Short stories, screenplays & other things.
The Shamrock
The Shamrock

The Shamrock

Night was settling over the Shamrock Bar, a hidden gem tucked away in the dimly lit streets of the San Fernando Valley. Surrounded by nondescript strip malls and aging apartment complexes, it lay secluded, its only neighbor an alley that bore silent witness to shadowy dealings at a run-down car wash.

It was just past 9:30 pm. The regulars, fixtures as much as the furniture, lined the bar, while only two booths dared to punctuate the room’s quietude.

In the booth under the flickering neon sign’s sporadic illumination, two women from a more affluent corner of the Valley were lost in a sea of gossip about friends and fleeting fancies. They were tourists in this world of dim lights and spilled secrets, soon to drift away to more familiar, upscale haunts.

In the other booth, cloaked in the bar’s deepest shadows, sat Timothy, a young man in his late twenties. He was a silent tableau of loneliness: a phone lying idle, shot glasses standing as monuments to attempts at forgetting, and a tallboy of Schlitz — his father’s drink, a legacy in liquid form. This bar, with its Midwestern heart beating in the West, was Timothy’s haven, a dim lighthouse guiding him through the fog of his own thoughts.

The bar itself was a stage for its own cast of characters. Johnny, a veteran with stories etched into his lined face, nursed a Pabst Blue Ribbon. He was part of the furniture, his presence as constant as the baseball games flickering on the old TV, its yellowed casing a testament to bygone days.

The Shamrock. A short story by Cliff Robinson. The bar's interior.

A few stools down, a young man drowned his thoughts in Jameson, seeking solace in Mike, the bartender’s occasional nods and murmurs. And at the bar’s end, two women, weathered yet spirited, sipped their drinks, their laughter a melody of past escapades and present mirth.

For Timothy, the mere act of stepping into the Shamrock was a ritual, its musty, spirit-soaked air a time portal to his childhood, waiting for his father in a similar bar, devoid of the smoke but heavy with unspoken stories.

Yet, beneath this semblance of comfort was a deeper truth, a silent acknowledgment. In this place, Timothy could vanish, his struggles and secrets dissolving into the bar’s dim corners.

As the evening wore on, Timothy, usually a silent observer, found himself drawn to Johnny. Their interaction was a delicate dance of chance and timing, a fragile bridge between generations and experiences.

Their conversation, a blend of baseball lore and light-hearted banter, momentarily shattered the bar’s usual stillness. But as the night stretched on, a stark text message snapped Timothy back to reality. His plans to reveal his true self to a friend were dashed, leaving him adrift in a sea of unspoken truths and unshared confidences.

Each shot glass he emptied was a testament to his solitude, a silent cry in a room full of people. The night, meant to be a turning point, folded into itself, leaving Timothy to retreat once more into the shadows of his favorite booth, the weight of his unshared truth heavier than ever.

As he made his way to the door, the familiar faces of the bar blurred into a tableau of lives intersecting yet never truly connecting. The Shamrock, with its layers of stories and secrets, stood witness to yet another unspoken narrative, cradling Timothy’s untold story within its walls.


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