitter says to Ryan, “I couldn’t help but overhear that your brother has a coin collection. I’m a collector too. What’s he got?”

“A 1979 Susan B. Anthony dollar, a 1964 Kennedy Silver Half Dollar, and a 1909 Lincoln Wheat Penny, among others.”

“They’re very rare.”

“You bet. They’re worth so much he keeps them locked in his safe at home.”

The Beer Sitter pounds down his shot, grimacing. “I should talk to him.”

“You know where to find him,” Ryan replies.

“I don’t want to bother him while he’s at work. Where’s he live? I might drop by his house for a talk before I leave town.”

“He’s got a house on Stevens Road. The third house in, number five. There’s a big ramp there that leads to the front door that he built for my sister-in-law who’s in a chair. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” the Beer Sitter says, giving Ryan a ratty smile.

The bar empties out after the fight. Only Bix and an amorous and very drunk couple in the back remain.

Casey takes note of the couple.

“Hey, you two, break it up! This isn’t the set of an X-rated movie. I don’t want you tradin’ fluids in here, you’re forty, not fourteen!”

“But we’re in love,” the man says.

“Yeah, tonight you are. You’re so plowed you couldn’t spell love right now if I spotted you the “L” and the “E.” I think it’s wonderful you’ve found each other, but you’ve gotta take it to a motel or the back seat of your car, ‘cause I’m closin’ up and goin’ home. My life at home is hell, but I’ll be doggone if I’m gonna let you make it hell here too.”

Turning to Bix Casey says, “That means you too.”

Bix downs his double shot of whiskey, shaking his head dejectedly.

Casey pours him another shot, taking one for himself. “Last one, okay?”

Cisco whistles as he exits the kitchen. Walking up to Bix, he sticks his hand out, giving him a wall-eyed smile.

“I told you.”

“No lectures, please,” Bix replies, handing him an envelope. “Thirty-six thousand.”

Cisco shakes Casey’s hand. “You’re going to need a new cook.”

Smiling, he waves goodbye.

“Too bad. I never did figure out which one of his eyes to look into,” Casey says.

“…Thirty seconds…,” Bix moans. “Knocked out in four punches! He didn’t even throw a punch at Mercado! Thanks to Sean McManus’ China chin, I owe the world.”

“Too bad. I was gonna ask you for a loan.”

“It’s that bad?”

“I sold off my coin collection yesterday. It should keep me going for a while, But I’m not worried about myself.”

“You never do, Casey. It’s time you should.”

“I’m afraid for Orla. She’s stopped taking her lithium. She’s been pretty edgy lately.”

“So, slip her meds in her food or put it in her coffee.”

“I’ve always hoped it wouldn’t come to that,” Casey replies. “She’s my wife, Bix. I can’t deceive her.”

“You want her to get well, don’t you? Didn’t she see a shrink for a while?”

“We both did.”

“It’s time to go back and put that accident behind you once and for all.”

“She’s angry all the time.”

“Care to trade? You’d be gettin’ screwed, and not in a good way. I haven’t told Edna I hocked half her jewelry to help raise my bank for the McManus fight. I tell you, I’m more afraid of facin’ her than Frankie the Fist.”

Bix looks at Casey, whose downcast expression makes him look lost.

“Can she walk at all?”

“Some. She gave up tryin’ long ago. God, I wish we could recapture the way we were before the accident."

"You got married in Dublin, didn’t you?”

“It’s one of our favorite memories. It’s the only thing we don’t argue about.”

“Then use some of that money you got from sellin’ your coin collection and take her back there. Make her smile again.”

Whistling, Casey opens the front door.

“Orla! I’ve got good news,” Casey yells as he heads to the kitchen. “Orla? I’ve got a surprise for you!"

“…And I’ve got one for you,” the Beer Sitter says, pressing a gun against Orla’s head.

“You…I knew there was somethin’ off about you.”

“I was just talking with your wife about your coin collection. She says you’re the only one who can get at it. How about we do that?”

“I sold it.”

The Beer Sitter laughs aloud, his cigarette-stained teeth forming a predatory smile.

“I’m calling bull on that one, Cassidy. Your brother said it’s in a safe. You’re gonna open it, or I’m gonna open up a parking lot in your wife’s skull.”

Casey gets behind Orla’s wheelchair, pushing his petrified wife down the hallway.

Whispering to Casey, Orla says, “…Do something…”

“I really sold the collection, there’s nothin’ in the safe.”

“Yes, there is,” Orla replies. “You just have to have the guts to use it. You left me here, unprotected, to get preyed upon by this animal. What kind of man are you? You’re not the man I married. That man left me a long time ago.”

“Shut it, Mrs. Cassidy,” the Beer Sitter says.

Casey pushes Orla’s wheelchair up to his desk. He takes down the picture of dogs playing poker that hides the safe. Turning the dial, Casey slowly opens the safe, reaching for the gun he bought to ward off men like the Beer Sitter.

Quickly spinning around, Casey fires two shots.

“For Chrissake, you’re crazy!” the Beer Sitter screams. Dropping his empty, rusted, useless gun, he runs down the hallway and out of the house.

Smiling victoriously, Casey says, “Who’s your hero, now, Orla?”

Orla is slumped in her wheelchair. Blood spreads out across her blouse from the two bullets buried in her chest.