Summer in County Kerry

A story about something cool

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-mind-atlas-peter-liam/1150184226https://books.apple.com/au/audiobook/the-mind-atlas-compelling-short-stories/id6769707768https://open.spotify.com/show/0qaqT21Dpl9bSJ3suLIYtA?s

https://peterliam.hearnow.com/mary-janeMake sure you add Mary Jane to your playlist 

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 1:03

The sun over County Kerry wasn't just shining. It was actively trying to melt the asphalt right off the N71. By 9:30 a.m., the thermometer on the dashboard of the Road Crew's transit van read a blistering 28 degrees Celsius. In Ireland, this wasn't just warm, it was an official national state of emergency. Seamus, the crew foreman, wiped a thick layer of sweat from his forehead, looked at his melting team, and threw his shovel into the back of the truck. Right, lads, Seamus announced, his voice thick with relief. Health and safety. The tarmac is turning back into oil, and me boots are sticking to the earth. Work is called off. God bless the heat wave. The crew, Seamus, Mick, and young Padrag, happily abandoned the road and began the long, sweltering walk back toward the village. They were parched, dreaming of pints that were hours away from being poured. As they trudged past the village green, they spotted a strange sight: a man in a wide-brimmed hat, khaki shorts, and a sleeveless shirt, sitting comfortably under the shade of an oak tree. Next to him was a bright blue, sturdy plastic box. What caught Mick's eye wasn't the man's questionable fashion, but the condensation glistening on the side of the box. Alright, mate, the stranger called out in a booming, cheerful accent. Grand day for it, Seamus replied, stopping. He nodded at the blue container. Tell me, sir, what's the story with the plastic chest there? Are you moving house or carrying organ transplants? The traveller laughed, slapping the lid. Now, mate, this is an eskey. Brought it with me from Brisbane. The three Irishmen stared at it. An eski. Padrag repeated. And what does it do? It keeps me beer cold, of course, the Australian said, popping the lid open. A magical cloud of white vapor drifted out. Inside, nestled in a bed of crystal clear ice cubes, were dozens of sweating cans of lager. He cracked one open with a crisp PSFH, the sound echoing like music in the heavy summer air. The road crew stood frozen in absolute, stunned silence. To an Australian, an eschi was standard survival gear. To three Irish road workers in the middle of an unprecedented heat wave, it was a profound technological marvel. It was fire being discovered by cavemen. You mean to tell me, Mick whispered, his eyes wide, that the ice doesn't melt and the beer stays cold? Out here, in the elements. Two right, mate. Hours and hours. Seamus looked at Mick. Mick looked at Padrage. No words were spoken, but a silent, unanimous agreement was reached. Good luck to you, sir, Seamus said politely, before turning on his heel. Lads, to the hardware store. Double time. They practically broke down the door of Ashay's hardware. Old Man Ashay looked up in surprise as three sweaty roadworkers stormed the aisles. They bypassed the shovels, the cement, and the nails, straight to the dusty summer leisure section in the back. There, sitting on a bottom shelf, were three red and white cooler boxes that had been in stock since 2012. We'll take the lot, Seamus gasped, throwing his wallet on the counter. Next, they hit the local corner shop, buying every bag of ice in the freezer and three crates of lager. The next morning, the heat wave rolled on. By 9.25 a.m., the sweat was blinding them. By 9.30 a.m., Seamus officially called it. Too hot, boys. Tools down. But this time, they didn't walk home miserable. They marched straight over to the village green, carrying their brand new Irish eskies. They dumped in the ice, cracked open the beers, and let the ice-cold lager rescue them from a heat. From that week on, a new tradition was forged. Every single day of the great summer heat wave, the road crew would show up at 8 a.m., do a token hour and a half of work, and wait for the clock to strike 9 30. The tools would drop, the esquis would open, and the lads would spend the rest of the glorious, sun drenched day under the oak tree, raising a cold one to the Australian who had changed Irish summers forever.