The Regulars

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It was the proverbial night not fit for man nor beast, black and grim and howling, with the rain coming on in sidewise sheets. But in Charley Sullivan’s place everything was as cozy as an old boot, the lights dim, the heat turned up, the neon beer-signs sputtering pleasantly, Charley behind the bar, filling them beyond the Plimsoll line, and all the regulars in their regular places. What a comfort a tavern like Charley Sullivan’s can be on a night that’s black and grim and howling!

“It was a night like this,” said the Pope to Karl Marx, “that you changed your mind about blowing up the stock exchange, as I recall. Eh?”

Karl Marx nodded moodily. “It was the beginning of the end for me as a true revolutionary, it was.” He isn’t Irish, but in Charley Sullivan’s everybody picks up the rhythm of it soon enough. “When you get too fond of your comforts to be willing to go out into a foul gale to attack the enemies of the proletariat, it’s the end of your vocation, sure enough.” He sighed and peered into his glass. It held nothing but suds, and he sighed again.

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