Saturday, August 8, 2009

The Car-Park Blues

This funny thing happened yesterday:
we parked in our usual pay parking lot
and set off on our daily trip to the cyber-pub
and assorted errands in town. When we returned
to the car, a blue van with a trailer was illegally
double-parked and blocking us. Aaaccchh!
What to do? The driver of the van hadn't even
purchased a parking token. Paul decided to walk
a block over to the garda station and tell them
to come and ticket the vehicle. The garda
at the front desk said,

"He'll probably be back by the time we get there."


We we waited. There were other possibilities --
if one of two other cars left we could sidle our way
out. People came and went, but in every other car
but any of the ones which would grant us our freedom.
Paul suggested we go to a pub and have a drink,
but I just wanted to get back to the house.
We saw a man and two boys heading for one
of the cars in our way -- and then got in a car
beside them. Paul said,

"Too bad you're not driving the red car!"
"What -- are you stuck?"
"Oh, 'tis a pity."
And away he drove.

And we sat. No garda. No pub for me.
Then suddenly the man who didn't drive the red car
was there again, and he said,

"The driver of the blue van is Michael Nugent.
He mows lawns. He's in the pub just around
the corner!"

Ha! Off we went, to S. Moran's (pub).
Right inside the door -- and I mean RIGHT inside
the door, were a group of men having their Friday
afternoon pint(s). (And not a woman in the place.)
Paul called out,

"Michael Nugent?"

There was a rumbling and mumbling, a clearing
of throats, but no one said a thing.

Again, "Michael Nuget?"

"Do you owe him money?"
"He's out mowing lawns!"

I said,
"No he's not! His van is parked just in the lot
behind us, and it's blocking our car!"

Then the man just in front of us -- about six inches
from us, turned around, red-faced (and not from
embarassment, I'd wager) and grumbled,

"I'm Michael Nugent."

(If I had inhaled at that moment
I could've smelled his Guinness breath.)

So we were liberated from the car-park,
and laughed the whole way home. We could
only imagine the conversation back at the pub
when we walked out -- just how was it that
a couple of Yanks knew Michael was the owner
of the van, and that he was in that particular pub?

What began with irritation and a desire to key
a certain blue van ended in hilarity
and a blog entry to boot!

(Citizen K. is hard at work on his version
of this incident. I can' wait to read it!)


  1. Ah, village life! Nicely told, T. You could really build that into a great Trevoresque short story, taking off from where you ended the post.

  2. They're both perfect! I be smilin'.

  3. Ah, village life. I'm glad to see that your sense of humour saw you through.

  4. He wasn't owning up to his name first off, was he. Just wanted to finish his pint!

  5. It's not exactly village life: There are 37 pubs in Westport, and the guy knew exactly which one to send us to! I would definitely not want to live here with a family secret!