The Closing of the Pub:

A Poem by Adam Wendorff

A short story dedicated to honoring the beauty of compassion and selfless love.

Adam Wendorff

Fiction Workshop

Story #2

The Closing of the Pub: A Memoir of Humanity

“May you have warm words on a cold evening, full moon on a dark night, and the road downhill to your door” – Irish Proverb

There was a place, beyond the horizon, where laughter filled the air, and conversation flowed as freely as the beer. A haven for humanity, the pub embraced the tradition of friendship, compassion, and loyalty. It welcomed people from all walks of life, all schools of ethnic and religious heritage, all levels of financial and achievement success, and every other category one could possibly imagine. It gave people the chance to escape the pressures of our fast paced society and truly bond and help one another. This, of course, was all true until the pub was demolished on a Sunday afternoon and turned into a vacant lot.

I’ll never forget the time we held a fundraiser for a family desperately struggling to support themselves, after quitting their jobs to take care of their six year old son fighting cancer. It was on a frigid winter evening in January; one of those days where the roads were too poor to drive and the snow fell too rapidly for the plows to keep pace with. That didn’t stop us from coming together, however, as by dusk the pub was packed as tightly as the glistening snow outside. Light flickered from candles placed around the bar, and people conversed by the warmth of a fire fueled by hope for a miracle. The cooks frantically prepared a cornucopia of hot foods: corned beef and cabbage, fish and chips, sausage and pudding, and potato pancakes in metric tons. The pub was providing a complimentary hot plate for those who came to support the boy and his family’s struggle. The bartenders worked as a well oiled machine, pouring a seemingly never-ending supply of stout and ale for a crowded mass of thirsty customers. The playful sound of the ukulele and folk music raised the spirits as we laughed together, making small talk and enjoying our frothy pints.

That was until the heavy wooden door opened, and into the pub walked Oscar’s parents. I’ll never forget the image of that family as they stood in the foyer and brushed the snow from their clothing. Oscar’s mother looked as if she had cried for her entire life, her eyes filled with pain, and desperation. But she remained strong, and forced herself to smile. Oscar’s father looked a bit nervous, perhaps a bit timid, as he removed his coat and placed it on a hanger. It soon became quiet and the music ceased. Oscar looked at the crowd of people, the bravest child I have ever met in my life, and gave a smile as he turned to his mother and said, “Mommy, are all these people here for me?”

“Yes Oscar” his mother replied as she began to sob, but soon stopped herself and grabbed his hand.

“Awesome!” Oscar said and he began to giggle. Oscar tugged on his mother’s arm and they made their way toward the crowd. He was a handsome child, with blue eyes and puffy cheeks. He was dressed in a pair of blue overalls with a white shirt underneath. Oscar’s father followed their lead and refused to make eye contact with anyone around him. Oscar turned to his father and said, “Hurry up slowpoke,” as he used his free hand to grab his father’s, and walked like a celebrity into the crowd.

The silence soon grew into a roar of laughter once more and the music started again. The blizzard outside could not cool the hearts of the crowded pub, as collection boxes were soon overflowing with bills and coins. I saw one of our regulars, a lawyer in his forties, place a thousand or more dollars into the collection box. Another woman approached the boy’s mother and they embraced in a long, beautiful hug in that way only mothers can. Oscar sat on a barstool like a king as he devoured an ice-cream cone and gave people hugs and hope. His eyes sparkled with courage, as we all wanted the chance to say hello and give him our thoughts and our hearts. The gathering lasted well into the night, until the family put their jackets on, turned to a now silent pub and bid the crowd farewell.

“I would like to thank you guys for coming together tonight to support our son” Oscar’s mother said as she began crying uncontrollably. After a long pause, the brave child continued for his mother by saying, “Yeah, thank you for helping my family. I love you!” His father built up enough courage to quietly say “thank you” as his family turned, opened the heavy wooden door, and walked into the night—together. That was all we heard from them for quite a while.

In mid-spring, the flowers were in full bloom after a long winter’s rest. The soft wind brushed the trees outside the pub’s large central window. Business carried on as usual, with a crowd of hungry patrons and thirsty regulars deep in debate and inquiry with one another. There was a rustling at the foyer, and the heavy wooden door slowly opened. Oscar hopped through the door and it almost instantly became silent. All eyes were fixed upon him as he threw his hands into the air, saying, “I’m all better!” and began cart-wheeling his way toward the bar. Oscar’s parents walked in behind him, holding each other’s hand as they followed their son’s lead. There was a roar of applause, and hugs, and tears, as the child’s parents delivered the news that his cancer had miraculously gone into remission, and they would soon be able to return to work. And in that moment, pausing from wiping the bar, my eyes filled with tears as I witnessed something truly beautiful.

I learned that humans can conquer even impossible odds when faced together with those dear to us. The pub, a sort of Arthurian and epicurean round table, taught us the value of sticking together, and the sheer beauty of selfless love. It has been years since the pub has been open, but a part of it remains with every one of us, now more than ever. A melting pot of cultural and spiritual celebration, the pub is now a vacant lot with cracks in the pavement and a large dumpster where the Victorian style infrastructure once stood. But the pub still remains in our hearts, as from its ruins one can still hear the roar of laughter, the flow of friendship, loyalty, and beer, and the sound of the heavy wooden door to our haven beyond the horizon. I reflect on this way of life often, as I have learned that the road always leads back home, even at night.