The Blues of the Leprechaun (standard:Inspirational stories, 1571 words)
Author: Spencer O'Dunn	Added: Mar 07 2003	Views/Reads: 5025/2432	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Irish immigrant barkeep influences the lives of many through his words and love of Ireland.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Dublin.  A momentous decision.  A life changing decision.  A night to 
remember. So, after the last wobbly patron tipped their hat to me, I 
swept up the place, washed up the beer from the bar, turned off the 
light, locked the door and began my walk back home.  I had a clear 
head. I could see the Irish coastline like I was there.  My life had a 
point.  I was heading home. 

"Hey, you, leprechaun!" 

It was a voice crying to me from the alley. 

"I ain't no leprechaun and you know it - you drunken cur!" 

"But you are.  You just don"t know it!" 

I kept walking..quickly back home. And then I stopped.  Why, you ask?  I
don't have a clue.  But we Irish believe in fate and miracles and 
divine intervention, so your guess is as good as mine. 

I wandered back to the alley and there was this young man propped up
against the garbage dumpster. 

"Mr. Leprechaun, do you have a miracle to spare?  You see I need one bad
and I thought you might have an extra four leaf clover up your sleeve." 


I don't know if he was drunk or high on the dope.  But his eyes were
piercing me through. 

"Son, I can't give you any of that hocus pocus but I can give you some
coffee if that would help." 

"No, you see I need a miracle to keep from dying and I thought you Irish
might have the secret solution to everything." 

"If you are dying from the booze we can talk about that, young man." 

"No, lep, I'm not dying from the booze but I'm dying from the A.I.D.S.
You know AIDS or don't they have that over there?" 

"I'm sorry."  I really didn't know what to say so I said the first lame
brain thought that crept into my lame brain.  I sounded more like Barry 
Fitzgerald than Barry Fitzgerald ever did. 

"Let me call you a cab and get you back home." 

"Home is a hospice where there are twenty of me.  Home is a place where
we look at each other and scream and cry and wait to die.  That's my 
home.  I heard you talk of yours for years.  Your magical home." 

And then I remembered him.  He was there maybe once a week. Sitting at
the end of the bar.  Drinking a ginger ale.  Looking into his glass 
like it held all the secrets of the universe.  I guess now I realized 
he was looking for an answer. 

"Well, lep, I guess it's time for me to keep on walking." 

"Let me get you back to that home of yours. For better or worse it"s a
place to go for shelter and warmth.  A place to be safe." 

"Hey, lep, that's okay.  There's a thousand of your kind across the city
now. Maybe I'll find a true leprechaun who can wave his fairy dust over 
me and make me well again.  And you know, If I can't find the cure with 
you Irish I'll start working through the Poles and the Mexicans and 
I'll keep looking until I find it." 

And with that he was gone. 

I never saw him again.  And I'm still here in Chicago, still serving the
guiness, stout and ale.  Still telling stories of a country that means 
magic.  But you know, he touched me.  Something that young man said 
that night in that alley made me realize that my words had magic.  My 
words made people forget about their lives, their suffering and their 
daily dramas and made them believe in something. 

I found his hospice or one of the many in the city of Chicago. And I
volunteer there on Sunday, my day offf.  I tell these me who have no 
hope stories of hope; of forgiveness; of beauty.  They look at me with 
their sad searching eyes and they reach out for a piece of the sod.  To 
them Ireland is a place of peace and wonder.  A place like heaven.  
Sometimes I watch them cry and then I find myself crying with them.  
Crying like a newborn looking for love. 

So I don't know if the Ireland I tell about is true or not.  I don't
know if my stories are real or make believe. But they tell of a place 
that makes men smile and cry. We all have our own private Ireland.  I 
hope you never lose sight of yours.


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