In Walsh's Pub

Grant Burkhardt

Half of Walsh’s Pub is here for the band, the other half are drowning out the music, Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh that works just enough.

Four men, tucked in the back corner table, young but their beards age them years they give no cues, the playing simply starts, alertness is essential.

The sound is small, they play for themselves. Fiddler, strummer, singer, fouter, fute traded out on occasion for a saxophone–it functions but doesn’t work.

What we manage to hear is lovely stuff, the reverent gallery bows heads, closes eyes, feels the history of the ballads, connecting to ancestors, gods of their land.

I try it, to see what I’d see, and nothing’s there except the music. It’s not my land, there’s nothing so trad to me in this, all I hear are the strings.

Eyes closed I feel the pints too, so when I come to I blink away the vertigo, I see you’re looking at me, eyes flled with some knowing, something I don’t get but might.

The song ends. The patrons wait a beat, make sure it’s done, then applaud. We slap our legs with free hands to make known we approve, but hold eyes, bare feelings.

You take a step toward the louder side of the bar, holding onto me an extra measure, I follow, body unable to stop what eyes had seen, that the music doesn’t sing to us, that maybe neither of us has gods.