BEGORRA

It’s been warmish for the middle of winter in Atlanta, 75 degrees today at 7 A.M. and this is before the sun has a chance to say, ‘Hello, Folks. Here I am again.’ I take advantage of Old Sol’s sloth walking a fast mile to the end of Dublin Rd. at least 5 days a week and a slightly slower pace going home.

Taking the last turn in my route I yell, ‘Why did you do that?’ to somebody who pushed me, knocked me down. My knee is skinned, but barely bleeds and I’m ready for a fight or maybe I’ll just sue the guy. There is nobody to call a name, to sue. The shiny black Cadillac that sped out of condo #7612 driveway would surely have hit me if that non-person hadn’t pushed me down. I try to put this strange happening out of my mind but it won’t go away.

At home the first thing I do is go to the medicine cabinet, get a fresh piece of gauze, soap it and gently clean off the gravel . The chance of there being enough Bacitracin left in the flattened tube that’s been on a shelf for months bothers me. I reach to the mirrored cabinet door again and a brand new tube tumbles out and drops in the sink. The sound startles me for only a minute. A little voice tells me something is goofy here. My mate, Patrick Ryan, didn’t replace the used up tube, even though I mentioned it a few times. He just wouldn’t do it so who did? I’m wacky sometimes but I’d remember this.

Toot, toot, it’s 5:30 p.m. and Patrick pulls into the garage, comes directly into the kitchen, twirling, spinning, stopping to do a few clog steps. He sweeps me off my feet. ‘Come on, Lassie, give me a big kiss.’ I do not have to be prodded. Our 30 years together have flown like a soft, summer breeze. Love has never faltered . We live and love as one.

I am on my way to the kitchen cabinet to get a whiskey glass for Pat when I see the door opening slowly by itself. ‘Patrick, did you see that?’ ‘All I saw was you. My fantastic clogging vibrated the cabinet door and that is why it opened, not some spooky ghost. You are so silly sometime.’ He hugs me again, gets his glass for his daily single shot of Bushmill’s 16 year old malt. He tosses his head back, swallows the strong stuff and grimaces his pleasure.

During dinner I tell him about the phantom who pushed me out of the way of a speeding car. ‘Don’t laugh. It’s true. By the way, did you buy a new tube of Bacitracin?’ He bangs the table, shouts, ‘Begorra, I forgot again. I’ll go get it now if you like.’ ‘You didn’t let me finish my story. There is a new tube in the cabinet and neither of us put it there. Explain that!’ Patrick has asked me many times, ‘Are you going loco on me, Darling?’ He rolls up the sports section of the Daily News and swats my rear.

Reaching to soothe myself, I notice a lump almost in the middle of the living room rug that doesn’t belong there. ‘Look at this, Pat. Where did this lump come from? We both get down on our hands and knees to study it. The lump starts to move. ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ I scream. ‘It must be a rat.’ ‘Patricia, we don’t have rats. Move back. I’m going to touch it.’ ‘No, no, don’t. It might explode.’ The lump keeps moving slowly.’ ‘Honey, bring me the old bat from the cellar, will you? I’ll finish off whatever it is.’ ‘You go. I’m not going down there by myself. Maybe another thing is down there.’

The lump keeps moving, is almost to the end of the rug. Patrick looks as frightened as I feel. We both stare as a green fluid seeps out and the edge of the carpet starts to rise. A short green gnome, just like the drawings in my grade school reader, appears. He’s only a few inches tall, holds a really tiny wooden sheleighli in one hand. A wee green derby is on his head. He takes off the derby, bows to us and in a voice so low we stoop to listen, says ,’Have a nice night folks.’ and evaporates.
Pat looks at me. I look at him. We can find no words for what we saw. We laugh and ridicule ourselves for believing this nonsense. We hold hands and walk slowly upstairs to bed. We follow the gnomes instructions and do have a nice night.