The hairy, the beautiful, the other, nuts and hippies

Imagine me working behind the bar at Sound of Mu. It was a kind of quiet night at first, with people coming and going (it got busy later). There were maybe two tables occupied, when a hairy guy I’ve definitely met before a few times (one of the drunks usually found at Cacadou?) came in the door, stood at the bar counter and stared at me. He was focusing on me in particular, not seeming interested in the alcohol on offer. I wondered if he was stoned, but his eyes seemed ok. “Ingen ting?” (“nothing?”) I ventured to ask.
“Oh, I was waiting for you to speak,” he said in English, obviously knowing who I am, “You don’t like to serve?”
Unsure about what he meant by “serve”, I asked, “Do you want something to drink?”
“No” he said dismissively, and left. I’m sure I’ll see him again (it’s a small city).

A drinking location of a Saturday night (Cacadou, in fact). I was at the bar getting a round in when this absurdly beautiful blonde sitting at the bar says “Hello Barry” and I hadn’t a clue who she was, not even when she told me her name. Surely I’d remember someone that stunning? It took a while for it to dawn on me who she was, and then I realized it was someone I’d met before and had even been in touch with a few times since. You see, I remembered her as good looking but not as amazing as she actually was in reality (what the hell was wrong with me?). I decided to tell her as much. Wouldn’t you?
I was in a supermarket, looking at some sausages, when my phone rang.
“Hello, is this Barry?”
“Are you the Barry who knows Robin? Do you know someone called Robin?”
“It must be the other Barry then.”
There’s another Barry? Here!?
I heard from someone that a fistful of cashew nuts a day has the same anti-depressant effect as the active ingredient in prozac. Now imagine this scenario. A depressed young man buys food in a supermarket, including cashew nuts, but accidentally leaves the cashew nuts behind and doesn’t realize it until he is at home in his kitchen. If he’s really depressed he wouldn’t be bothered to go back to get the nuts, would he? It would seem like a painful trek and maybe he’d even have to speak to someone to explain his mistake. Too much of a drain, if you’re feeling weak and worthless. But if he gets it together to go back to the supermarket to get the cashew nuts, doesn’t that show that he isn’t hopelessly depressed? So if he needs the anti-depressant nuts he won’t get them, and if he gets them, he doesn’t need them.
There was this musical performance in Sound of Mu during the week, and afterwards an Icelandic girl, who was the sort of vocalist, approached me afterwards to ask me for an objective opinion on the music of her 9-piece ensemble.
“Well, it’s hippy music, isn’t it?” I said.
She seemed shocked and surprised by my answer and seemed totally unaware of the hippy-ness of: long hair with rats’ tails, neckerchiefs, oversized hats, lyric-less chanting, relentless djembe… and flute solos. Do you know what I mean?

Barry Kavanagh writes fiction, and has made music, formerly with Dacianos.

Contact him here.