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Narration
If Bennigan's had a model they drew from, it was O'Mally's. The quintessential Irish pub, it's also got that Cheers feeling -- there's a lot of regulars, and it's a hell of a dysfunctional family. To outsiders, it's a bit intimidating, but there are plenty of booths away from the bar. Tug gets more than his fair share of second looks, but most people are screaming at televisions showing soccer games.
Apparently Manchester United is beating CSKA Moscow.
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Tug likes the simple, home away from home atmosphere of this pub. He leads Purple Socks and Onions to one of the booths away from the bar, as far away as possible. "Have a seat, man," Tug says, indicating one facing away from the door. He wanted to cut down on possible distractions for the guy, which would hopefully convince him to give coherent answers. Oh, man, this guy really stinks in an enclosed space, he realizes as he takes a seat opposite and flags a waitress down. "Beer for me. What do you want?" he asks his rank new buddy, and looks past him toward the door to see if Brutus or Orphan were going to follow them in.
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Brutus dropped his spells and slips inside; glancing about casually to find Tug and Friend. He'd never been in a Pub before. It was, typical? Normal?
Brutus takes a booth closer to the bar and checks his watch. Acting as if he was meeting someone.
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"A Manhattan," the derelict answers, licking his lips. He's sitting sideways, back against the wall and knees drawn up, almost as if he's sitting in a cockpit or is afraid to have his feet touch the floor.
"You're Donnie Briggs," he mumbles.
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Tug nods at the waitress that that would be all and as he watches her go, he's satisfied to see Brutus walk in. His companion, however, looks downright uncomfortable indoors. Was bringing him here such a great idea after all?
The big man grins when Mr. Manhattan recognizes him, though he tells himself he should have Changed his Face. Who knows, though, maybe the guy was a fan and this would make this little Q&A easier. "Yeah, how'd you know? You like football, Mister...? You haven't told me what I should call you yet."
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"Naw, I just got to reading a magazine once that was talking about that year's busts," he answered. "They had pictures." He seemed wholly unconcerned that he had just called Tug a bust. He furrowed his eyebrows and gave Tug a skeptical look. "So you're back in school writing about indigents? That's rough."
Tug doesn't get the feeling he's dodging the name question, but more along the lines that he doesn't juggle multiple topics well.
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Brutus begins to feel silly sitting alone in a pub. He glance between Tug, and the old man. He seemed harmless and somewhat comfortable; sorta.
He gets up and moves to Tug's side. With a nod toward Bum; he nudges Tug on the shoulder to get his attention. "Hey man. What you up to? This seat taken?" Before Tug can respond, Brutus scoots into the booth facing the old man and offers his hand across the table. "My name is~ Burke. And you are?"
Brutus hasn't a clue what cover Tug has going so he plays it safe.
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"Yeah, it's rough," Tug seethes, looking away from Mr. Manhattan as he strangles back his anger. A bust? How can a third round pick be a bust? I can't believe this bum is feeling sorry for me!!!
Thank goodness Brutus decides to sit down. Donnie's able to compose himself and make introductions. "Oh, hey Burke. This guy has agreed to help me with my Public Policy thesis. Burke's a classmate of mine," he tells the casually insulting, rank-onion man. "So, tell me how long you've been homeless."
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"What makes me homeless?" he asked, looking suspiciously at Brutus. "A guy can't take a nap on a bench? Do you see me pushing a shopping cart of crap around or panhandling?"
Other than his filthy clothes and personal hygiene, he might have a point.
"I can't believe some jobless football bust just called me homeless," he mutters.
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Tug clears his throat in a last ditch effort to choke down the rage that threatens his ability to handle this mission. "Okay, you're right, I assumed you were homeless because you were sleeping on a bench. Which is something you'd expect of a homeless person," he clarifies. "Why don't we start over. Tell me about yourself and what you think of the city. Start wherever you want." He forces (what he hopes is) a friendly smile to surface.
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