Old Enough for a Pint? pv santiago

eventually interacting with a younger @Santiago Peralta
Summer 2010

Niamh’s Nest was filled with its usual clientele. The regulars represented all walks of life: a few banking finance types, immersed in the future of Dublin’s trade, hearty groups of blue-collar workers enjoying a pint after a long day, a group of single men daring each other to hit on a few women who were enjoying a lowkey hen party, and of course, in the Aerie, a room that “had to be book in advanced,” there were witches and wizards, discussing the latest ministry mess-up or the rising costs of a good racing broom. It was a warm summer night, so some irregulars had also made their way in: tourists from far-away places and a few from close places, too—muggle and non-muggle alike.

Niamh herself was dancing through the bar, a fluid whir of red, drinks upon drinks teetering on a tray. Sure the drinks here were decent, the bar snacks were crunchy and always flowing, but what really attracted people to the bar was its redhead hostess. Her balancing act was a site to behold; the magical folk thought it was secretly the work of a spell, but in reality, she had just practiced. She enjoyed to do a few things the “muggle way.” She always said that some wizarding people became incompentent and lazy with all their overdone convenience. Niamh also remembered everything she talked about with guests—she’d surprise someone that had been in the bar once only two years earlier by remembering their dog’s name and their mother’s medical issues.

It was easy to fall in love with Niamh, but she only gave her whole heart to one man. And he was standing quietly behind the grand oak bar that was the centerpiece of the place. Over his head, hanging on the wall were trinkets he collected over the years: various bits of trash that lived a new life in Niamh’s Nest, including his prized Oakshaft, which muggles thought was a "kitschy witch's broom."

Ruckus Weems and Niamh Balfe gave credence to the saying “opposities attract.” She was the life of the party, while he was quiet and stoic. She found beauty in people themselves while he found it in the things they left behind. But what they lacked themselves they found in each other.

Plus Ruckus could make a mean old fashioned—both their drink of choice.

Tonight, business was booming and the pints were flowing. Ruckus was smoothly moving through each drink order, making each with a slight dash of showmaship. Some regulars took the front row seat at the bar for the quiet show, but surprisingly tonight, not every stool was full.

There was a locked cabinet under the bar that would only open to Niamh or Ruckus’s touch; it kept various magical ingredients for when a customer in the Aerie ordered a stronger brew. Occasionally Ruckus hand would slip into it, pulling out springs of valerian or dittany when needed. In the back of the cabinet was a small envelope cash. Ruckus had told Niamh he’d keep some muggle money on hand in case of emergency. She hadn’t noticed that he had been slowly filling it with little bits from the till. He’d lied; it wasn’t an emergency fund—unless she would look at the engagement ring he planned to buy as an emergency. He only needed about six more months to save up, and he predicted the eventual day would go over smoothly.

The barman also always took notice of the people in the barstools. People who came to the bar by themselves. While Niamh could cheer anyone up, sometimes people preferred a quieter approach and a keen listener. There were a few regulars that he always checked in on, but on busy nights like this, he wouldn’t be surprised if a new lone soul needed attention.