The Wild Hare
The balled fists buried in the pockets of my woolen longcoat were scarcely mine, nor were the red cheeks and nose blown numb by the Autumn wind. I had been wandering Dublin in a daze for hours, intoxicated by its liveliness, stone streets melted into brick façades, an Earth-tone jungle prowled by smiling Irishmen and German lovers. Red candlelight and dim neon signs were the flowers and I was a lusty bumblebee. I’d drunken a bit much of the local nectar – black gold, as it’s called here. I was too, drunk on the romance of this literary and Dionysian mecca.
It was in this state I wandered, increasingly, and subconsciously, imparting a surreal and idyllic gloss on my surroundings. I awoke from my reverie when I found myself standing squarely at an old wooden door, unstained and weatherworn. It was affixed to a squat brownstone in the Georgian style. There are few distinguishing features, even the windows are obscured by dark curtains. I can tell there is some light in the building but no sound escaping out, if there is any. There’s no signage on the building, nor any other that I can see on the street I of course have no recollection of how I got here and my phone had apparently died for lack of battery charge.
I cursed myself for my constant fanaticizing. What good are lofty visions of far away lands or imagined conversations with writers long since dead, when utterly lost in a foreign city? I reckon I could keep walking until I spy a familiar landmark or encounter a helpful Dubliner. Something inside me knows it would be of little use. It was dark now, complicating analog navigation. And, I was drawn to that door. I inched closer and for the first time noticed a small piece of paper nailed to the wood. I leaned in to read:
“Welcome to the Wild Hare. Please come in.”
I’m so intrigued, my hand practically moves to the cold iron doorknob itself. With some effort, I push open the thick door. There is quite a din going inside. In the back if the room, which is perhaps the size of a squash court, my eye is drawn to a stone hearth of glowing red coals. The elder fire licked soft flames lazily at a black cauldron dangling above. The warmth instantly kissed my cheeks. There were small wooden booths and tables throughout. Nearly all appeared to be occupied by old men with white hair or none at all. They were huddled in small groups, like sheep in woolen sweaters, and seemed to not take any notice of my arrival. Except for one – the bartender.
“Hello, friend. Have a seat. What will it be?”
He was already reaching for a whiskey glass. Good thing I like firewater, I thought. I responded without thinking.
“Dealer’s choice.”
He cracked a smile exposing enormous white teeth. Though he looked equally old to the others, his hair was a fiery red. This and his emerald green eyes glinted wildly in the light of the coals and lanterns. After a moment, his face grew serious, and, looking into my eyes intensely, asked, “What kind of man are ye?”
I chewed my lip and gave the worst possible answer.
“I don’t know.”
We both knew how inadequate this statement was and so he waited. I’ll have to spelunk into the depths of my mind. I opened and closed my mouth like a dumb fish before saying, “I am a wanderer, happiest on my feet and feasting my eyes on ancient trees or buildings... I fancy myself a voyager, thought more with fleets of fancy in my mind than excursion to truly foreign or wild places of the world. In truth, I rarely venture into conversations with strangers, preferring, or perhaps only having the courage to write in my journal or have one sided conversation with a master of fiction like Le Guin though a book… Maybe this is the case because I am obsessive. I obsesses with my work because I obsess with my impact on the world because I obsess with finding meaning with my life. Similarly, I’m obsessed with living a creative life and so when at all possible I write, it being my only creative skill save ideation or perhaps PowerPoint slide design if that could count. I don’t think I’m introverted, but this drives my deep into my own head, always brainstorming. So, I wander the streets – eyes feasting, legs exalting, and mind always half there and half elsewhere. In that state, I found myself at your pub.”
I realized I was in a trance-like state delivering this monologue to a man who only wanted to know what drink to serve me. I blushed with embarrassment, but the barkeep had donned another huge grin.
“I know just the thing, my friend,” he said. “One moment, please.”
He bent down, disappearing behind the bar. I leaned forward to see him lifting a hatch on the floor, revealing a ladder to a dark cellar. He scurried down it with surprising dexterity for an old man. After a minute, he emerged with a strange bottle. It was small and brown, yet looked crystalline like an exquisite decanter but with a pattern more fractal than Euclidean. The loosened cork gave off that aery pop that actives the salivary glands of whiskey lovers. He didn’t need to say aloud that he was pouring a special dram. Its beauty, and his infectious grin – which I now wore – communicated the whiskey’s rarity and that minor bond we’d share after I’d drinken it.
“I made this, I think it would have been before you were born,” the barkeep sang.
I could think of little else as he poured a generous two fingers of the golden-brown draught into my glass. Giddy, I brought the glass to my nose and inhaled the aroma. I’d never smelled anything like it. I closed my eyes and I was in an olfactory world. It was as if I’d flown over a great peat bog into a dense old forest with ripening fruits never discovered. Then, and ethereal smoke filled my nose and eyes. I took a cautious sip that turned into a hearty drink. I wont describe the flavor, save to say it was more complex and scintillating than the smell – and tasted of honey.
The red man, perhaps the most humble yet finest distiller I’d ever met, had poured himself a dram, too. He finally asked “What is your name?”
“Nate,” I said. That was a much easier question which is good because I was still in a bit of hedonic shock.
He raised him glass and said “sláinte.” I responded with the name and our glasses and eyes clinked. We drank.
“Not bad, eh? Especially that I usually make wine.”
I nodded feverishly and was already feeling drunk. “It’s… I’m ecstatic. Unlike anything.” I remembered my manners and asked, “Friend, what is your name?”
“Call me Dion.”
If you’ve seen Alice in Wonderland and in particular recall the Cheshire Cat, you’ll have a vague empathy for what began to happen. Dion’s white teeth became the focal point as my world began to brighten and rotate and melt. I grinned like a madman and finished my dram.
What proceeded – that of which I can recall – was a wonderful animalistic blur. I had another dram, this time with every man in the pub linked at the shoulder arm-in-arm cheering and grinning like a flock of crows. In what seems like a flash, Dion and I were in the moonlight streets of Dublin. Though I had no Earthly idea as to my precise location, I felt like a hyena prowling and cackling in its pack. Like wolves we howled at the moon and like dogs made quick friends only to unceremoniously abandon then. I forget – if “forget” is the right world for the state I was in – more than I think I remember. But, one thing I remember clear as the day is bright. Among our posse of friends I pranced and prowled through the streets with, one, besides that damn grinning red haired man, remained with us.
He was generally quiet and introspective. Melancholy and scholarly in measure, too. To me, he seemed absent minded and at times disinterested unless a topic piqued his interest, like esoteric tales of cosmic horror or technology’s deep promise. In our escapades we became compatriots, even brothers, and could have kept each other in happy company for an age except for the occasional grinding moment of him forgetting something important or obsessing on something trivial. When we were together, I was jovial and my heart was warm, but I felt off. Like I wasn’t quite myself. The three of us, and sometimes with other men, beasts, and odd procession of chimera and spirits (not as strange to me then at now in strained recollection) ruled the city for what felt like an epoch of lunacy.
We were in what must be St. Stephen’s Green when the sun began to yawn sheets of pink morning light. Dion grew serious, grabbing both myself and our third companion – who, at just this moment I realized looked identical to me – by the shoulders.
“Embrace or part, and be happy with your decision.” Dion said, looking straight into my eyes. I think they were my eyes.
I understood, and looked to my companion, the me-that-I-might’ve-wanted-to-change. With little hesitation we – me and myself – hugged like brothers-in-arms. Our gristly flesh and bones seemed to liquify and swirl together before I passed out.
I woke up in the grass of the park, felling more content, more complete than in recent memory. I sat up, gratefully found the pen and notebook I always carried, and wrote what I recall of that wild night in Dublin.
