The Death of the Pub

©Timothy Gauger 2017

O'Toole's, on the south side of Chinatown

Copyright © 2020

by Ralph F. Couey

Written content only

Scattered across Honolulu are four Irish pubs, all very well known for live music, great atmosphere, and traditional Irish congeniality.  For over 20 years, the Irish Rose, Anna O'Brien's, Kelly O'Neil's, and my favorite hangout, O'Toole's have been instrumental in keeping Irish culture alive here in the tropics. In addition, for those in the Irish music community, they've been the places to perform, to watch and listen, and gather for informal music sessions.  Now, they may go away forever.

All four are owned by Bill Comerford, an entrepreneur who also is the driving force behind Honolulu's epic St. Patrick's Day celebration.  But like so many other small bars and restaurants, the Great Pandemic of 2020 has effectively killed them.

Honolulu's response to the growing pandemic was to issue shut down orders to a lot of businesses, including nearly all that were part of the hospitality industry.  Comerford had to close the doors of all four pubs, and recently said that despite the closures, that mortgage and tax bills kept coming.  He did qualify for government loans under two emergency programs, but at his age and financial situation, and with no indication when, or even if the government would allow the pubs to re-open, he pragmatically decided that taking on debt of that magnitude was foolish.  He intimated that he was rapidly approaching a situation where closing the pubs permanently was his only option.

Comerford represents millions of other owners of small bar and restaurants across the country who are facing similar critical decisions.  Of all the non-human casualties of the Pandemic, this might be one of the most serious.

I don't have to tell you that the economy is a mess.  With businesses closed and workers laid off, governments are feeling the loss of the sales, business, and property tax revenue that municipalities need so desperately to survive.  We were told that a national debt of $20 trillion was unsustainable even for an economy the size of the United States.  Now, it looks like that debt may soar to as much as $30 trillion. Some states and cities are re-opening, but cautiously and in very limited ways.  Everyone fears that the return of commerce will cause a spike in COVID-19 cases, and subsequent deaths.  It's the kind of choice that puts America in God's little acre -- east of the rock, and west of the hard place.  Either re-start commerce, or watch our economy go the way of Greece.

Those are the big issues.  But buried here are the smaller, more personal losses.

A pub is not just a place to drink.  You could do that in your basement.  It's a place, usually a small one, where people gather to share with each other pieces of their lives.  There is a treasured kind of intimacy that exists in these places, something that a larger chain operation just can't provide.  You understand that this is a place where a person has rolled the dice on an economic risk.  We feel a kinship with those brave souls, and I think that's what gives such places that sense of warmth and shared experience. 

Humans are social animals; interaction is necessary to our mental and emotional health.  Pubs provide those places to gather, where laughter is common and hearts are lifted.  Most offer live music on a regular basis.  For the Four Irishmen of Honolulu, it was almost every night.  For the musicians of Honolulu's Irish community, the loss of those performance opportunities threatens their livelihood.  They are professional musicians first and foremost, so these closures hurt.  None of them have gotten independently wealthy doing this.  After all, the love for the traditional music of Ireland is their primary motivation.

I don't drink, for reasons I won't go into here.  But I do love a good time, and I share a passion for Irish music.  For those reasons, and a weakness for Diet Coke, I went to those pubs.  I made friends, and out of those evenings, I collected a boatload of good memories.  I miss those times.  I miss those people.  I miss the music.  And I miss that sense of community.

When the Pandemic really hit its stride in late February, nobody expected it to last very long, or have the impact that it's had.  Now, two months later, the curves of infection and death are flattening, but nobody knows if this thing is close to being over.  People who need to work and earn money are becoming frustrated and agitated, a groundswell of emotion that nobody knows what to do with.  It is clear that we can't risk giving COVID-19 a new launching point now that we're finally beating it back.  More ominously, nobody knows whether this is a one-and-done thing, or if the corona virus has moved in to stay.  What is becoming clear is that life on the other side of this Pandemic will be very different. 

The loss of humans to COVID-19 is tragic in a way almost impossible to articulate.  I know this, and I am in no way minimizing those deaths.  But the shredding of our social fabric may result in equally tragic long-term consequences.

So, I know that life has changed, perhaps permanently and what may be gone forever are these small business operations that simply couldn't survive an extended shutdown.  Yes, there will be the large chain restaurants and bars that may survive, although I don't see how one can go to a bar or restaurant, wear a mask, and stay six feet away from everyone else.  But there's something endearing about that neighborhood watering hole where, as the phrase goes, "everybody knows your name."  To lose those places risks the loss of that sense of community so endemic to them.  That place where friends could meet, lower their barriers and shields and just enjoy each other may be fading away before our eyes. And our hearts.

For those lovers of traditional Irish music, including this writer, the resulting silence will be deafening.