Chapter Forty-Seven

O’Neill’s was one of the oldest Irish Pubs in Chicago. It was gaudy and tacky and wonderful. The lights were dim and flashy, corny decorations were scattered all over the place. The bar was packed, and I was shocked we made it before they’d reached capacity. Upon our entrance, they were handing out beads and green masks that covered our eyes to the tips of our noses. “For fun,” the promo girl cheered. She was wearing a traditional Irish dress that pleated out by her knees, patterns of Celtics in browns, greens and whites scattered all over it.

“This is my scene!” Mindy shouted over the live music. The band had four members, one playing the fiddle, bagpipes, a flute, and a drum. They were older, loud, and very Irish, fitting the setting perfectly with their kilts, red hair, and beards. People were dancing the Jig to their songs, and the spirit of the holiday was evident.

Mindy and I went by the bar to grab drinks. The bartender trie