The Running With The Bulls By James Cooper

The Running of the Bulls

By James Cooper

 

They were the young bulls, eager to head east and test their worth as men. The wisdom of old Bulls wasn’t even imagined as the four rode to ‘the end’ in JJ’s Jeep Wrangler.   Coop and Glowbrows sat in the back seat with their outside arms wrapped around the roll bar. They were numb from the booming bass of the sub-woofer underneath by the time they arrived in Montauk.                                                                                                                                      “We need a bottle to pregame,” declared Gordo from the passenger seat.  “Jimmy, you’re the biggest, you go.”                                                                                                                                          “No way Steve, not with this baby face,” Coop replied.  They were the closest of the four friends, always using one another’s first names.                                                                                                  “You go Gordo, you’re a small George Michael with that scruff,” JJ said from the driver’s seat.                                                                                                                                                  “That’s funny stuff from the female Andy Garcia, Gordo said before conceding.

 

They started the night with much ado about nothing, basking in the splendor of a beach fire, sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort. “Ugh this stuff is hot garbage,” JJ said, passing the amber colored spirit to Gordo.                                                                                                                          “What’s good enough for Janis Joplin is good enough for ME,” he said, before taking another long pull on the bottle. “OooWHOA, that’s some illen gasoline!” Gordo cried, as all his good looks seemed to drain from his face, leaving behind an ugly grimace.                                                                                     “Gordo, you OK?  You look constipated dude.”                                                                          “I’m ok GLOW, walk in front when we go to the bar?  Your brows can light our way like Rudolph and his shiny nose.”                                                                                                      “Looks like Gordo has the liquid courage,” JJ whispered to Coop.                                                                                                                                           “Oh Glow with your brows so bright, won’t you guide us to the Old Shebeen tonight?” Gordo sang with glee.  Glow was turning an angry red as Coop turned to JJ, nodding emphatically in agreement before bursting into laughter.

 

There was a small line outside the Shebeen as the bouncer sat on a stool checking ID’s and chain smoking cigarettes. “Ugh, my ID sucks, “JJ said to Coop.                                                     “Relax bro, that guy’s from the Emerald Isle; he won’t know your ID is fake.”   Just then, everyone heard the sound of breaking glass and the eruption of an alarming din inside.                             “Ahhhh Bee’Jaaysus, are yih serious,” the bouncer said, leaping off his stool.  In no time at all, a disheveled guy came flying headlong out the door, landing in a heap.  “Go away outta that, yuur a feckin buckled eejit!”

Once inside it was like stepping into an authentic Irish pub.  The speaking was ‘Dublinese’, a dialect that blended colorful phrases, underworld slang, and even imports fromU.S.television to form the ‘colloquial language’. “Do we need a passport?” Glow said, in amazement as the friends made their way through the crowd.  It was plain to see thatEast Endhad long reaching fingers of attraction, welcoming the Irish for the summer. They were the waiters, chambermaids, store clerks, and cooks; jobs created by the growing influx of vacationers to ‘The End’.  The Irish worked hard to play hard, dancing, fighting, and drinking room-temperature pints of ‘The Black Stuff’.  “Jimmy, I just love me some Irish girls,” Gordo said, as he sauntered into a group of dancing girls.  Coop took the opportunity to slip away, shaking his head as he went, unnoticed.

“Look at Steve man; he’s bumbling into everyone out there.  I had to eject before the crash and burn.” He said to Glow after finding him sitting at a table on the edge of the dance floor, enjoying a beer.

“Train wreck, he’s gonna piss someone off, said Glow.”

“Yup, speaking of piss, I gotta go.

“Excuse me; do you know where the bathroom is?” Coop asked a scrawny redhead.

“Yeah guy, the line for the jacks starts behind me.  Me names Shaun,” he said extending a feeble, freckled arm that was dwarfed by Coop’s ‘meathook’.

“Jaaysus, yer mammoth.”

“Ugh, thanks, Coops the name,” he said shaking Sean’s hand.

“WHOA, who’s that?”

“Niiiccceee Ayyyeee?  That won over thaar is nun other than Miss Rosaleen; ‘the rose of dooblin’.”

“She’s beautiful,” Coop said, realizing he was still shaking Sean’s hand.

“Bang on, that’s a hot bird fera slag.”

“A slag?” Coop said, with uncertainty in his voice.

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