Leprechaun ...what would St. Paddy’s Day be without an Irishman?
The annual Library Technical Services Party was to be held on Saint Patrick’s Day.
Being a Murphy, and black Irish, I was doubly blessed—but Carranza was a Covington and reserved English.
I figured my native luck might tip the scales a little in my favor, and besides, I knew a Leprechaun.
No self-respecting Irishman would ever deny having one drink too many and I was no exception.
One night while tippling at The Killarney Tavern, I had a mystifying experience—I saw my Leprechaun—Jimmy O’Sullivan, he was named and he stood by me, plain as day.
“Well, my boyo,” says he, “You’re getting on a bit and ‘tis time you were hitched. Is there no lass who’s caught your eye?”
“There is,” I confessed, “but she’s a wee bit reserved.”
“Ah, she’s English then?”
I nodded as I drained my ale. He solemnly waited until I belched.
“Tis a sad day when a lad with a tweaky eye must wait on a young girl courting.”
“What can I do?”
His eyes glittered. “You, my boy, can do nothing—but I can do everything. Just say the word and I’ll touch her soul—fill her with Irish mist and a longing for hearth and home. She’ll be begging you to marry her.”
“You mean bewitch her? It just doesn’t seem right.”
“Ah well now, I wouldn’t be saying bewitch her—I’ll just help you a little to charm her. Just say the word and the lass will love you to death.”
I couldn’t then—and I wasn’t sure I could do it now. I loved Carranza, but I was definitely not going to win her heart through trickery. My mind was made up.
On the Friday just before quitting time, I asked my co-worker, Pran, where the party was being held.
“You’re a strange man, Stephen—why would you delay asking until now?”
“I wasn’t really sure if I’d be going, Pran. I’ve been feeling a bit down of late.”
“You are love-struck, my friend. The party will be an ideal place—meeting Carranza outside of work. We’re meeting at seven o’clock at The Killarney Tavern.”
“Why there?” I asked in panic.
“Why not? It’s Saint Patrick’s Day and it’s the perfect location. Varsha’s looking forward to meeting you again. Will we see you there?”
“I suppose.”
A feeling of dread filled my soul, but I had no choice. An opportunity to see Carranza just couldn’t be ignored.
When I got to the tavern, the party was in full swing. Pran met me at the door—a green hat on his head and a shamrock badge pinned to his lapel.
“Kiss me, I’m Irish,” he smiled.
“Ha ha, being Irish isn’t belonging to the Free State—it’s a state of mind—and you, my friend, have it.”
“Do I have it too?” asked Varsha in a lilting accent reminiscent of an Irish Spring commercial. She was dressed in green and had tiny sprigs of shamrocks woven into her shiny black hair.
“You look stunning in any culture,” I told her—and I meant it—she looked radiant.
“Have you seen Carranza?” asked Pran, “She too, looks lovely this evening.” He pointed toward the bar where Carranza was standing, surrounded by several young men.
My heart fell. I saw her smiling at their jokes and basking in the attention. I couldn’t blame her. She looked lovely and was enjoying her moment
I walked over and ordered a draft beer, standing morosely in the shadow of her circle of admirers.
“Ah, the dreams a young girl lights in the heart!”
I turned and stared into the elfin face of Jimmy O’Sullivan.
“What are you doing?” I looked around panicked.
“Relax, boyo—only you can see or hear me.”
“Please, Jimmy—leave me be.”
“I can’t bear to see the sadness in you, lad—it hurts the heart.”
“Well, welcome to my world—it can’t be helped.”
“Ah, but it can, my boy—ye know it for a fact. Why must ye be stubborn?”
“I told you—I don’t want her bewitched.”
“Stephen?” I heard Carranza’s voice behind me. “When did you arrive?”
“I just got here,” I replied. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen.
“It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”
My heart leapt in my breast. “It wouldn’t?”
“Of course not—you being Irish and all.”
“Oh,” I said, my heart falling back to earth. “For sure, what would St. Paddy’s Day be without an Irishman?”
“Exactly,” she smiled.
The circle of admirers closed around her again. My heart sunk further into the abyss. It’s hard to be young and not to be loved.
I closed my eyes and saw Jimmy’s face. I opened them in a panic, but there was nobody there.
I have to get out of here, I concluded.
I pushed my way through the throng heading for the door. I felt a hand grab my coattail—I knew it was Jimmy, but I pressed on.
“No, wait,” the voice commanded.
I turned and saw Carranza standing ashen-faced. “Why are you leaving?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said.
“I hoped you’d stay.”
“I’m tired of being the token Irishman, Carranza.”
She blinked and stared at me as if I struck her.
“Look, you’ve plenty of admirers here—you don’t need me.”
“But I do,” she said quietly, her eyes cast down.
A burst of anger flashed through me. “Did Jimmy tell you that—did he persuade you to talk to me?”
She looked at me wide-eyed. Her chin was quavering. “Jimmy? I don’t know any Jimmy. I just thought we could…”
Her eyes pleaded with me. I felt my hardness melt.
“I’m sorry, Carranza—I thought you didn’t care.”
Her eyes were shining with tears. “I do care, Stephen—I’ve been waiting for you to do the same.”
I stayed and we talked. The mysteries and vagaries of human communication are seldom navigated in an evening.
We made a date to meet again…and again.
I unburdened my heart—poured out my soul. I showed her my love letter:
Like the fellow who flung himself upon his horse and rode off madly in all directions—I’m insane for your love.
She thought me mad, of course, and then proposed we wed.
It turned out Jimmy had no part in our love—there was no spell, no secret charm.
There was only me and Carranza and a night of joyful celebration—well that, and my native luck, of course, and the charm of the Irish.