Author's Note: A
few years ago, I wrote a blog piece about how much I dislike the way we observe St. Patrick's Day here in the US. One of the particular
things that bothers me is how we portray Leprechauns. In traditional Irish Lore, they are
not benevolent creatures who leave chocolate coins in your shoes.
They are far more mischievous—even devious. This story is a modern
fairy tale about what a real encounter with a leprechaun might be
like.
Barry hung up the
phone and exhaled slowly. Relief and hope flooded through him—a job
interview. He had sent out hundreds of resumes and letters in the
months since he was laid off. His savings were dwindling and he was
beginning to feel desperate. Now he had the chance to get his foot in
the door and make an impression.
He pulled his best
suit out of the closet. It was a little loose after weeks of eating
Ramen noodles and pounding the pavement, but it would do. It had to
be cleaned and pressed and his dress shoes were worn at the heels and
in need of polish. Fortunately he had a few days to get things in
order.
“Can I get these
by Tuesday?” he asked the dry cleaner.
“The suit is no
problem. You can have it tomorrow,” the smiling Vietnamese man
assured him. “I don’t fix shoes anymore though.”
“Do you know
anyone who does? I can’t remember the last time I went to a
cobbler.”
“There’s a man
downtown who still fixes shoes,” the man said hesitantly.
“O’Malley? O’Riley? Something like that. Nice enough guy. A
little strange.”
“I can put up
with strange if he can fix my shoes before my interview on Wednesday.
Have a good night Mr. Nguyen.”
Barry left the
store and walked downtown, saving himself the bus fare.
“This
guy better still be in business,” he muttered as he pulled his coat
tightly to shut out the bitter March wind.
At
the end of a row of empty store fronts, a golden light poured from a
shop window. Barry couldn't remember ever seeing the carved oak sign
that read:
Daniel
O’Rourke, Cobbler
Shoes
Repaired While You Wait
He pushed open the
door, expecting the shop to be broken down and dusty like the rest of
the neighborhood. Instead, well cared for hand tools were laid out
like a surgeon's on the maple workbench and an old black and gold
Singer sewing machine gleamed like new. A rack of perfectly
repaired shoes lined the wall, each pair tagged with its owner’s
name. A statue of a dozing leprechaun sitting on a bench with an awl
in his hand decorated one corner.
There was no one in
the shop. No bells rang when he opened the door to announce the
arrival of a customer. Barry waited a moment and cleared his throat,
hoping it would draw someone from the back room. A few moments passed
and he called out, “Hello? Is anyone here?’
“Oh! I beg your
pardon sir. I must have dozed off!” replied the man Barry had
mistaken for a statue. He leapt from his stool in the corner and
crossed the room with remarkable speed for a man of only four feet
tall. “My name is Daniel O’Rourke. What can I do for you today?”
His freckled face was nearly as red as his hair and his dark eyes
shimmered like coals.
“I have a job
interview on Wednesday. I’m wondering if you can have my shoes
fixed in time.”
“Let’s take a
look then,” O’Rourke said and gestured for Barry to put the shoes
up on the counter. He hopped onto an old wooden box and took a closer
look. “These are good shoes. It’ll be nothing to get them looking
like new.”
“That’s great,”
Barry said. “I’ve been out of work for months. I really need to
make a good impression at this interview.”
“Months you say?”
“You wouldn’t
believe how many jobs I’ve applied for. No one’s hiring.”
“Well that calls
for a celebration my boy!” the little man declared and slipped into
the back room. He returned with a pottery jug and two old cups. “I
know it doesn’t look like much. But this whiskey is the best you’ll
ever have.”
Barry was taken
aback by the O’Rourke’s friendliness, but never one to turn down
a glass of whiskey, he smiled and accepted the drink.
“Slainte!” the
little man said. His thick Donegal brogue reminded Barry of his great
grandfather.
“Slainte,”
Barry replied, drinking the whiskey. The sweet and spicy liquor
burned pleasantly.
“Your
grandfather?” Spoke the little man as if reading Barry's mind. “He
was a Donegal man.”
“How did you know
that?”
“Ach, I've been
around. You might say I can smell the blood of a Donegal man,”
“You're right
about the whiskey,” said Barry. “I’ve never tasted anything
this good. What’s it called?” He finished the rest
and held his hand out for more. The little man poured another
generous tot into the cup and smiled as Barry continued drinking.
“Oh, you can’t
buy this in any old package store son. This is Daniel O’Rourke’s
own whiskey.”
“You made this
yourself?” Barry asked as the whiskey warmed him all over and made
his vision blur. Nevertheless, he held his glass out for more. “You
can make whiskey and fix my shoes in time for my job interview?
You’re my hero!”
“I can indeed.
Alas, I don’t think you’ll be goin’ to that interview on
Wednesday Barry me boy.”
“Not going? Why?
Why wouldn’t I go? Wait. How did you know my name?”
The little man's
grin transformed from friendly to fierce.
“You drank my
whiskey mo chara. You’ll be workin’ for me for the next seven
years.”
“What? But I
don’t know how to fix shoes,” Barry said as the store got fuzzier
and fuzzier.
“Don’t worry
about that. You go on home. Get a good night’s sleep. Meet me back
here tomorrow.”
Barry’s mouth
felt like it had been dragged through a litter box. The sun shining
through his window stabbed at his eyes like needles. He couldn’t
remember how he got home. The last thing he remembered was a guy who
looked like he walked off a Lucky Charms box laughing at him. He
staggered to the kitchen for water. On the table were his black dress
shoes. The heel had been repaired and the polish was so shiny, he
could see his reflection in it. There was a note attached,
“See you at 10am
mo chara. D.O.”
“Crazy old
bastard,” Barry said, crumpling the note. He tossed it into the
trash and took a shower.
He emerged fifteen minutes later feeling
clear-headed enough to make a pot of coffee. As he crossed the
kitchen, he saw the note, no longer crumpled propped up against his
shoes. It was nothing,
Barry told himself. He must have imagined throwing away the note.
That whiskey had really done a number on him. As he thought of the
whiskey, he could feel the warmth steal across his chest like when he
took the first sip. Like an echo in his mind he heard the old man
say, “You drank my whiskey mo chara. You’ll be workin’ for me
for the next seven years.”
Nonsense. That was
potent stuff, but not so potent it could make him a slave. He picked
up the note and tore it to pieces. A chime on his phone alerted Barry
that he had a voicemail.
“Good Morning
Barry. This is Fran Lancaster from the firm of Smith, Gold, and
Stein. I'm calling to let you know we won't need for you to come into
the interview on Wednesday. The position we spoke about has been filled.”
Barry sank into a
kitchen chair feeling cold. He glanced at his shoes on the table. The
note was propped up against them once more—uncrumpled and untorn.
The wind outside
picked up. It sounded like laughter.
