The Mission from God

It was a Saturday afternoon. We sat by the river, not far from Oneida Lake, enjoying Larry’s hospitality, enjoying the ribs and salt potatoes, enjoying a beverage or two, but most of all, enjoying the fellowship of friends from forty years ago. Just sitting around, bringing each other up to date, and of course, reliving the stories that we’d already told a couple hundred times before.

Suddenly, the summons came. G-Man, Dr. Fay, and I jumped into the doctor’s rented SUV, turned on his GPS gizmo, which he had brought all the way from Washington, apparently so he wouldn’t get lost in the wilds of upstate New York, and found our way from the back woods to the Interstate. There was no time to lose. Along the way, the phone rang, and G-Man answered: “I can’t talk. We’re on a mission from God.” Really, it was that important.

The Interstate then led us directly to downtown Syracuse, and there’s only one place to go in downtown Syracuse, especially when you’re on a mission from God. And that was directly to Kitty Hoyne’s, to drink good Irish whisky. You see, the night before, as we stood at the bar at TC, now called Saratoga something-or-other, Dr. Fay asked for Irish whisky, and one thing led to another, but we couldn’t find anything besides Jameison. Not that there’s anything wrong with Jameison, just that it’s not quite Red Breast, or Connemara. So notwithstanding all the good food, or the scenic location, or the beautiful weekend weather, or even the fellowship of old friends, a visit to Kitty’s, another pilgrimage of sorts, was called for.

Good thing too. Because that night at the Palace theatre in Eastwood, there was no whisky behind the bar. It didn’t matter though, as we had executed the afternoon’s mission quite to perfection.