“Oh, man, I love the idea of someday being with one woman and having a family,” says Farrell, who was once married to actress Amelia Warner for four months. “I’m a big old romantic. But you’re talking to someone who’s been in hotels for six years, and now I can’t go a few days without getting itchy feet.”
He’s barely put the period on his sentence when somewhere, just outside the wooden fence, there is the horrific crunch of vehicles colliding, followed by the screech of tires. Farrell straightens in his seat. “Ouch,” he says. “The skid was after the hit? That’s bad.”
He taps his rings against the side of his bottle for a moment, then, without saying a word, he stands up and heads outside.
At the corner, a hysterical girl is being comforted by her boyfriend, whose brand-new Jeep Cherokee sits half-crushed in the middle of an intersection. An equally shaken young guy in a Che Guevara hat—whom Farrell will later refer to as Young Fidel—stands next to his imported sedan, also half-crushed and now sideways on a sidewalk that on any weekday would be crowded with diners from the restaurant next door. “I just can’t believe it,” Young Fidel keeps saying, as he stares at his shoes. “This has never happened to me before.”
“You’re okay,” Farrell says. “That’s what’s important.” The actor pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and dials 911.
“Hello?” he bellows, then turns the receiver out for all to hear. “For fuck’s sake. Can you believe this shit? ‘Your call will be answered shortly’?” Emergency response has put him on hold. “If there’s one thing you should get right it’s 911.”
We help out for a few minutes, but then, realizing that having Famous Actor Colin Farrell around might be more distracting than useful, we head back toward Tobacco Road. We’re nearly to the door when an SUV, which has just cruised by the accident without stopping, slows and pulls up to the bar’s entry. A woman, large and jowly and wearing huge sunglasses, leans out the window and begins to howl: “Colin Farrell! Oh, my God! I love you! My husband loves you! How about a kiss?”
Seeing no way to escape, Farrell shrugs, walks over, and gives her a kiss, but that doesn’t stop the howling.
“Lady, you are nuts! Certifiable,” he says, fast-walking toward the bar.
“No,” she yells back. “I’m Puerto Rican!”
Back in the garden, we’re quiet for a few swigs from the bottle. Farrell breaks the silence. “Well, that was dramatic. Can you imagine if people are eating outside? You’re talking three deaths on any day but Sunday. Fuck.” He runs his fingers through the blond-and-black-streaked hair that has escaped from his samurai ponytail and looks at the bartender.
“Give us two more, brother?”