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| Mulligan's Pub is located at 1518 Wealthy St. Grand Rapids, Michigan |
When I say nothing, I say everything.
Yes, I stole that from Jack White’s ‘Lazaretto’, but during
my latest late-night excursion to a watering hole, the line really stuck.
On Thursday, I took a trip back to my old college stomping
grounds and visited Mulligan’s Pub in Grand Rapids’ historic/crappy-brick-roads/I-hope-I-don’t-get-mugged Eastown. Located here.
To set the scene, Mulligan’s is a bar's bar.
You know that bar to take a date, or impress your boss, or is
the basis for a 1980s sitcom. Yeah, this is not that place.
But I don’t know if the word ‘dive bar’ should be applied
here either. Maybe ‘punk rock’ would best suit it for a description. But not
‘kill the government’ punk, but more ‘yeah, this is us and we don’t give afuck’ punk. Even though at least three Against Me songs played on the jukebox
last night, so I guess both applied.
I took a seat at the uniquely horseshoe-shaped bar and
ordered a Guinness.
Admittedly,
Mulligan’s beer selection is what you would call Fourth Division in the Beer
Capital that is Grand Rapids (I’m sure there is some legal thing about me being
able to call GR ‘Beer City U.S.A’—and who wants to get into that).
To my left was a couple in their 50s, the dude was an aging
hippy who had hair that was just a bit longer than his wife/partner/companion,
hell I don't know. It’s my blog, I’ll be the one to decide their relationship with each other. Either way, they had long enough hair that combined it would be a
good four yards. (Which is more than what the Lions get--right? Yeah, I watch the Premier League, I don't know the NFL).
To my right were two business types that looked like they
had no business at Mulligan’s. After I got out of work, I made a point to take
off my polo shirt so I was just wearing my Logan’s Alley t-shirt (again, Punk
bar, wearing a t-shirt from another bar was the most Punk thing I could think
of on the fly at 11 p.m.)
But these two were in dress paints and dress shirts,
much to the dismay of our bartender, who gave them some rather cold looks as
they were ordering PBRs.
But then again, maybe being formal and an informal place is
the most Punk thing one can do—to hell if know, I went to private school my
entire life, I already lost out in the whole ‘try to look oppressed’ look.
While sipping on my Guinness and watching the rerun of the
Tigers game, a young woman was sitting at my 1 o’clock (if you read my blog, I
expect you to know fighter pilot lingo. If you don’t, Wikipedia). She was
sipping on a cocktail and seemed to catch my eye.
But there is a problem—the dude sitting to her left. But it
just wasn’t some regular dude.
After observing how the two were reacting, I could not get a
grasp what was the relationship between the two of them. Yes, you could say
that about the hippie couple next to me as well, but I have a vested interest
in this.
I had hard time grasping just exactly who the guy was.
Boyfriend? Friend that’s a boy? Cliche enthusiastic gay friend that is part of
the group?
My gut instinct was the third option, but I felt the answer
was so obvious, it must be wrong. Oh God, it’s the ACT all over again. (Curse you Xavier Admissions Department).
Judging from the dude’s cocktail and how he was not making
any over-the-top moves on her that most guys make at a bar once it’s past 12:30
a.m., I was thinking that he was not interested in her….Or, he was just really
smooth, and I am out of my league on this one.
So I kept to myself, glancing at the Tigers game and David
Letterman--it’s amazing that you can follow a talk show without the sound, but
yet I still picked up on what him and Jerry Seinfeld were talking about. Now
that’s talent.
I switched to Bell Two Hearted Ale for my second and third
beers, still keeping tabs on the group sitting at 1 o’clock. I resolved to
myself that when the guy had to go to the bathroom, I would see if there was on
opportunity. The bladder-everybody’s eternal weakness.
But the damned-est thing occurred—the dude didn’t get up. At
all. While she had to get up during the evening, the guy managed to stay glued
to his seat.
Eventually, another two came up to them, and it seemed
obvious that these two were a couple.
At this point, I was ready to give up on the situation and
look for people that I know. It’s Thursday before Aquinas’ Homecoming, I knew
it was a long shot, but I wouldn’t put it above any Saint to visit Eastown’s
favorite dive bar for a Thursday night nightcap. (I mean, I am, I can't be the unusual--right?)
However it was not meant to be, damn all of us getting older
and getting real jobs (stay tuned for updates from yours truly and his future
career options—developments coming soon).
Against Me’s ‘Sink Florida Sink’ and ‘High Pressure Low’
played back-to-back on the jukebox. Jesus, I need to find the person playing
the tunes. Use all your senses, Meloy.
I decided it was time to call it a night, so I asked for my
tab and threw in a towel, and a $5 tip for the ‘average’ service at the bar.
During my walk back down the old-brick streets, I started
thinking, ‘what did I do wrong’. Like a quarterback who looks at his iPad after
he threw an interception.
Cross-bar talking is really difficult at Mulligans with horseshoe-shaped
bar; you are a good 15-feet from the person you are sitting across from. And
given Mulligan’s acoustics, you are better using sign language to communicate
than speaking. (Note to self: learn sign language).
Maybe it was best that I didn’t say anything. I did have a
good time enjoying the music and trying to decipher whatever the hell they are
putting on Comedy Central once the Colbert Report is over.
Mulligan’s has four
televisions—all of which are on different channels.
It would have been an up-hill battle from the start, and
with a poor scouting report it would have been a losing battle. Reconnaissance,
important in war, important in social settings.
But seriously, what was the dude’s relationship to the
chick, damit I’ll never find out. This a worse cliffhanger than ‘Dance of
Dragons’.
But perhaps by not doing anything, it is still doing
something. I’m not the kind of person who goes charging into things like the
light-infantry division at the end of Gallipoli. Sometimes just sitting in your
trench and letting things unfold is the best option.
All too often, people try to force things that are simply
not there. For reasons unknown to them. (Like Cristiano Ronaldo every time he
touches the ball).
Part of letting things run their course and waiting for the
right moment means that you are going to have nights where nothing happens.
You’re not going to score on every shot, not going to hit a
home run everything. We just can’t all be Jon Snow---who still knows nothing.
(Damn you forever Jon Snow for killing Ygritte, may the Others take you).
Maybe, by doing nothing, it could lead to anything.
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