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 Posted: Sun Jul 08, 2012 9:58 pm
Public houses are noisy at best, and can turn absolutely raucous as the night wears on. The pub in which Bigsby now sat, though, seemed to be growing rowdy before even the sun went down, though the sun goes down late in Clubs, land of the endless summer. Noise beat at him from all sides, though primarily from his left, for the bar was situated in that direction as compared to the booth he sat in next to Philip. Men who pounded on the bar with meaty fists and howled with laughter with seemingly no provocation packed every stool, drinking deep from mugs of drink that were larger than Bigsby's head.
And though his father seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable at all the commotion this early in the evening (for he had hoped to avoid it), Bigsby felt right at home in this place. In front of him was a plate piled high with onion rings, beer-battered and fried a glorious dark golden-brown, which he went at with an appetite signature to the boy, stopping only to drink heavily from the tall cup of soda beside him, or to sneak a sip from his Papa's own drink when he thought nobody was looking. These three things held all of his attention, and he slipped into a sort of zen-like state of peace, though his large blue ears were assaulted with sound.
At some point during the lower third of the onion rings that Bigsby was tearing through, the waiter, a slightly tired man with slender arms, long red hair, and age pulling at his face came to check in on their progress. He watched with awe for a moment as Bigsby worked, before he finally said, ”My oh my, never before have I seen an ADULT go at our onion rings like that, let alone a wee babby like you!”
Bigsby stopped eating, surprisingly enough, and took a moment to wash everything down with another slug of soda before smiling up at the waiter.
”I ain't gonna stay a wee babby!” Bigsby exclaimed, slamming his cup down upon the table. He pointed to the bar, continuing, ”I'm gonna be da biggest 'dere is, and I'm gonna sit over 'dere and DRINK like da biggest 'dere ever will be!”
The waiter laughed, slapping himself on the hip in favor of anything else about, and said, ”Good on ya, lad!! Just make sure ye drink here, I'd like to see you when you get that big!”
Bigsby nodded his agreement to this request, feeling sure that he would never find finer onion rings anyway, making this the prime destination to come when he grew older. Beer comes from anywhere, and stronger stuff can be carried in a flask like his Papa did, but fine food can't be found everywhere! Bigsby wasn't a picky eater by FAR, couldn't imagine it, given his appetite, but he had a distinct sense of good food and bad food.
The waiter scurried off again, hopefully to bring back the burger that Papa had ordered for him now that his onion rings were running low. Before Bigsby had any time to really begin hoping, though, he heard something from the end of the bar. Clapping, a single pair of those massive mitts the bar-drunks called hands slamming together in thunderclaps, and below it, singing. Slowly, more hands joined in, as one by one, men at the bar put down their drinks, and voices joined in song.
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Posted: Sun Jul 08, 2012 9:59 pm
”Oh, low, the Ratlin Bog, the bog down in the Valley-Oh! Oh, low, the Ratlin Bog, and the bog down in the Valley-Oh!”
Bigsby turned and listened, his food momentarily forgotten as feet starting joining in, heavy boots stomping the floor of the pub, setting the whole place a-shaking.
”Well in that bog there was a tree! A rare tree, a Ratlin Tree! With the tree in the bog and the bog down in the Valley-Oh! Oh, low, the Ratlin Bog...”
It didn't take Bigsby long to pick up the pattern of the drinking song, but it did take a little more concentration than he was used to expending to keep up. He liked the feeling, though, he liked it a great deal. Eventually, though, there came a point where everyone stopped singing but for Bigsby and the man who began, and together they both jumped to their feet, took whooping breaths, and belted
”And on that feather there was a flea, a rare flea, a Ratlin flea – With the flea on the feather and the feather on the bird and the bird in the egg and the egg in the nest and the nest on the twig and the twig on the limb and the limb on the branch and the branch on the tree and the tree in the bog and the Bog down in the Valley-Oh!”
The pub exploded into cheering, not an undue amount directed at Bigsby, the tiny toddler that nobody knew but who now stood panting on the floor between the booth where Papa watched, smiling, and the bar. As he stood, a victorious grin spread across his face, and he felt sure that this pub was home. He felt welcome in a place that didn't CARE how loud he was, and in fact cheered him on for it!
Moments later, the waiter came trotting back, holding two plates, one piled high with Bigsby's burger and even MORE onion rings – must have been a special treat. The waiter smiled at Philip as he laid food down upon the table.
”Well,” the waiter said, ”He's certainly got the biggest VOICE I've ever heard!”
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