“It’s Patsy Cline!”

“No it’s not, it’s Tammy Wynette!”

“CLINE!”

“WYNETTE!” I jumped off the bar and threw my copy of Chat magazine behind me. I had been reading about a woman who claimed she had fallen pregnant, her words, by the hands of a ghost. I was sceptical and not just because she said it was his hands what done it but all the same I found myself engrossed in the story. My fellow wait chum was slumped over the bar beside me reading her own trash mag, Bella, when country classic, “Stand by your Man” came on.

“Ah I love Patsy Cline”, muttered my incorrect wait chum.

“Who doesn’t? But that’s Tammy Wynette.” And so an argument began.

“Listen I may not know much about yer modern music with yer The Cribs and The Killers and Leo Sayer or what ever the hell you folks listen to these days but I worked in a restaurant in Ireland in the early nineties. If there is anything I have an intimate knowledge off it’s classic country artists and their discography. That’s Tammy married five time Wynette singing, with no hint of irony either, “Stand by your man.” Patsy Cline predicted her own death but again, without even a smidgen of irony sang a song called, Crazy.” I was ranting and I knew it so I left it at that and didn’t resort to getting my iPod out to prove my point.

“Okay then….”, replied my somewhat terrified wait chum and went back to her Bella.

It was quiet that afternoon, save for the ridiculous bantering between wait staff. The city was quiet, the weather will do that. It was raining, biblical rain. One wondered would it be followed with plagues of small animals and assorted vermin. Nothing good comes in when it rains like that.

There was two of them, old and with faces as long as their rain sodden coats. They stood at the door, passive, waiting for someone to acknowledge them. I saw them. But I made like I didn’t. I don’t like to wait on old people. Some say it’s because I see myself in their age ravaged faces, I think it’s because they are grouchy. They looked grouchy and I wasn’t in the mood for grouchy. I didn’t know what I wanted but grouchy wasn’t it. Then they saw me. I swore and faked a smile, reminded me of meeting the in-laws. The taller one, who looked like a mean Walter Matthau, nodded. He made no attempt to shake the rain from his coat nor dry his face. He just stood there, passive as the rain drip drip dripped from his face, eventually nodding in my direction.

“Table for two…..you got a table for two fella?” His voice was hard but not uncouth

Peering at the empty booking sheet I couldn’t help but ask if they had a reservation.

“Nope” replied the other one. He said it with pride. This unnerved me. Most people panic when faced with that question, “Do we need one, oh shit we don’t have one, I said we needed one, didn’t I say we needed one Stevie?”

I seated them, as far away from the bar as I could get away with but not so far as I couldn’t see them without moving. I watched them take their hats and coats off, there was a preciseness about their actions, their movements, that was strangely compelling. Nothing was accidental nor carefree but rather they were deliberate and purposeful. It was almost as if they had over the years determined the best way to remove and store a coat so as to get as little water on the floor but at the same time ensure that their coat would dry.

They didn’t look at their menus at all. I went to get them a drink.

“Whiskey, Powers, no ice no water”, asked the hard faced Walter Matthau. His hands were flat on the table, they looked like the hands of a much younger man, which was odd. He wore a ring, a big ring with an odd symbol on it. He saw me staring at it and moved his other hand over it. He looked up at me and smiled but not a nice warm cheery Walter Matthau smile no this was more the smile of a pre rampage serial killer.

“Thank you fella, that’s all…for now.” He sent a chill down my back.

I fetched their drinks and dialling 99 on my phone went back down to the table. They weren’t talking. The other one stared out the window at the hard rain falling. The streets were empty, nothing but rain and the occasional flash of some poor soul seeking shelter. Dead eye Walter coughed to get his associates attention. He turned back from the window and thanked me for his whiskey. He stared at it for a moment as if enchanted by the light flickering off the golden brown liquid. Then he took a sip, not a mouthful, not a glug but a gentle sip. It seemed about right. Dead eye did the same. I turned to leave them drinking their whiskey and their no doubt solemn thoughts of dead parents and angry preachers.

“We’ll have the fish…”, began the other one. He said it to me but stared the whole time at his brother.

“Excuse me?

“My brother and I….we’ll have the fish…if you don’t mind”

“No, no I don’t mind…..two fish it is.’

Obviously I was beside myself with anger and if I’m being honest, fear, when the cooker jockey-in chief, the head chef, announced with his usual blasé attitude that the fish hadn’t arrived yet. This meant another visit to The Brothers Grimace.

“….and so sorry gents but there’s is no fish today, well not until the fish man gets here.”

Dead eye Walter stared at his brother for a moment and then took another sip of his whiskey.

In a voice that displayed no emotion let alone anger he started on an old man story ; “There was a time when this town was filled with fish; cod, whiting, haddock, turbot….’

“Prawns and mussels too”, volunteered the other one.

“…prawns and mussels too.” repeated Dead eye Walter nodding at his brother.

“Yes, yes indeed gents. I’m so very sorry…” I was sorry too, sorry and nervous. I felt that at any moment somebody was going to start quoting scriptures. Honestly if there had been thunder and lightning I would have squealed.

Dead eye Walter got to his feet, he towered over me, and putting one hand on my shoulder said, “We’ll pay for our drinks and take our leave…” Clinking their glasses together in a final salute they necked their whiskey. This is it, I thought. They are gonna go mental and I’m gonna end up on the news.

Pulling on their still sodden coats Dead eye Walter turned to his brother and said, “We’ll just go home, there’s no plaice for old men here”

Heh….