“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!)~
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