A Soleful Inheritance [FICTION]

 “That’s for you.” The lawyer places a shoebox on the desk between us.

“My uncle left me some shoes?” I nod my head slowly. “That makes sense.”

“I know nothing of the contents. He taped it closed himself and insisted that you not open it until you are alone…” He pauses to shuffle through some envelopes on his desk. “But you must read this first.”

I take the envelope, glancing at the names carefully written on them in my uncle’s block letters. Apparently, both of my sisters, my mom, and my uncle Dave haven’t visited with Uncle Shane’s lawyer yet. I wonder what style of shoes he left them. I earned low top blue and white sneakers somehow.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Wade.” I lift the box from desk, pondering how shoes could have this kind of heft. 

It occurs to me this could be a box of family pictures or important documents. I heft the box again and again to gauge its weight as I carry it to my car. The drive home blurs with memories of Uncle Shane from freeze tag to unsuccessful fishing trips to the last time we talked.

We didn’t say anything unusual and he closed off with his standard reminder to keep it real. He did deviate from our mundane jocularity to make a weird comment about knowing he can always trust me with the hard decisions. I glance at the box, wondering what hard decision it might contain. 

The piercing scream of the horn of a passing car puts my eyes back where they belong—on the road. Properly chastened, I focus on my driving until I pull into my garage and close the door. I don’t bother opening the door. Curiosity takes hold of my hands and I reach for the box, remembering the counsel to read the letter first. I open it slowly and take a deep breath.

“Dear Opal,

“You’ve always been the gem of our family, sparkling bright even when the rest of us are struggling. That’s why I didn’t tell you I was sick. I wanted to be able to see that sparkle until the day I died. Hope I succeeded.

“So everyone got a shoebox. You probably figured that out even though I asked the lawyer to see you each separately. Honestly, I didn’t want you to learn about your inheritance in front of everyone else. Most of those shoeboxes are filled with trinkets, or pictures of larger items that I knew they wanted, but you never asked for anything. You always gave. You always give.

“So I have given you a huge responsibility. Go ahead. Open the shoebox now.”

I set the letter down and open the shoebox. Nestled inside, I find stacks of hundreds. I slowly pull them out, counting at least two thousand dollars. Underneath that, my uncle had placed a cashier’s check for an unspeakable sum of money. I take another deep breath and pick the letter back up.

“I hope you will listen to me and use some of this money to do something nice for yourself. Even if it is just a haircut. You should be able to spend twenty dollars on yourself without feeling guilty.

“The rest of it, I know you will invest wisely for our family, so you can help out if they really need it. I hope you will forgive me for putting this on your shoulders, but I know I can trust you. I know you love our family as much as I do. You are so much better at showing it than I ever was though. Just keep being you.

“And, Opal, keep it real.

“Love and stuff,

“Your Uncle Shane”

~~Are you that person? Are you the gem of your family? I, honestly, would probably spend a fair amount of that money on books and things to nibble while reading said books. That’s why no one ever leaves me shoeboxes full of cash, right?

In other news, I am sorry this offering is late. I haven’t been feeling well and I need to invest my time better in order to keep entertaining the world and keep my house acceptably clean and tidy.~~

The Leprechaun’s True Gift [FICTION]

“Ugh.” I roll out of bed and onto the floor.

Upon opening my eyes, I realize that the nearest piece of furniture is the kitchen table. I must have fallen from a chair. Failing to find any memories of the previous evening rolling around in my head, I glance around the room, looking for clues. The white linoleum of my kitchen floor sports green stains. Some are shaped like my hands. Raising them to my face, I confirm that I may have spent the evening impersonating Kermit the Frog. One burp assures me that the green dye originated in more than my fair share of green brews last night or I ate my weight in green bread.

Curious as to how far the green spreads over my body, I roll up my sleeves. As I do so, burning discomfort erupts from my left forearm. I look down to see gauze carefully taped across my forearm.

“Oh no. What did I cut myself on?” I murmur, gently peeling back the bandage to see what sort of damage hides underneath.

“Hmm.” I ponder the map tattooed on my now tender skin.

I waver between intrigue and and panic as I realize I now have a permanent reminder of whatever shenanigans I got involved in the night before. I stare at the tattoo for about ten minutes before deciding only a clearer head will be able to unravel the secrets of my lost evening.

A couple of glasses of water and an omelet later, I find my stomach settled and my mind cleared enough to remember snippets of the previous night. I remember meeting a short man who took Saint Patrick’s Day so seriously that he decked himself out as a leprechaun, complete with rainbow suspenders and flowing red beard. 

“Oh, McDougall’s. That was where I went last night.” I smile as I remember the bustle and excitement at my favorite Irish pub.

Even my unrhythmic feet couldn’t help but pound the floor in an energetic river dance a time or two. It was after my third prance across the floor that I met the leprechaun. At first, I thought he was hitting on me, but he seemed unfazed by my attempts to brush him off. Three more beers in, and I realized he wanted to tell me something important.

“I like your style. I’ve never seen a woman drink like that,” he pushed a shot of Irish whiskey to me, “and I have never met anyone who wasn’t interested in me pot of gold.”

“That’s nice, man. Thanks for the shot.” I remember the feel of it burning its way down to my stomach and am surprised I remember anything past that point.

I look down at my wrist again. “Did that leprechaun have a tattoo gun in that pot with the gold? Did a leprechaun tattoo the directions to his pot of golf on my arm?”

I peer at the tiny map, trying to figure out where the map wishes to lead me. I see a shamrock at one end and a pot of gold at the other. The configuration of the streets between seems familiar. I notice a third tiny image. Placing my arm almost on my nose, I make out a tiny stein of brown ale. Suddenly, the map makes sense.

I am sitting in the middle of the shamrock, my house. The tiny stein of ale is McDougall’s pub, which means the pot of gold is just past the library. I guess my grade school librarian was right when she assured us that reading would make us rich, though I always assumed she meant rich in knowledge.

“Let’s go see.” I say to no one. “But first, I should cover this up.”

I laugh as I reach into the closet and pull out the first jacket my hand touches. Green velvet wouldn’t be my first choice, but since I am not certain what I am looking for, I want to hurry and find it before anyone else can—if there is anything to find.

I make the decision to walk in the hopes that the fresh air will further clear my head and help me work through whatever has my stomach burbling and boiling inside me. I regret the decision by the time I reach the halfway point between my house and the library three blocks away. My legs feel like warm rubber, causing me to wobble back and forth. I ignore the sideways looks I get from people correctly assuming that I am just one more person lost in the fog that follows a night of Saint Patrick’s Day debauchery.

As my weary legs bring me  to the library, I look up and giggle. A rainbow slides across the clear sky with one end apparently coming down behind the library. I follow the brick path that leads around to the cozy reading garden. At one of the tables, I find my friend from the previous evening. Before him on one of the ornate metal tables sits a large black cauldron that seems to glow from within.

“You found me, my dear.” He gestures to the seat before me. “And now I ask what you desire…”

I sit down next to him, sighing with relief. “This is all I need. A place to sit.”

He laughs, showing perfectly white teeth among the flaming orange of his beard. “You really are the strangest human I have ever met.”

“I feel like I should thank you, “ I reply.

“You’re welcome.” He grins. “But you never answered my question.”

“I wasn’t aware leprechauns granted wishes.”

“We can if we choose to.”

“Did I wish for this?” I raise my arm to show him my tattoo.

“Of course not. Just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

“Probably wise.” I sigh. “Now I will remember forever.”

“Oh good. Then you don’t need that any more.” He wiggles his fingers and one eyebrow and my arm tingles.

I look down and watch the ink dissipate into the air, leaving no trace on my skin. “Well, thank you again.”

“And now for the business at hand.” He leans forward and pulls the pot of gold toward himself. “I need you to take this.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t.” I look at the pot suspiciously. “I heard somewhere that leprechaun gold is cursed.”

“A little bit, but I need to retire and I think you have the right mindset to take my place.”

“As a leprechaun?” My eyes bulge out. “That’s ridiculous.”

He nudges the pot toward me and keeps nudging it until it tips over into my lap. I reach out to catch it. As my hands touch the metal surface, it shimmers and becomes gold for a moment. 

“What did you do now?” I ask as a weird sensation stretches from my stem to my crown.

As the pot seems to double in size, the leprechaun seems to grow as well. His red hair darkens for a moment before fading to salt and pepper. “I am so glad you had enough Irish in you.” He smiles.

“Just the whiskey,” I joke before asking again. ‘What is going on?”

“You, my dear, will now lead an exciting life as a leprechaun. Take good care of that gold and it will take good care of you.”

“But I can’t watch a pot of gold. I have class.”

“No need for class. Top of the mornin’ to ye. Good luck.” He wiggles his fingers and suddenly I am alone at the end of the rainbow with my very own pot of gold.

~So I don’t actually drink. Forgive me if my descriptions of hangovers and drunkenness have a slightly sober slant. My knowledge of leprechauns is clearly spot on though. Or are they? Only the leprechaun knows. Hope you have fun plans for to wear green, eat green, but maybe not be green unless you are the Hulk, Yoda, or Kermit. (Also, if you are Yoda or Kermit, call me!)~

The Real Concert Begins [FICTION]

“Where did you get tickets to this concert again?” I ask after my stub has been handed back to me.

My friend Allison grins. “Some guy at work was giving them out.”

“And this band is good?” I look at the ticket stub skeptically, certain I have never heard of the Laser Light Loners before.

As they begin to play, I quickly realize I actually wish to never hear about them or from them again. My three year old nephew makes better music when he is screaming “Mom! Mom! Mom!” at the top of his lungs.

After the fourth song, I tap Allison on the shoulder. She mouths, “I’m sorry,” but her eyes speak so much more. Soon we are in the parking lot and we are not alone. Half the crowd seems to have joined us. I have to wonder what kept anyone standing around to listen. My top contenders include being related to the band, having already reached a level of inebriation that makes the chaotic misalignment of sounds suddenly seem like musical poetry, or having the worst taste in music ever given to someone with full use of their ears and brain. I express these ideas to Allison as she offers to make it up to me by taking me to our favorite pub. Though we don’t drink, their fries and hot fudge sundaes are among the best I have ever tasted.

We have just polished off our sundaes when Allison giggles and points toward the door. “Looks like your new favorite band found your favorite place.”

‘What?” I glance over my shoulder to see the lead singer of the Laser Light Loners.

I roll my eyes. “At least it isn’t karaoke night.”

“I dunno. I think I’d like to see him pit his vocal skills against yours.”

“I have no skills,” I inform her.

“You must have some skills,” she says, nodding her head at something over my shoulder.

I turn to find the lead singer smiling down at me with the bass player and drummer flanking him like rock star body guards. “Hello.” I have to admit his voice sounds better when he isn’t screaming into a microphone, but my ears can’t forget the horrors that he calls singing.

I smile anyway. “Hi.”

“Seen any good concerts lately,” he grins at me.

“No,” my own smile fades.

“Oh!” He looks like I just punched him in the gut.

“Must not have seen our concert.” The drummer declares obliviously.

“We did,” Allison backs my play. “Part of it.”

“Ouch!” Looking deflated, the drummer heads over to the bar.

“Let me make it up to you. I’ll buy you a drink,” the lead singer offers. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Kim,” I offer him my hand, “We’re just drinking water.”

He mulls this over, inspecting the toes of his sneakers as Allison mouths, “Be nice. He’s not that bad looking.”

I roll my eyes at her but take a deep breath and her advice. “Maybe you could make it up to us another way.” 

“I’d love to try,” he lowers his voice, grinning at me.

“Not that way,” I give him my most disapproving look.

He laughs, “Of course not. Of course not. So what do you have in mind?”

I glance at Allison, giving her a slow wink. “There is a karaoke bar on the other side of the street. Want to have a sing off?”

“You know I’m a singer, right?” He looks incredulous.

“Maybe you’ll have more luck singing someone else’s songs.” I grin at him and stand up.

Allison joins me, offering her own challenge, “Unless you don’t think you’re up to it.”

We giggle. Allison knows how truly terrible my singing can be. In fact, she once pointed out that the more I love a song, the more I seem to butcher it on its way across my lips.

“Oh. I’m up for it. Come on guys, give me some support.” He waves his friends in and they fall in behind us on our way out.

Our waitress looks at us curiously as she waves goodbye. 

Soon, we are sitting at a sticky table with what I find to be arguably the worst band in the world, looking for the right songs to pit our voices against each other. Allison selects a country tune for me, hoping to highlight the accent I never completely vanquished from my speech when I ran away to the city. John lets his friends select a song for him, a ballad from the 80s that makes him wince just hearing the name.

While I am scrolling through my phone to get a reminder of the lyrics I will be singing, Allison stands up and walks over to the disc jockey. I don’t give it much thought until the background music disappears and her voice fills the air around us.

“My friend and I need your help,” she gestures toward me and the disc jockey shines a light on me, “She has challenged a new friend of ours to a sing off. You decide which one of them deserves the win. You get to listen to both songs and then we will ask you to vote for my friend or the other contender Doesn’t that sound fun?”

We get light applause and a few drunken cheers. One man stands up and starts to lift his shirt over his head, presumably to toss in Allison’s direction. Luckily, his friends talk him out of it, probably by reminding him that such behavior gets one kicked out of the establishment fueling the happy drunkenness. 

I stand up to sing first. Even I cringe at how far off I am at points in the song, but the crowd listens with the politeness granted the inebriated. I even get a couple of supportive claps from the man who probably still wants to toss his shirt onstage. I appreciate his restraint.

It turns out John’s friends want to play to his weaknesses. Most of the chorus proves way too high for him, and the expression on his face speaks to his distaste for the song, the key it should be sung in, and probably the band from which it sprang. He closes up with a brief improv a cappella rap of insult for his friends and steps over to stand next to me as Allison continues her duties as master of ceremonies for our musical circus.

“May we first hear applause for my girl Kim.”

Most of the room expresses their preference for my musical stylings by pounding their hands together.

“And who prefers the musical stylings of John and his heartfelt ballad?”

A few people offer soft pity claps. His two friends try to make up the difference with loud hoots and hollers.

“And who just wants them both to sing again?”

A soft chorus of boos fills the bar. One person even calls out a helpful, “Get off the stage.”

And the most helpful of all is the drunk man assuring us loudly that if we sing again, he is taking off his shirt and giving us both hugs. I shudder as I glance in the direction of the wet stains in his armpits. 

“That concludes this evening’s humiliation for my dear friend, though I think she may be the new frontman of a local band in light of tonight’s vote.”

A few people guffaw, but I doubt any of them have heard of the Laser Light Loners. If they have, they probably will join me in forgetting about them.

“I guess you bested me this time, but I am always up for a rematch.” John offers me his hand.

“Don’t touch the star,” Allison tells him as she begins dramatically dragging me toward the door. “No autographs, please.”

“Come on, Allison, don’t be rude.”

“Shh. I know you like being flirted with, but it can’t go anywhere,” she assures me, “What would you do if he wrote you a love song?”

~I kind of feel like this is how people would react to me deciding to be a singer. That is why I skip getting off the stage by not stepping onto it in the first place. I shall stick to my poetry for now, but feel free to let me know if you are brave enough to let me sing to you, so you can give me an honest opinion of my pipes.~