Kissing the Blarney Stone

I tell white lies to people I meet at bars. Little ones. I switch details. I change my name. Sometimes I'll fake (or exaggerate) an accent. I don't take it seriously because I believe the things I really want are not going to show up when the lights are low and the music is loud. It's an act. It's a way to pass the time. The trouble is that sometimes you do meet people that you find interesting, and then it's too late to take things back.

It’s Saturday night and my coworker and I are celebrating the patron saint of Ireland by drinking our way through Brooklyn. We’re at Union Hall, a cozy, dark bar with cluttered bookshelves, a fireplace, and a bocce ball court in the back. It’s relatively early, but the bar is full with twenty and thirty-somethings looking to get out of the slush. We were lucky to snag two seats and are deep in conversation about apartments and boys and the other things that coworkers talk about when you remove the office and add alcohol.

A pair of guys show up behind us and apologize when they have to lean over to make their order from the bartender. We chat for a few minutes and introduce ourselves.

“This is my friend,” I say without hesitation. “She’s an English teacher. A writer, really, but, you know…we all have to pay the rent…” She gives me a questioning look as she shakes their hands.

“And you?” the dark-haired one asks.

“Statistician,” I say, and immediately wonder what the hell is wrong with me.

I think about what my college friends would say if they knew. The truth is that I failed stats in undergrad. Twice, actually.

But I can already tell that truth isn’t really the object of this game...

The shorter one asks her a question about Garcia Marquez and magical realism that I’m itching to answer, but I hold my tongue. After all, stats are my thing tonight. She looks at me again as she manages to deftly change the subject.

They’re animators. They mention that they just finished working on a video for a pretty famous Brooklyn-based band. The taller one has also worked on a pretty incredible animated film. I’m noticeably impressed, but skepticism starts to creep in and I wonder if maybe I’m not the only one who’s kissed the Blarney stone tonight.

“He still thinks I’m the writer,” my friend whispers. I laugh and we order another round. I’m about three vodka tonics in when I slip and mention the blog.

“So you write too?” He asks. I hear myself go on about the need for balance between left-brain and right-brain activities. He asks me about my job (doing stats for a nonprofit) and I make it up as I go along. I have no idea what I’m talking about, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His sleepy eyes keep slipping down appreciatively to the scoop of my sweater. He pulls out a page of shamrock stickers and offers me one.

“Where do you want it?” he says. I smile and tell him to decide. With the sticker on his forefinger he beckons me away from our seats. I follow him through the crowd to a dark corner in the back where I watch him wordlessly place the shamrock a couple inches below my collar bone.

“I could have predicted that,” I say (like the good statistician that I am).

We go back to our seats and continue talking. The more we talk, the more I regret lying about my job. He asks for my number and I hand him my card, which has nothing but my name on it.

“Google me,” I say. “It’s like a virtual scavenger hunt.”

He smiles and tries to get us to come along with them to the next bar, but our drinks are full and we know we’ll never be able to score two bar seats at this time of the night.

Plus, I’m starting to get a little tired of playing the statistician.

After they leave, my friend looks at me. “An English teacher? A statistician?”

“Yeah,” I explain. “I forgot to tell you that I do that sometimes…”



*BTW, he's incredibly talented and his story checks out... (Which is more than he can say for my own.)