I once heard that Kansas City has the third largest St. Patrick's Day celebration in the United States, right behind Chicago and Boston. A two-hour long parade flows through the streets of downtown, Westport shuts its streets down to let drunken St. Patty Day celebrators roam through their streets freely, and offices are suspiciously empty.
Tom, Baikie, and Jacob plan our St. Patrick's Day months in advance. (We were also fortunate to have our very own, 100% true Irishman help plan the festivities as Niall made the trip in from Seattle.) Our St. Patrick's Day was set. They all take March 17th as a vacation day, opting to skip the parade (since it has become the site for muggings and murders in recent years) and head straight to Gilhouly's on 39th Street, our favorite Irish pub. Gilhouly's is rumored to be owned by the KC mafia, and the bartenders are supposedly strippers from the owner's strip club. This was our third St. Patty's Day spent at Gilhouly's, and the first without Frank, our favorite karaoke Frank Sinatra/Wayne Newton-esque singer, who is apparently touring California. Much to Baikie's disappointment.
Regardless of the day, any night at Gilhouly's ends in chaos.
I worked late Friday, so I didn't have a chance to catch a ride with anyone. I decided to take a taxi so that I wouldn't have to mess with finding a parking spot or hitting one of the midtown's sobriety checkpoints. I had only been standing outside of my apartment building for a couple of minutes when a cab stopped at the light. I flagged it down, unable to see that it had a lone occupant in the backseat. After the cab driver inquired as to where I was headed and a harried discussion between the driver and the occupant, the driver indicated that the other person was willing to share the cab with me. Not really sure how to say no at the prospect of sharing a cab with a stranger, I hopped into the back.
The other occupant was a guy in his late-30s with crazy hair, wearing a backwards baseball cap and sunglasses. His hair and clothes were so dark he blended into the leather of the cab, and I could barely make him out in the dark. He nodded at me, then continued fiddling with his cell phone. The driver said "Like I said, you guys really aren't headed in the same direction. Which one of you should I drop off first?" The guy in the back indicated that I was to be let out first.
There's something vaguely uncomfortable about sitting in the dark in such close quarters with a complete stranger. Situations like this turn me into a total motor mouth, so I inquired as to how his St. Patrick's Day was going. He recounted this strange story involving a broken down car, his niece, and a hot date. To which I could only smile and nod my head. Fortunately, the cab ride lasted about five minutes. When we pulled up in front of Gilhouly's, I went to pay for the cab. The guy leaned over, patted my hand, and said "It's okay, honey, this is on me. Enjoy your St. Patrick's Day."
Feeling like a total boob, I told him that if he ended up back in the neighborhood, I'd buy him a beer. Thinking this would never happen because he was headed about 30 blocks east of Gilhouly's.
I found my friends, most everyone already tipsy. Since no Frank was in the state, Gilhouly's had hired a DJ who was playing hip-hop and rock songs from the early 90s. A total throw-back to junior high dances. After an hour or so of drinking, everyone was getting a little crazy on the dance floor. Niall and Pete (who reminds me so much of Murdoch from the A*Team it hurts a little) were doing some crazy dance maneuvers when Pete happened to push Niall into some man, upon which Niall dumped his beer. Niall, in his thick Irish accent slurred by one too many Fat Tires, apologized and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. Niall offered to buy him a beer at the same time the man growled "Get your hands off of me, man." Niall immediately withdrew his hand, muttering more apologies. As the man headed out the door, he slipped on a PAIR OF BRASS KNUCKLES. Brass knuckles. Like we're in Scarface or something, about to get into a bar brawl with a bunch of drunken patrons wearing T-shirts that say "Kiss Me, I'm Irish".
Turns out Brass Knuckles Guy was my cab partner, coming to collect his beer. He had traded his backwards baseball cap for a fedora.
He was gone from the bar for a couple minutes, upon which he re-entered and took up post five feet from where I was sitting. He stood there for maybe 20 minutes, until my crazy friends left me to dance to some AC/DC. Brass Knuckles/Cab Guy then came over and shook my hand. I checked for the brass knuckles, but he had apparently slipped them out of sight. Jumping up, I headed to the bar to buy him his beer (bottle of Budweiser). As I stood at the bar, a fat man named Wallace Walsh felt me up. Fortunately, Niall came over and felt the other side of me up, so at least my equilibrium was returned.
I took the Budweiser back to Brass Knuckles, and made the obligatory I-shared-a-cab-with-you-and-then-you-drove-60-blocks-out-of-your-way-to-come-back-for-a-beer-but-only-after-you-tried-to-kill-my-friends-with-your-loaded-knuckles small talk. To which Tom stood watching the entire time, arms crossed in that You-pulled-brass-knuckles-on-my-friends-and-now-you're-talking-to-Megs stanze that only Tom can pull off. I was able to detach myself several uncomfortable minutes later.
And that is a long-winded explanation as to why I won't be sharing a cab with a random person in Kansas City anytime soon.
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