Where Everybody Knows Your Name

The Brass Longship was loud in the comfortable way only a favorite pub could be.

It was June 30, the end of another frantic day at Viking News, and every booth seemed occupied by regulars escaping work, tourists admiring the carved dragon heads hanging from the rafters, and locals debating baseball, politics, and whether the fish and chips had somehow gotten even better since last week.

The bartender, Liam, looked up as the newsroom crew filed through the door.

"Here comes trouble."

Patrick McKean, editor-in-chief, grinned.

"You say that every Tuesday."

"Because you're here every Tuesday."

Benjamin Diaz, the senior editor, laughed.

"And because Patrick keeps insisting we need to 'support local journalism by supporting local pubs.'"

Patrick placed a hand dramatically over his heart.

"It is my civic duty."

Grace Orozco rolled her eyes.

"No, Pat. Your civic duty is answering your email."

"I answered one."

"One."

"It was important."

"It was from the electric company."

"They seemed very concerned."

"They were reminding you to pay the bill."

"I considered that implied."

The entire table burst into laughter before they had even sat down.

Michael Simmons shook his head.

"I missed you people over the weekend."

"You have questionable standards," Danny Van Hoosier said.

"You've met us."

"I know."

"And you still came."

"I did."

"Then yes," Katherine Evangelista said. "Questionable standards."

The staff claimed their usual long table beneath a carved wooden Viking ship suspended from the ceiling.

Liam didn't even need menus.

"The usual?"

A chorus answered him.

"Yep."

"You got it."

"Please."

"Absolutely."

Then Liam pointed toward Michael.

"And for the birthday boy?"

Michael smiled.

"Just water."

Liam gave an exaggerated gasp.

"On your birthday?"

"I have work tomorrow."

"So do the rest of us."

Patrick raised a finger.

"Technically true."

Benjamin nodded.

"Spiritually false."

Michael laughed.

"Water."

"You got it."

Liam turned toward Sam Ihle.

"And you, Clark Kent?"

Sam smiled sheepishly.

"Canada Dry."

Danny leaned over.

"The strongest thing on the menu."

"The bubbles are very intimidating."

"They sneak up on you."

"They're ruthless."

Liam chuckled.

"I'll pour it neat."

"Appreciated."

Everyone else ordered something stronger.

Patrick ordered an Irish stout.

Benjamin chose a dark lager.

Grace picked a cider.

Danny ordered a local IPA.

Katherine requested a glass of red wine.

Phil Leavenworth, science and technology reporter—and occasional political columnist whenever elections rolled around—ordered a German pilsner.

Jodie Williams-Ihle selected a crisp white wine.

Jimmy Pruitt opted for bourbon.

Even Michael teased them.

"I feel underdressed."

Sam raised his can.

"We represent Team Hydration."

Michael clinked his water glass gently against Sam's soda.

"The designated adults."

"The designated people capable of driving everyone home."

The drinks arrived in a carefully balanced procession.

Liam set Michael's water down with theatrical reverence.

"For the birthday gentleman."

Next came Sam's Canada Dry.

He placed it carefully.

"One dangerously carbonated beverage."

Sam nodded gravely.

"I'll try to handle it responsibly."

Finally came the beers, wines, whiskey, and cider.

Liam stepped back.

"Anything else?"

Patrick looked around.

"Actually..."

Everyone groaned.

"...another basket of fries."

"Now we're talking."

The first toast came naturally.

Patrick stood.

"I suppose I should say something."

Grace whispered to Benjamin.

"This could take a while."

Patrick ignored her.

"Michael Simmons."

Michael sighed dramatically.

"Oh no."

"Our human-interest reporter."

Danny nodded.

"The newsroom's resident optimist."

Benjamin added,

"The only person capable of interviewing complete strangers and having them tell him their entire life story before dessert."

Grace smiled.

"It's honestly impressive."

Patrick lifted his pint.

"You remind us that people matter."

The joking quieted.

Patrick continued.

"You tell stories that don't make headlines but make communities."

Michael looked embarrassed.

"Pat..."

"You celebrate teachers, firefighters, volunteers, veterans, crossing guards, librarians, neighbors..."

Jimmy nodded.

"You once wrote fifteen hundred words about a guy who restored old park benches."

"He restored them beautifully."

"We know."

Patrick smiled.

"You make ordinary people feel extraordinary."

Michael looked down into his water.

"I just like people."

"We know."

Patrick raised his glass higher.

"To Michael."

Every glass rose.

Water.

Canada Dry.

Beer.

Wine.

Whiskey.

Cider.

No one cared what was inside.

Patrick called first.

"Cheers!"

Danny answered,

"Sláinte!"

Phil followed.

"Prost!"

Jodie smiled.

"Salut!"

Jimmy raised his bourbon.

"Kanpai!"

The entire pub echoed with overlapping voices.

"Cheers!"

"Kanpai!"

"Sláinte!"

"Salut!"

"Prost!"

Glasses clinked in every direction.

Michael laughed so hard he nearly spilled his water.

"Speech!" Danny yelled.

"No."

"Speech!"

"No."

"Birthday speech!"

Michael sighed.

"You people are relentless."

"We're journalists."

"Exactly."

He stood slowly.

"I wasn't prepared."

Patrick pointed.

"We never are."

Michael smiled.

"I've worked at Viking News for six years."

Grace corrected him.

"Six years, three months."

"You would know."

"I keep spreadsheets."

"We know."

Michael continued.

"I honestly never expected this place to become family."

The laughter faded.

"When I started, I figured we'd all go home after work and forget each other existed."

Danny looked offended.

"I could never forget Patrick."

Patrick smiled proudly.

Danny continued.

"Mostly because he emails at 2 a.m."

"I have ideas."

"You have insomnia."

Patrick considered it.

"Both."

Michael laughed.

"But somewhere along the way..."

He looked around the table.

"...you became my people."

Nobody interrupted.

"You've celebrated promotions."

He looked at Grace.

"You've helped through losses."

Benjamin nodded quietly.

"You've covered each other's shifts."

Patrick pointed toward Sam.

"He covered mine three times."

"Five."

"Five?"

"You forgot."

"I did."

"You were covering the county fair."

Patrick snapped his fingers.

"Right."

Michael smiled.

"You've shown up."

"Every time."

His voice softened.

"I don't take that for granted."

Silence settled over the table.

Then Danny ruined it.

"So..."

Michael looked up.

"...can we eat now?"

Everyone burst into laughter.

The food arrived moments later.

Baskets of fries.

Pretzels bigger than dinner plates.

Shepherd's pie.

Fish and chips.

Burgers.

Onion rings.

Enough food to convince any outsider that the newsroom hadn't eaten in a week.

Liam placed the final platter down.

"Bon appétit."

"Thank you!"

Hands reached immediately.

Patrick somehow acquired fries from three different baskets without anyone seeing him move.

Grace stared.

"How?"

"I'm gifted."

"You're a thief."

"A gifted thief."

Benjamin pointed.

"Those are mine."

"Were."

Jimmy blinked.

"He moves like a raccoon."

"A very dignified raccoon."

Patrick accepted this.

"I'll allow it."

Half an hour later the stories began.

Mostly stories about Michael.

Mostly embarrassing.

Danny grinned.

"Remember the goat?"

Michael covered his face.

"No."

"Oh yes."

Grace looked interested.

"What goat?"

Danny leaned forward eagerly.

"There was a county fair."

Patrick started laughing before Danny had even begun.

Michael sighed.

"I'm leaving."

"No you're not."

"You can't."

"It's your birthday."

Danny continued.

"Michael was interviewing prize-winning livestock."

"I already dislike where this is going."

"He asked the owner if the goat had a name."

Michael nodded.

"Reasonable question."

"The goat answered first."

Everyone laughed.

"It sneezed directly into Michael's notebook."

Grace nearly choked on her cider.

"No."

"Oh yes."

Danny was barely breathing now.

"Michael apologized..."

"I was startled!"

"...to the goat."

Even Sam laughed loudly enough to wipe tears from his eyes.

"You apologized?"

"It seemed polite."

"You apologized..."

"...to livestock."

Michael shrugged.

"It wasn't the goat's fault."

Patrick slammed the table.

"This is why we love you."

Sam lifted his can of Canada Dry.

"To the only reporter I know who has apologized to farm animals."

Once more, glasses rose together.

"Cheers!"

"Kanpai!"

"Sláinte!"

"Salut!"

"Prost!"

The surrounding tables joined in, amused by the infectious joy of the newsroom.

And for one perfect summer evening at the Brass Longship, it didn't matter whether the glasses held water, ginger ale, beer, wine, whiskey, or cider.

What mattered was the company.

What mattered was that Michael Simmons—Viking News' own version of Kevin Hart, always ready with a joke, always ready with a smile—was surrounded by people who genuinely loved him.

The celebration, however, was only just getting started...