The Irishmen - Short Story
I sat at the kitchen table in silence. Stereotypical Leprechaun, yes that’s his name, sat next to me, wearing a cowboy hat, and a one-piece pajama outfit. Also in silence. We had nothing to say to each other, for we had nothing to even think about.
“I don’t like how you don’t wear green,” I said as I gave him a quick glance of disapproval.
“What?” Stereotypical Leprechaun asked.
“You’re a leprechaun, you should wear green.”
“You’re a moron, and should wear a dunce hat, but I don’t see one on your head.”
“You probably don’t even have a pot of gold.”
“You know who also doesn’t have a pot of gold? Everyone… literally everyone. Gold is not easy to find.”
I noticed we were out of beer so I got up to get more from the kitchen.
When I returned to the room, we had company at the table. Two Irishmen decided to stop by and join us to drink. The two were St. Patrick in a backward red hat, and James Joyce in a white tuxedo.
I sat next to James. “Did you know they were coming over?”
Photo: Light beer by Marco Verch
under Creative Commons 2.0
“Oh. Here we go again.” Stereotypical Leprechaun took the pitcher and poured himself another.
“Say what food do you have?” St. Patrick asked.
“The type you eat. Why?”
He got up and headed towards the kitchen. “I’ll give it a look-see.”
I waited for James to acknowledge me or Stereotypical Leprechaun, but he didn’t. He just sat there drinking from his pint.
“So are you going to say anything?” I asked the sharply dressed author.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“This is the guy you invited?” Leprechaun whispered to me.
I tried to make conversation. “So …. James… You wrote Ulysses…. That’s nice.”
“I wrote the greatest book ever. That is not much to celebrate.”
I didn’t know whether he was being sarcastic or not. “Sure whatever you say,” I answered, having cared little for the book.
“I like Love Me Forever,” Leprechaun spoke up. “What? It made me cry.”
“My book has its own holiday,” James bragged.
“Yeah, but did you ever lead the Celtics to an NBA championship?” A new voice entered the conversation.
“Larry Bird? What are you doing here? You’re not Irish. Are you?” I asked.
He took a pint from Stereotypical Leprechaun.
“Nah. But I am the greatest Celtic of all time. That basically makes me Irish.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.” Stereotypical Leprechaun passed the pitcher to Joyce.
“So Larry, you have the surname of Bird, is that correct?” The author asked the professional athlete.
“Yeah. Haven’t changed it yet.”
“So a Caucasian male who is vertically challenged goes by the name Bird. Fascinating. Are you sure you are not a literary character?”
“Fairly certain.”
“Wait ‘til he hears about Magic,” I said as I finished my drink and called for the pitcher.
Larry smiled at my comment.
A knock came at the door.
“Who else did you invite to this party of yours?” Stereotypical Leprechaun got up to answer the door.
“I invited a real leprechaun.” I looked at Larry. “Guy over here calls himself a leprechaun and doesn’t even wear green.”
St. Patrick walks in with plenty of food. “Got some snacks for us.”
“Stop eating all my food, Pat!” I called out at the only saint there.
Larry and James start digging into the snacks that Pat threw on the table.
“Doritos, nice.” Larry grabbed a bag.
“Blue Doritos Larry?” Pat stared at him. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
Stereotypical Leprechaun walked back into the room. “Got a guy at the door says you know him because he has a particular set of skills.”
“Who?” I asked confused at the guest’s identity.
“At least we know it’s not Lep’s friends,” James said with food in his mouth.
“Shut up you.”
“Ok. Let him in,” I said without realizing I allowed a stranger inside.
In walks none other than the greatest Irishman of all: Liam Neeson.
“How are you fellas doing tonight? I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
“Well... Lep refuses to wear green. Larry and Pat are no longer friends because of chips. And James is writing a book on Larry.”
“Sounds fun. And before you ask Larry, I am not going to play you in the movie.”
“I’m too handsome for you. I understand.”
James interjected. “I was thinking, The Life of a Player Who Once Played: How the Bird Man Flew.”
“Bird man? No one calls me that,” Larry informed the novelist.
“Not yet.”
Time went by and we did the only thing people ever do when they drink… talk in a way that makes sense at the time. Larry played for the Celtics ‘til the 2000s. Patrick went to America to spread his religion. James’s book is the second greatest book ever too. And Stereotypical Leprechaun’s name made sense to him. Alcohol clogs the mind to make room for sensible nonsense.
Eventually, Liam started to bring the night to an end.
“So what are you fellas doing for Pat’s day?”
“When’s that?” James asked.
“In two days.”
The table went silent. I don’t know if we were all trying to gather ourselves and not allow the alcohol to lose to gravity, or whether we didn’t know of the holiday.
“So none of you have plans for Pat’s Day?” We all shook our heads collectively. “Not even you Patty?”
“I was going to sleep in.”
I got up to get another pitcher of alcohol from the kitchen. When I got back to the table, it was empty.
I sat down in the chair I had been sitting in all night. I poured myself a pint and then closed my eyes, trying to fight the drunkenness that hit me. When I opened my eyes, the room was still empty. No one but me.
“I really have to stop drinking when I write.”
“Tell me about it. You talk to yourself and it’s weird,” Stereotypical Leprechaun said, as he sat beside me eating Doritos. “And for some reason, you speak like everyone is drinking from a pint, but that can’t happen, since we are home and only have cans.”
“Oh... right.”
He got up from the table. “Yeah. Happy St. Patrick’s Day. I’m going to bed.”
“Just so we are clear, Liam Neeson was never here.”
“No. Not at all.”
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Greg Luti is an editor and blogger on pensandwords.com. His favorite writers are Robert Frost and Charles Bukowski. He enjoys reading up on history, watching comedies, and playing video games, when he is not writing down a few notes for his next piece. He started this blog out of his love for literature and hopes that the reader shares that same passion.
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