Another Night

By Dave Mulligan

This memoir by Dave Mulligan is told through a compilation of short stories, poems, and essays, all of which originally were Facebook posts written in the middle of the night during relentless bouts of insomnia. Another Night is an eclectic collection of memories and reflections ranging from profound and touching to outrageous and hilarious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Mulligan
• Release date: Dec 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781943588794

Book preview

Table of Contents

Copyright Information

A Note From the Author

The Impossible Quest

Crybabies Eat like Pigs

Steven

Kathy

West to California!

Hell’s Assholes

Another Night

Not Our Cat

Christmas is Coming

The Green Envelope

I’m Going to Hell

Quiet Love

Mortal Men

Ray Was Here

The Shoes of Dachau

An Old Lady

Mrs. Mulligan

Neighbors

The Last Swallow

My Neck Will Still Shine

He Was Home

Be Nice

Going Home

James Martin’s Place

A Special Boy

Thanks Again, Tim

My Friend Leroy

Mark or Dave?

Mike and the Holidays

A Final Gift

Acknowledgements

About the Author

A Lucky Bat Book

Another Night

Copyright © 2018 by Dave Mulligan

All rights reserved

Cover Design:

Charles Nemitz

Published by Lucky Bat Books

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Also by Dave Mulligan

Mulligan’s Wake

I’d like to dedicate this random assortment of stories to my mother, Trenna. She lives with us and remains a vital and treasured part of our daily lives. She’s warm and generous and still calls me Angel Boy. I know the love and the connections I feel and share through my stories were greatly influenced by her presence in my life and in my heart. She loves to walk each day to her favorite little casino, where she enjoys a couple of cigarettes, a drink or two, and some play on her favorite slot machines. Yet one of her very favorite pastimes is reading my stories, almost invariably shedding a tear and praising her fifty-six-year-old Angel Boy. Every son needs the love of his mother. I’m so very lucky to still have mine.

A Note From the Author

Another Night is a collection of stories conceived during long nights. You see, I’ve been cursed with a brain that refuses to shut down at night while the rest of the world sleeps. But instead of stewing in bitterness and resentment toward all those countless lucky souls who drift so easily away into peaceful, rejuvenating slumber, I have chosen to use my up time to harness my ceaseless thought streams by jotting them down. In the dark, on my back, next to my lovely, sleeping wife, I can be found on most nights tapping away on my iPhone with my thumbs. My wistful meanderings bring me to places I never expect to visit—including episodes long tucked away in my childhood memories—so these jaunts are often pleasant surprises. Regardless where my memories take me, I’ll doggedly peck away in the dark, and the results are on these pages. I hope you’ll enjoy the fruits of my insomnia. And I also hope that you’ll sleep better than I will tonight.

One final caveat: There may be moments as you are reading when you feel as though perhaps you are missing something or have been left out of a previous conversation relating to the subject matter. Many of my writings are directed at my thousands of Facebook friends with whom I communicate daily and frequently enjoy interactive relationships. Some of my stories or essays are excerpts or continuations from pre-existing conversations or communications. They’ll all still make sense, but may seem as though there’s insufficient back story. I decided to stay true to the way I originally shared the stories and not add to them. I hope this context clarifies any ambiguity. And don’t worry. You’ll get it. You’ll get it all.

The Impossible Quest

I recall from my youth the day it began,

I sat at a bar, more a boy than a man;

The day had been hot, and I had worked hard,

Pulling weeds for ten bucks in my neighbor’s backyard;

I called to the barman, my voice a thin rasp,

A cold draft, please, in your largest beer glass.

He flashed me a smile, then an all-knowing wink,

Then proceeded to hand me . . . a diminutive drink.

You must have misheard me, I said, almost mad.

I asked for a large one, not the smallest you had.

It’s the biggest I’ve got, he said with a glare,

If it ain’t big enough, then the door is right there.

I would have left then, but, crazy with thirst,

I decided to have at that bartender first.

"This beer is so puny, so dainty and dinky,

I think as I sip it I’ll stick out my pinkie."

I pounded it down with my digit extended,

And, avoiding the gaze of the man I’d offended,

I threw down some cash and I spun on my stool,

Then I said to the guys who had stopped playing pool,

"If you like to sip thimbles, you men can stay here . . .

I’m gonna go find myself a big beer."

And so it began, as I recollect,

My quest for a beer that I could respect.

I severed all ties and became a lone drifter,

Resenting all vessels, from pint glass to snifter;

I floated through towns, sipping eight- and ten-ouncers,

Venting my wrath upon barmen and bouncers,

"I’d belch in your face and spray you with spittle,

But I haven’t the gas, for my beer was too little."

There were moments of hope when a bar sign would say

Something like, World’s biggest beer is on special today!

The typical sign was scribbled in chalk,

Yet every last one of them, nothing but talk;

For, as soon as I’d enter and order the special,

The barkeep would hand me a girlie-sized vessel.

"Pardon me, sir, but the sign by the door

Suggests that a man might expect something more

"Than a cute little cup like the one I’ve been handed.

I hope you don’t mind if I seem a bit candid,

"But that hand-scribbled sign, the one just outside,

It didn’t just fib, it out and out lied!

"The chalk on your fingers tells me that you penned it,

So you, as its author, must go and amend it;

"Undo what you’ve done, in that second-grade scrawl.

Admit to the world that the beers here are small!"

A hundred bars later, I don’t know the city,

As I sipped a short beer, and steeped in self-pity,

I heard a faint whistle from the back of the room,

So I peered through the smoke and into the gloom,

And there, in the corner, beyond the lights’ glare,

Sat an old, crooked man, in an old crooked chair.

And right then I knew it. I felt it inside,

That the old man’s life and mine would collide.

I stood from my stool and I made the long walk,

Then he said from the shadows, "Sit down, boy. Let’s talk.

"I’ve followed your quest. I know of your story.

Believe me, son, it’s all foam and no glory.

"Heed these words; what I say is true.

Hear them well . . . for I used to be you."

I pulled up a chair as the old man spoke

And at last glimpsed his face as he lit up a smoke.

In the match’s soft glow, his face looked like leather,

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