His tory

For years I dreamed of writing the Great American Novel. I lived in Kansas City, Boston, Wyoming, Queens, St. Louis and Los Angeles but it didn't come. Then I went to Ireland and there went that dream. Ireland grabbed me, and when I came home to my white trash sheep and goat ranch in the desert, I wanted to be back over there. So I wrote a book just to be there in my head. The result is this: The Great Irish American Novel. All this for the price of a pint and some fish and chips. Unbelievable!

I'm not really all that Irish myself, of course. Like lots of people, I'm just another rescue dog. 

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 ... ok, here's an excerpt for free. It may be the point of the whole story. Just between you and me. So, once again ... 

NOTHING NORMAL IN CORK  

    He writes in big letters, tearing the napkin a little: "WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?"

   The barman brings the pint and the whiskey, tosses out paper coasters to put them on, but stops, cranes his neck down and reads Chester's napkin. He looks down at Chester.

   "Probably nothin' lad,"  he shrugs, puts Chester's drinks down and walks to the Guinness tap.

   He's drawing a pint when he looks back at Chester and points to his own head and makes a circular motion with his finger.

   "All in your head, man. Isn't that why you're here?" He waves at the rest of the pub. "Why they're here?"  He turns back to the pint he's pouring, shuts off the tap, leaves the blonde head to settle down, and points at Chester.

   "Think about it. But don't think too long," he says and laughs. "And don't think alone. Drink alone maybe, sure, sometimes. Or maybe not. But thinking alone, no, not too long anyway. Cheers." And then the barman is gone, into the kitchen.

   Chester is drunk but not that drunk. He hears this.