The Killarney Rose bloomed
on Pearl Street in 1968. The old bar probably had adorned many other names under
previous incarnations. It was not a fancy establishment, but it was always a
reasonably priced watering hole where Wall Street veterans would go to celebrate
a profitable day on the floor or mourn an unsuccessful one. Either way alcohol
was involved on the occasion. The vibe was low -key, and the customer was never
rushed along if he or she wished to tarry.
I had come alone wishing to sort through some thoughts and
the bartender cognizant of my introspective mood, served me as needed but did
not try to engage me in conversation. As the night wore on the crowd thinned
out and the pub became very quiet until only a handful of patrons remained. Out
of the corner of my eye I noticed something crawling down the inside rail of
the bar in my direction. It was a huge cockroach, or an average sized water-bug.
It was old and hobbled along in no particular hurry. When he reached the point
where he was adjacent to me, he stopped and turned to me while his antennas swirled
about and hissed “Well what are you looking at?” . . . .
Jim
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