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 Holly Winter Living The Life Of Holly Mar 25, 2003 Well. It all started with a four hour drive to the other side of Denver. I know. I know. I didn’t think that Denver was that big either. We did finally eat, at about nine o’clock, roughly about the time I was due to be home in bed. I know. I know. I am an early bed wimp, even on St. Patrick’s Day. Shelby, Walt and I each thought that the other knew where the band was playing. Um. No. But perhaps finding the band was going to be part of the adventure. Ok. Fine. The first bar we hit to hear Ivan’s twenty piece bagpipe band was in the Tech Center. It was an upscale business place filled with business people in business suits who had been drinking business drinks since the close of business. The whole place was joined in a mega high-five cheer that spun from one end of the bar to the other and then back again like some re-occurring wave at a baseball game. There were loud drinking games and green shirts and goofy green hats and there were some sparkly green boas and lots of blinking beer buttons, one of which Shelby found on the floor and Walt fixed to my shirt which seemed to draw the attention of many men around me. I don’t know why except for the fact that it had a red flashing light. Perhaps that light had less to do with advertising beer and more to do with advertising something else? The bagpipe band dramatically swept in and the bagpipes blared and the drums beat and the dancers jumped around and the audience was charmed. Our Ivan’s face got redder than his kilt as he bagpiped, although he may have been distracted by the group of women who were wildly debating something while staring at his sexy legs. If men knew how much attention Ivan got for volunteering to bagpipe around Denver, they would all be wearing skirts too. His band was playing thirty eight gigs in three days and we were there to support his last two jobs, and buy him drinks. They finished their songs in record time and downed cold ones as they scanned the bar hoping for a quick phone number from some willing bagpipe loving babe. No such luck. We bid our dear friend farewell, promising that there was an end to his musical weekend, and that we would beat him to the next place, as he had to wait for his band to fill the bus and we had to simply jet there in the car. We were sort of sorry when we did find the last bar as it was quite a contrast to the nice place we had just left. I had an instant admirer the moment I walked in. Even his tattoo shivered in recognition of our assured compatibility, which made me grab Walt around the shoulder and pledge my undying affection for his bodyguard-ship, which he reluctantly agreed to in an “Always the bodyguard, never the boyfriend” kind of attitude. Shelby mistakenly said something to my admirer, which made him think that I wanted his attention, and he splashed my drink down the front of me during our crushing bear hug. Luckily for me he withheld the kiss that he really wanted to plant on my lips, because he didn’t want to insult Walt. Yeah. I know. Didn’t want to insult Walt. The bar itself was a far step from the upscale eatery we had just exited. Imagine a VFW type club filled with bikers and entertained by a polka type band that was abusing guitars and violins by strumming them to fake Irish ballads. Really. They had to be fake. Nobody would have made up Irish ballads like that. Really. Not even someone without talent could imagine songs like these. And. The scariest part of all was that the bikers were happily clapping along to the music and nodding their heads as if trashy music was just what they were hoping for that evening. I had to pinch myself. No. Not because I was worried that I was dreaming. I was trying to keep from laughing. You don’t want to laugh in the face of people who think there might be talent present. That would be rude. I had to hurt myself to remove any possibility of laughter from my mind. No giggling. And. I had to remind myself over and over again. We were not there for laughing. We were there for friendship. Friendship. Not ballads. No giggling. Friendship. I started searching for Ivan. Maybe he could depress me. The bagpipers gave the polka-Irish band a break, which meant that I could stop pinching my inner arm before I started bruising. The rapt audience kept swaying and clapping as the bagpipes played a slow number and I wondered if they would fall over if the song suddenly stopped in the middle. Wouldn’t that be funny? But. No kidding. The joke was on us. Cause we paid three dollars to get into this bar to support Ivan in playing his last gig, and he decided that he would rather hang out with us than bagpipe. So he hovered on a stool at the back of the bar and supported the band by mostly ignoring their every tune. I only had one concern. “Um. Ivan. When you wear a kilt…” “Yes?” “Knees together.” I whispered. “Oh yeah.” He said, responding instantly. “I always forget that.” “Don’t you ever forget that.” Shelby admonished. “Gross on a guy.” Walt added. His favorite honey of a dancer did flit her way over for a goodnight hug, which was a huge disappointment to poor Ivan who had been hoping for a phone number, or at least a back rub, but got nothing else. “Maybe she would have liked you more if you had played the last songs.” I said. “She looked mean.” Walt said. “Is she still in high school?” Shelby asked. But there was a woman in little more than a green feather boa circling Ivan. Clearly she had an interest in traditional Irish music. “Hey.” I said, noticing the bit of color on the boa. “She would match your kilt...” Shelby, ever the practical one had a different comment. “I think she’s your type. She likes costumes.” About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com ------------ Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
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