The Van Pact

36: Valerie

"These seats are so comfortable," Stevie snuggled into a beige couch by the left side windows. I eyed a pyramid of empty Guinness Bottles stacked on the carpeted floor.

            "Looks like this could be the right bus," I said. I noticed a Linden Steel souvenir t-shirt hanging from a rack above one of the windows. Beside that, draped a single wrinkled kilt. I didn't see any pull-down beds. "I wonder where they sleep?"

            "Hotels?" Stevie fluffed a pillow behind her.

            "Mmm," I considered that possibility. "They sing Irish folk music, do they really have the budget for that?"

            "They could afford a Super 8," Stevie nestled her head back into the fluffed pillow. "Though, this couch is probably more comfortable than anything you get at one of those."

            Well, my curiosity was piqued. I knocked Stevie's legs off of the end of the couch closest to me and sat down. It was like sitting on a bed of feathers plucked from angel wings.

            "Oh yeah," I agreed. "They definitely blew the budget on this baby-"

            "They have a GOOD budget," Stevie kicked me in the stomach. "More money than you have!"

            "Hey," I keeled over, "that hurt my tummy!"

            "Cut it out," Stevie wasn't having my theatrics. Good. I could still troll her. I didn't know what I was gonna do if she became cool with everything.

            "I probably got internal bleeding," I rolled off the couch to the floor. "OHHHH DANNNY BOY, everything is DYYYYYYING, and I AM DEAD, AS DEADDDD I WELL MAY BEEEEEE-"

            "Those aren't even the right lyrics," Stevie kicked me a few more times now while I was on the floor. "You're not even singing it in tune-"

            "-AND I'LL REST IN PEACE UNTIL YOU COME TOOOOOO MEEEEEEEEE," I jerked around, trying to avoid Stevie's pink Converse. The carpet was itchy against my wrists and cheeks and ankles.

            "Stop," Stevie demanded. "You're going to knock shit over."

            By now, I was laughing so hard that I almost didn't hear the sweet-toned, tenor behind me. "Having a mighty craic, are we?"

            You should have seen Stevie's face. Hell, you should have seen mine.

***

            In real life, Sam Mullingar isn't as tall as I thought he'd be. But he isn't any less beautiful.

            "Paul goes in for a pint and leaves the door open again," Sam smushed his perfectly symmetrical face into his palms. "Happens every time. Got to get him to his AA meetings."

            "Who's Paul?" I mouthed at Stevie, who had hurried to her feet. She knew the band, I figured. She would have answers.

            Stevie pushed out her lower lip, baffled.

            "Aw would you look at that," Sam gestured at the Guinness pyramid on the floor. "How'd ya think they'd let a man with such a drinking problem make a career of driving buses around?"

            "The bus driver?" Stevie mouthed at me, "is an alcoholic?"

            Sam darted to the floor next to me and I sprung up. I watched him pull one of the Guinness bottles off the second row of the pyramid. "And this is mine! The audacity of the man! I've got my label on it, and hid it in the back of the minibar!"