Tully’s Hour of Joy, Every Friday, 5:00 to 6:00 PM
As a dyed-in-the-wool Scot, Tully disapproved of lowering prices for any reason, even just a Friday afternoon “Happy Hour.” But being a good businessman with a sharp eye for profit, it did not escape his notice that his monthly margins always increased dramatically whenever he did break down and lower the prices for that one, end-of-the-week hour.
So he gritted his teeth and made the Friday Happy Hour, from 5:00 to 6:00 PM, a regular feature of his business. He refused to go so far, however, as to call it “Happy Hour.” That was too common. Instead, he called it “Tully’s Hour of Joy.”
Despite his grumbling, it was a big hit—crowds swarmed in every Friday after work, creating enough warmth and commotion to de-fang the cold-blooded, reptilian Seattle climate. Nor did the abundance of high-quality Scotch that was Tully’s specialty, hurt at all.
For those readers with a personal or professional interest in Tully’s personal quirks—and who doesn’t have at least a few?—we could say that his stony Highland frugality was joined with other peculiarities, by which we mean that “happy” wasn’t exactly a word that one would normally apply to Tully. Hence, no “Happy Hour.” There was always an underlying edge of dourness that emanated from Tully, no matter how much he joked around. Was he boisterous? Definitely. Volatile? To be sure. He was even joyous, especially when it came to boasting about the beauty of Gaelic poetry, or demonstrating the superior lyrics and melodies of pipes and pipers. But happy? Not so much.
Owl Man’s theory was that this dour quality derived from the ancient roots of Celtic culture—the prevalence of swampy moors, cold winds and a virtually eternal overcast. When Owl Man read that the old Celts went naked into battle against the invading Roman armies—freezing weather or not—Tully began to make more sense to him. In fact, Owl Man began to make more sense to himself! No wonder! he thought.
Nevertheless, and despite these caveats, Tully’s heart swelled with gladness when he saw his old friend Owl Man walk through the door at 5:00 PM sharp—for, happy or dour, no one could accuse Tully of not having a big heart. When Heron Man arrived two minutes later, Tully’s greeting was only slightly more subdued. First Owl Man, then Heron Man—those were the priorities. Owl Man was a full-blooded Scot, with a pedigreed lineage, whereas Heron Man was just a Scotch-Irish-Welsh mixture—Celtic yes, but no family crest, no famous ancestors—a rung or two down the cultural ladder. But Tully warmly welcomed both of them.
“Welcome, Mr. Owl, my old friend! And a good, good evenin’ to you, Mr. Heron! Come in, come in. I’ve got some new specials if you’re hankerin’ for something in the thirty-year range.”
“Now what castle did ye have to storm to lay your hands on that cask, Tulls?”
“Oh, nothing like that, Owl, nothing like that. No, I just got a personal contact in Glasgow. New supplier. Knows all the heads of the clans. He can get me anything I want, and ye wouldn’t believe the special prices he quotes me. It’s like robbin’ a bank, I’ll tell ye!”
Owl Man knew full well that Jasmine, who was on duty tonight, would be swamped with customers yelling for more rounds of Macallan or Glenfiddich and what have you—trying to impress their secretaries or bosses by ordering the most expensive single malts—so he wasn’t about to interrupt her. Nor was Tully about to bring up her name, because Jasmine was Tully’s version of a “cash cow,” so he couldn’t afford to lessen his profits by drawing her to Owl Man’s attention. Plenty of time for the lovebirds later on, he calculated, with a tinge of regret.
Heron Man found a quiet table in the back, away from the noisy crowd. He and Owl Man settled in for a talk, although their topics were not exactly laid out in advance. They never were, in fact. What ever needed to be discussed would come up.
When their Scotch came, it was brought by “Mitsy,” who was about 4’11” and in several respects resembled Dolly Parton.
“There you go, gents, can I get you anything else?”
“No, thank you, Mitsy, we’re fine. Thanks so much,” said Heron Man. Then, as she bustled away, he turned to Owl Man and said, “Is it me, or does she resemble Dolly Parton?”
“No. Dolly. Definitely,” said Owl Man.
Two simultaneous sips of the aged spirits sent clouds of bliss swirling through the brains and bodies of the two writers.
“Mmmm. It’s like “clouds of glory,” opined Owl Man.
“I definitely concur,” said Heron Man.
A few sips and minutes passed, then a cloud passed briefly over Owl Man’s face. Not a cumulo-nimbus, exactly, more like a high-altitude horsetail, a streak overhead, but foretelling more pending weather.
“Heron Man, I’d like to thank you for meeting me here tonight.”
“Well, you know it’s my pleasure, Owl Man. We haven’t spoken in quite a while.”
“Yes, I’ve been—preoccupied.”
“Oh? That’s new,” said Heron Man, joking.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard about my recent conversation with Helen.”
“No, I haven’t. Did she call you?”
“Well, not exactly. I called her.”
“Oh, really? That’s a switch. May I ask what your conversation was about?”
“That’s why I wanted to meet you tonight. And what better way than with some of Tully’s 30-year-old Scotch?”
“Ambrosia, certainly,” said Heron Man. “Why did you contact Helen? Not that there’s any reason why you couldn’t, of course.”
“Well, there have been recent developments with Fex, who has taken it upon himself to teach me how to write at a ‘lower, more common’ level, or so he says.”
“That sounds interesting. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is … the problem is … that despite Fex’s active imagination, and Helen’s exquisite “musing” assistance, I still can’t write.”
“What does Jasmine say?” said Heron Man.
“She says that ‘it’ will come when “it’s” ready.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes, it does, except that ‘it’ doesn’t seem to want to come.”
“Excuse me, Owl Man, but is this perhaps your old dour Scottish nature showing its gnarly face? Do you really think that you will never be able to write again?”
“No, no, of course not, no, no, no. Well, actually, I’m starting to wonder.”
“Have another sip of this 30-year Macallan, Owl Man,” said Heron Man.
“Good idea,” said Owl Man, and he took a long, slow sip of the aromatic, vaporous liquid. “Mmmm. Bless Tully’s big Celtic heart.”
“Cheers,” said Heron Man, and they toasted again and again, several more times — to Tully, to Jasmine, even to Fex.
As the magic Macallan worked its wonders, Owl Man’s dilemma began to subside, and the two old friends began telling jokes. Soon enough they were laughing out loud.
Mitzy glanced their way at one point, and smiled.