One Night at the Twisted Elm

Built in 1890, the Twisted Elm is one of those old Irish pubs in Northeastern New Jersey that drips carved mahogany, fine leather, beveled mirrors, tuxedoed bartenders, and top-shelf, expensive booze. “The Elm” was originally intended to be a posh alcohol-laden retreat for the captains of industry on Wall Street. Guggenheims, Rockefellers, Woolworths, Morgans, Vanderbilts, et al would often pop in for a martini or three before heading home in their limousines to mansions and family dinners on the Gold Coast.

During prohibition, The Elm became an upscale speakeasy. The authorities were well-paid to leave The Elm alone and give it a wide berth. It’s rumored that Al Capone would often stop at The Elm for cocktails with his entourage during the roaring 20s when he had "business dealings" with Charles Luciano across the Hudson in Manhattan. Babe Ruth would often stop in after a game for a pop or two. It's rumored that The Elm was where Al Capone uttered his famous remark to the Babe, "You know, Babe, you make more money than the president!" Babe Ruth replied, "I had a better year than he did."

Business had always been good at The Elm. In the forties and fifties during the Yankee dynasty years, the big stars considered The Elm their watering hole. It was not well-known to the masses and was much too expensive for the hoi-polloi. Celebrities could relax at the bar without getting bugged for autographs. DiMaggio hung out there. Then later, Mantle, Berra, Ford, and Martin became regulars.

In the sixties, when pro football exploded onto the American scene, the stars who played for the Jets and Giants and lived in Bergen County estates made The Elm their second home. Gifford, Tittle, Rote, and Robustelli were all on a first-name basis with The Elm’s bartenders. According to urban legend, Joe Namath frequently had to be driven home from The Elm after several late-night adventures. Don Maynard and Matt Snell celebrated the 1969 shocker over the Colts at The Elm, the game that changed the NFL forever.

Today, several Fortune 500 companies have large installations in the area due to its proximity to New York. The region offers much lower costs than The Apple and an ample labor supply, particularly in the information technology and AI disciplines. No one is sure exactly how many technological breakthroughs have been scribbled on Twisted Elm cocktail napkins during late-night bourbon-fueled design discussions, but the number is thought to be significant.

Because of this, the big companies supply limousines and drivers to make sure their top programmers and designers get home in one piece when they head to The Elm for a toot. The Elm's bartenders are also under strict instructions not to issue a "last call" if at least two of the top programmers are still at the bar deep in conversation. One more round of Pappy Van Winkle could lead to the next Internet, or at least the next Excel or Word.

Genius-level software developers settled in the area from around the world, drawn by money and the opportunity to work on state-of-the-art projects that one day might just get them into the history books next to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. The super-talented came to North Jersey from China, India, Japan, Brazil, England, Russia, and even Ireland.

One night, the bartender at The Elm found himself in a dilemma. It was late, and there were only two patrons still at the bar, probably programmers, but they were sitting at opposite ends of the bar, sipping their drinks and not discussing anything with each other. The bartender wanted to issue a "last call", shut down, and go home, but he didn't want to risk incurring the wrath of one of the big companies that kept him employed. He was stuck. He didn’t know what to do.

The only other person in the bar was a limo driver who was apparently there to ensure the two patrons' safe return home.

One of the patrons got the bartender's attention and pointed to his empty glass. "Another Bushmills, please, my good man, " the patron said with an Irish accent and an alcoholic haze of a smile.

The other patron looked over, equally intoxicated. “Aye. Irish Whisky is one of God's great inventions, and Bushmills is His defining achievement."

The first patron slapped his hand on the bar. “Well said, sir! Bartender, give that lad down there a Bushmills also.”

The bartender poured the drinks. He delivered them as the first patron walked over and sat beside the second.

The second patron raised his glass. “You are a true gentleman, sir. I salute you.”

They sipped their drinks.

“Are you from New Jersey, lad?” The first patron asked.

“Bloody hell, no. Can’t you tell by my accent?”

“Tis why I asked. Would you be from the old sod?”

“I am. How about yourself?”

"I am, also. This is quite a coincidence, isn't it? Two lads from the old sod meeting in the United States at a watering hole in New Jersey. What are the odds?"

“Astronomical!” The second patron shouted and slapped the bar. “Bartender, another round of Bushmills for two lads from the old sod.”

The bartender rolled his eyes and poured the drinks.

The two patrons clinked glasses and sipped.

“What county do you call home, sir?” the first patron asked the second.

“Tipperary.” The second patron replied.

“Amazing!” the first patron shouted. “North or South?”

“North.”

“By God, I’m from North Tipperary!” the first patron bellowed as he slapped the bar. “What town, sir?”

“Galway.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m from Galway!”

“This is a miracle!” The second patron shouted. “What parish are you from, lad?”

“St Catherine’s.”

“Oh my God! I’m from St. Catherine’s. Did you have Sister Mary for History class?”

"I did! My God, she was handy with that ruler!" They both laughed. The second patron stared at the first, suddenly serious. "You look familiar, laddie. Have we met before?"

The first patron thought momentarily, then said, "I don't believe so."

The limo driver and the bartender glanced at each other and shook their heads. Then, the limo driver’s cell phone rang.

“Hello? … Hi honey … It’s gonna be a late one … sorry … the Kelly twins are seriously shit-faced.