“Excuse me, does Tom Boyle come to this bar? ” she inquired to the barkeeper.
“Tom Boyle?”
“I am sorry Ma’am but Tom Boyle passed a couple of weeks ago,” he says.
“He passed?” she responded startled. “Oh, no.”
He looked at her quietly, but now he seemed puzzled.
“You know maybe it wasn’t Tom Boyle after all who passed, but it was definitely someone named Tom.”
“Just forget what I said.” He said.
She nods and stumbles out of the bar.
Ahhh, the things you hear at an Irish pub.
I came in for a quick pint. An hour later, I am still there nursing my Guinness chatting with the barkeep.
I don’t even like Guiness, but to drink anything else while sitting in a bar in Dublin seems like sacrilege.
“To Tom Boyle, or someone named Tom!”
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