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Patrigan was not a bartender because he liked the job, but the result of him trying to solve a problem. Life’s cruel riddle to him, personally.
Jeb, his co-bartender and the primary source of his nightmares, was a part of the problem. Jeb had a scar that marred one half of his face — Patrigan had asked about it many times, but he still couldn’t squeeze the truth out of him — and was convinced that Patrigan was the funniest joke in the world. And Patrigan didn’t know whether or not Jeb approved of him. It made him want to prove himself to him, and the fact that Jeb had managed to make him feel that way was also part of the problem.
The regulars of the Silver Silver Tavern were mostly fishermen with heaving chests, wrapped in the smell of things from the Lake. They often left trails of water behind them when they walked in. Patrigan detested them — who did they think would have to clean up after they had left? The fishermen were ignorant and without stories, and that made Patrigan detest them more. How can they go out to the Lake, knowing they would come back and do the exact same thing the next day, until they were old and broken? And then they would sit in their rocking chair and reminisce on fishing days and bar nights until they died.
How? It was a question Patrigan asked every day.
He’d asked one of the fishermen who came to the counter — after, of course, concentrating entirely on making sure he’d gotten the mug of ale he asked for, straight from the barrel, because he needed something to stall the beginning of the conversation.
He was greatly displeased to hear: Foolish boy, why, I fish because I’m a fisherman.
Isn’t there anything else you want to do? Patrigan had pressed.
What else is there to do?
Patrigan wanted to know, too.
On one particular night, part of the problem was solved for him.
Patrigan was not a bartender because he liked the job, but the result of him trying to solve a problem. Life’s cruel riddle to him, personally.
Jeb, his co-bartender and the primary source of his nightmares, was a part of the problem. Jeb had a scar that marred one half of his face — Patrigan had asked about it many times, but he still couldn’t squeeze the truth out of him — and was convinced that Patrigan was the funniest joke in the world. And Patrigan didn’t know whether or not Jeb approved of him. It made him want to prove himself to him, and the fact that Jeb had managed to make him feel that way was also part of the problem.
The regulars of the Silver Silver Tavern were mostly fishermen with heaving chests, wrapped in the smell of things from the Lake. They often left trails of water behind them when they walked in. Patrigan detested them — who did they think would have to clean up after they had left? The fishermen were ignorant and without stories, and that made Patrigan detest them more. How can they go out to the Lake, knowing they would come back and do the exact same thing the next day, until they were old and broken? And then they would sit in their rocking chair and reminisce on fishing days and bar nights until they died.
How? It was a question Patrigan asked every day.
He’d asked one of the fishermen who came to the counter — after, of course, concentrating entirely on making sure he’d gotten the mug of ale he asked for, straight from the barrel, because he needed something to stall the beginning of the conversation.
He was greatly displeased to hear: Foolish boy, why, I fish because I’m a fisherman.
Isn’t there anything else you want to do? Patrigan had pressed.
What else is there to do?
Patrigan wanted to know, too.
On one particular night, part of the problem was solved for him.
