He stepped into heaven. Or as close as he’d ever imagined while still walking upon this mortal Earth.
Bad boys don’t go to Heaven, Raymond Chandler! He could hear Mam’s favorite saying. He’d prove her wrong yet.
This moment was all prearranged, of course, but he pulled into the reserved spot directly in front of the Twin Lights Pub as if he’d randomly pulled off the road in his Ford Ranger. Not a tough-guy, I-own-the-freaking-road black F-150 or Dodge Ram designed to terrorize normal drivers on New England’s narrow, twisted streets. But neither was it some suburban sedan, and definitely not imported.
Hitting the right tone was key in creating television shows. Don’t stiffen up, be yourself. His producer Shari had beat those words into his head until they’d become his own mantra.
For the television videographer pre-positioned for his arrival, he’d look like just an average Joe. Driving into the seaside town of Gloucester, Massachusetts in a three-year-old deep-red pickup to park in front of a pub on a sunny June afternoon. He resisted grinning over at Shari as she hovered close behind the camera position.
She’d picked the truck’s color because it popped on video when parked near the inevitable forest green and dark wood that defined so many pub exteriors—especially the Irish ones he intended to highlight as much as the television network would let him.
Shari and the camerawoman slipped in behind him.
The first thing was the smell: they’d nailed it. Not stale beer, of course. But the air in most American-built pubs tasted sterile. No character. No life. The Twin Lights smelled of the hops that hung from the old wood beams, of generous plates of steaming food. Of home. A good pub was Ray’s favorite place in the world.
The owner had decorated in classic Irish style, right down to the painted board of a flagon of beer glowing between two shining lighthouses, which dangled above the entry door. Inside it sported comfortable booths, plenty of tables for groups both big and small, and a corner stage for three-nights-a-week bands. Twinkle lights added to the homey touch.
About twenty patrons were seated at the bar and three tables clustered together in the otherwise empty pub. They were enough for the place to look packed from the right angles and add to the general burbles of conversation that marked a friendly pub, without creating any problems for the filming. Being friends-of, they would also be his casual interview subjects.
“Mr. O’Connor?” He greeted the portly gentleman wiping down the bar—for probably the fiftieth time in anticipation of their scheduled arrival. “I’m Ray Chandler. I heard that you have the best Irish pub ’round these parts.”
“Best north”—pronounced nawth—“of Boston ’til you cross the wide Atlantic. Welcome to Gloucester,” pronounced Glosta. “And call me Mike.” They clasped hands over the bar as Ray slid onto a stool.
The place was perfect. Gloucester was America’s first seaport and dated back over four hundred years. Still small enough to feel friendly. How to make it relatable? Twice the size of MIT’s student body? No, too elitest, Ray. Those folks aren’t your target audience if you want broad appeal. “So, Mike, what made you open a pub in a town that’s a chunk smaller than the student body of BU?” Boston University had been his own alma mater, but Mam never let him forget his sister getting into MIT where both of their first-gen-immigrant parents were professors. He’d always been the black sheep.
They chatted over the attractions of small towns for a bit.
“That’s quite a collection, Mike.” Ray pointed at the wall Shari had already briefed him on from a prior scouting mission. It was covered with hundreds of beer coasters, perhaps thousands—without a single repeat that he could spot. There were plenty in Gaelic, but Shari’s research said the collection came from over ninety countries and covered sixty-five languages.
“Every one of them are Irish pubs, Ray,” his lifelong Gloucesterman accent shifted from North (Nawth) Shore, Mass., to Irish with pride. And the man relaxed as he started talking about something so familiar. “If we’re missing one from Ireland herself, it’s not for lack of trying.”
Ray stayed attentive as Mike pointed out a few favorites that patrons had collected and brought back from various travels.
“The Irish Pub in Nepal, that’s the most remote one there is by most reckoning, along the trekking route to Everest. The Dublin is a common last stop before leaving Tierra del Fuego for the Antarctic ice. There’s Uganda, Cambodia, and Dessie O’Dowds is up to the top of Western Australia. Not much else there except crocodiles and red sand. Fetched that one myself.”
Mike tossed Ray one from the bar. “Here’s ours for your own collection.”
“Now that’s a beauty.” He held it up for the camera to get a good look, not speaking for long enough that they could cut the zoom in and zoom out without any sound problems. Yellow lettering on a kelly-green background. Around the rim, it read, The best beer is the one you drink with friends. Twin Lights Pub, Glosta, Mass. The central graphic showed the towering twin lighthouses of Thacher Island. On the back, a simple bit of history: The Twin Lights. Built in 1771, rebuilt in 1861. They mark the end of an Atlantic crossing for ship captains. When you reach the twin lights, turn due south for Boston. When you reach the Twin Lights pub, turn in at the door and you’re home.
Ray thumped a fist against the center of his chest. “You got me right in the heart, Mike. Right in the heart.” He made a show of tucking it carefully in his shirt pocket. Off the rack, light blue, one button open.
Ray added that dream of his own Irish pub collection. Not in mere coasters but rather growing into such a media sensation that he’d be paid to travel to the world’s most remote pubs. He filed that idea away to discuss with Shari as he prompted Mike for more of the pub’s background and origins. Most of it wouldn’t make it into the show, but that wasn’t the point. He let his own Irish gift o’ the gab prepare the opening of other doors.
Ignoring the camera and the woman behind it, yet leaving the best angles open for it, had been drilled into him by Shari during unending practice until it became second nature. His producer was tough. Shari stayed in the background, but she was the one who had found him. He’d been hustling as a sous chef at The Dubliner, the best Irish pub in Boston. She’d convinced him there was a whole vast world beyond Boston that he’d never really considered, then trained him until he could pass the toughest test in the industry.
At Shari’s insistence, they’d started at the top and pitched to the largest food television network of them all. The actual owner of Cooks Network, Kate Stark, vetted every show personally. Five-ten, black Irish—fair-skin, jet black hair, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen—she ruled as the uncontested queen of the media-driven side of the food world. And somehow, without crapping his pants, they’d pitched the show to her.
Ms. Stark ran the craziest interview process.
He and Shari never even had a chance to sit down in her office. I watched your audition tape and read your prospectus and pitch, Kate had said as she rose and shook their hands. Nice enough. Let’s go. This is Rikka, ignore her if you can. Something I’ve never managed. She’d waved a negligent hand at a tiny slip of a Japanese woman holding a camera far too big for her and an even bigger smile that could only be read as evil.
Without any other explanation, Ms. Stark had led them from her skyscraper office in Rockefeller Plaza in the heart of Manhattan, out onto the New York streets and a block south to the Pig ‘N’ Whistle. It’s a casual place. I didn’t give them any warning. Her idea of casual needed a serious downgrade. Even his former job at The Dubliner in the core of Boston’s financial district looked closer to a dive bar than this upscale watering hole of the city’s broadcast elite.
They’d called out Kate’s name in greeting as she stepped in. Hey, Clive. I haven’t had lunch; would love a bowl of your stew. And would you mind showing Ray here what you do? Kate Stark sat at the bar, ordered a pint, and spoke directly to him for the last time. One tip: it’s not about you. Make them look good. You have until I finish lunch to capture enough film for a solid fifteen-minute spot.
He and Shari hadn’t traded a panicked look, no matter how much they’d felt it; there just wasn’t time. He’d plunged in. Shari orchestrated everything, including getting interview releases from some patrons also dining at the bar by the time he’d left the kitchen. Through some form of voodoo magic, the little camerawoman had always been precisely where he needed her.
