Happy St. Patty's Day

Happy Saint Patty's Day!
or
There be Leprechauns amongst us!

As captain of this particular love boat, allow me to welcome you aboard with a lame, form letter explanation...
Before, I hack out a single word of this email, Allow me to welcome new subscribers to my email list. If you've never received an email from me before, then allow this to be your greeting. If you did not give me your address, then I probably stole it from someone else's email list and added it to mine. Hopefully, this won't be a problem. But, if my deluded ramblings annoy, then feel free to let me know. I'll be glad to remove you, after your public stoning and general taunting. On with the report...

Well, it's Saint Patty's Day. In fact, even as I write this, the Chicago River runs a particularly green, limey shade. The dyers went to work at 9:00 this morning and right now, the job is done. Now. that's Irish Pride.

I don't know what it is. Perhaps it's the size of the city, or the higher nut-to-citizen ratio, but strange things happen around the holidays in the Windy City. Last Christmas, I met Latino Claus, fresh from the slammer, clad in leathers and studs. I have yet to tell that particularly bizarre tale, maybe next year. This time, I had a strange St. Patty's Day encounter.

Yesterday was the official Office St. Patty's Day. All of the office workers that could not wear their green and kilts at the office on the real St. Patty's Day, did so on Friday, the last work day before the true holiday. I chose a tasteful green sweater and left it at that.

I took my lunch break at quarter to noon, to better avoid the lunch rush. I chose the Thompson Center food court, in downtown Chicago, because it has a large food court and it's within the closest walking distance. As an added bonus, I get to walk down Clark Street and cross the bridge over the river.

I like crossing the bridge. When a big truck goes over it, it sways and bucks dangerously and that's a thrill. On the off chance that it actually breaks and deposits me and other walkers into the brink, I have an emergency plan. I will grab the railing and climb out, like Indiana Jones. The railing is slatted and would make a perfect ladder. If the whole bridge breaks free and drops into the river, in it's entirety, I will slowly freeze to death and then sink like a log. Granted, that's not the ideal plan, but I am so set on the Indiana Jones contingency, that I haven't worked up a follow up plan.

But I digress.

I ate a yummy meal from the Subway. As I was finishing the meal, a whole troupe of children, oddly dressed, marched by. They were all excited, fairly well bouncing off the walls. Mainly girls, the troupe clicked and clacked their tap shoes, as they made their way through the food court. The girls wore strangely Celtic dresses. Not so much skirts, as triangular slats, draped in such a way as to give the impression of a skirt. They also wore halberds, you know, those tunics favored in the Middle Ages. These girls were primped in their best Jon Benet Ramsy hairdos and their dresses were very, very bright. In fact, I thought to myself that if I were to look at their dresses and guess the designer, I would have to go with a gay Dr. Suess, tripping on LSD and entering an "experimental" phase. The kind of dresses that you do not look into, without protective eye wear.

I was curious, I had to see what these little monkeys were up to. With any luck, it was a bank heist in progress. Perhaps the triangular slats of the dress were bullet proof sheets of iron. They'd enter the bank and spread out to cover all exits. Then the littlest girl, only three feet tall would leap up onto the teller's desk and whip out a large, black uzi. "Sure and yur ta be givin me alla yur cash now!" she'd say and smile like the devil incarnate.

Or maybe it was a dance recital.

I bought a small cup of Cookies and Cream ice cream, dumped my Subway trash into the waste receptacle and scurried up the escalator to the balcony on the second floor that over looks the main courtyard. Sure enough, a new banner was hung with a "Happy Saint Patty's Day from Illinois Governor George Ryan!" message scrawled across. You know, it's funny how much green you see on St. Patty's Day. Green dyed rivers, green dyed beer, green clothes. Chicago even changes the lens in their stop lights so that the "Go" light is green. God bless, civic pride!

Some random governmental figure head made a lame speech about Chicago and St. Patty's Day and Children and Future of Tomorrow. Blah blah blah. He cued the guy operating the CD player and a joyful Irish tune leapt out. Some Irish guy was playing on his violin, a happy, whimsical tune! The speaker returned to his seat and thus was entered the world famous, award winning Irish Trinity Dancers. Taa-dah!

The little monkeys danced out in curved lies that intercepted and joined. They tapped and clicked their heels and bounced and kicked! Hoorah! The girls bounced delicately and I saw the wisdom of the design of their dress flaps. They bounced too, moving rhythmically in unison with all of the other girls. As a big finale to the first number, the littlest girl, the one I pictured with an uzi, came dancing out, between a line that the others had formed and kicked her little legs and smiled at the audience, adorably, and raised her shoulders in a big shrug as if to say, "Oh I don't know how I got to be so darn cute. Lucky, I guess!" and she danced back into the line of the other girls.

Enter the boys. There's an odd look on a prepubescent boys face as he dances in a dance recital. Part fear, part grim determination, part embarrassment. The little boy monkeys locked their arms at the side, as I am sure they were told to do, and hopped and kicked, just like the girls. The boys wore black shirts and slacks and ties. They looked like junior morticians, forced to dance upon penalty of death. I wondered to myself if they asked to become Irish Dancers or if Mom and Dad made that choice for them. Makes you wonder.

Anyways, the girls surrounded the boys and they all gaily danced back, off the stage. Everyone, including myself, applauded their energetic first number.

I'd finished my ice cream and I was preparing to make my way back to the office, via a trash bin, when I saw the leprechaun. He was downstairs, just off to the side, leaning casually against a pillar, watching the dancers. He was short, perhaps two and a half feet tall, with a bushy red beard and a perfectly tailored green suit, complete with wee bowler. Tucked under his arm, was a bonafied shelayleigh. He clapped his hands and smiled at the wee ones. And, as luck would have it, he was standing next to a trash bin.

My fascination with midgets and wee folk is well documented. No, size does not matter, but it sure is interesting to look at. So, I went out of my way to get to the trash bin by the midget, so that I could talk to him. I dumped my trash and walked up, to stand casually next to him. he glanced over at me and then went back to watching the Dance of Celtic Joy for the Motherland!

I couldn't resist, I had to talk to him.

"They're pretty good aren't they," I said, casually.

"Aye. That they are. That they are," He replied, in thick Irish brogue. This guy was good. I bet he makes an incredible elf, for Christmas.

"That's a great costume. Really! It's fantastic!" I said.

He stopped clapping and looked over up to me. He examined me, as if I'd just taken a Poo on his shoe and he wasn't sure what to do with me. I hoped he wouldn't club me in the crotch with his shelayleigh.

"Lad, it's isn't a costume, I assure you. These are me natural vestments. Where I come from, everyone wears them," he explained.

I think I got the joke, so I asked him, "And where do you come from?"

"Why, Ireland, of course. The Emerald Isle! That's me home, I'm only visiting for the weekend, for to see the river dyed and to grab a pint at the local pub."

"Sure, you are."

" Ye don't believe me? Oh and yur a cocky one aren't ya? I've half a mind ta turn ya into a wee hare, just fur ya lip! But, I'm enjoyin the dances and feelin festive, an seein how yur a yank, an dumb to the magical ways of the world, I'll leave ya be."

"I bet you make a great elf, for Christmas."

"Go away," he said, "Ya aren't funny ta me, anymore."

"Sorry. I just wanted to let you know, that I thought you look great! Very Leprechaun. I like midgets, as a rule, and I think you're one of the best. Very authentic. Well, Slainte, and I hope that everyone buys you lots of green beer this weekend."

"Uh-huh,' he murmured. He was watching the dancers again. Ignoring me.

"Bye, little leprechaun. Enjoy America! Say "Hi" to king Bryan for me," King Bryan is king of the Leprechauns in the Disney classic, Darby O Gill and The Little People. I think he's still their king.

"I will. Happy Saint Patty's Day."

"You too, Happy Saint Patty's day. Bye" and I walked away. As I walked away, I thought to myself that that didn't go as well as I'd hoped. He was an uppity midget and not given to receiving compliments. Oh well. I guess he was so caught up in the whole leprechaun thing, that he wasn't able to break character. I thought to myself, what if he really was a leprechaun and he really was here for the river and what if, when I turned around to look at him, he was gone?

I started to turn and look at him, but I didn't. Because, what if he wasn't gone. It's a better story if I walk on and imagine him disappearing or better yet, dancing with the wee bonnie lasses. I don't believe in magic, per se. But I do believe in helping a "magical" moment to come to fruition. So, I didn't turn back and I left the Thompson Center and decided that I met a real leprechaun and he almost turned me into a rabbit.

See? Isn't that a much better story?

Happy Saint Patty's Day! Drink lots, but not so much that you vomit green stuff on to your shoes!

Be well,
Write Often,

Mr.B