PERFECT TIMING !

BEGORRA!

 

Clyde is wearing a green hat with a little feather in its band. Where he got green lipstick, he'll tell me later. Right now he looks damned stupid to me. Clyde's last name is Schwartz. I can't get a sensible answer from him about why he makes St. Patrick's day so important every year. Once he gave me a cock and bull piece of garbage that he had a great (5 greats going back) Uncle Duncan who was in the court of Mary Queen of Scots. I called him on it. 'Prove it, Clyde.' Of course he couldn't.

 

6th Street, on the east side, is bar-ville in Bloomington. Doors bulge. Blacks, Mexicans, Israelis and, believe it or not, some true blue Americans pile in. They hoist their green beer in toasts to Erin that rise from every nook and corner, bar and table. Green shirts, ties, raggedy sweaters surely have come out of bottom bureau drawers, boxes in basements. My lack of greenery makes me a rarity. I am stared at, laughed at. My order for an unadulterated Schlitz is 'accidentally' knocked over and runs down my white shirt.

 

Women buy the cheap green wigs from the display on the sidewalk and actually come inside wearing them over their long blond hair. Clyde Schwartz, my drinking buddy, takes a shine to a real looker who happens to have another admirer who happens to have ABS bursting thru his green T shirt. I slap my buddy on the back and as loudly as I can, I call him 'Clyde' hoping the beast respects the Irish name and moves elsewhere. My ruse does not work. As the brute of a man walks towards Schwartz, the swish of his hips become noticeable to me. He ignores the babe and settles down between two guys at the bar. In the wink of an eye his stein of beer is before him. As he lifts it to his lips his shillelagh falls down. He bends to retrieve it and follows his cane. Not a soul glances at him, except maybe me, and I don't care if he stays there or gets up.

 

Whatever is used to turn golden beer green also seems to make it more potent than I remember it was when Schwartz bought me a pint last year.  Is my vision blurred? Three dwarfs, who must be a branch of some leprechaun family, come in the door. They look stunned, frightened, as they are lifted on the shoulders of the nearest drunks, one of which I happen to be. The dwarf on my shoulders is not just 'wee' , he's a 'she.' Her voice squeaks like a trapped mouse when she tells me to giddy-up. I don't want to go faster unless it's toward one of the exits. Lowering myself to my knees, I am able to send the lady on her way.

 

Freed, I look for Duncan and spot him standing at a table that has a large bowl of pretzels on it. Hands fly in and out of it, making them unattractive to me. 'Hey, Duncan,' I signal. I'll get the check. Let's get out of here. Meet me at the exit with the green sign.' All done for another year.

 

 Duncan and I walk towards our apartments. 'Dunc, are you really related to the Irish?' I ask. He looks at me as if I asked him if he had sex this week. 'Yeah, yeah, someplace long ago. My father happened to like Jewish cooking so I turned out to be a Schwartz.'

 

'Say, I believe you. Could there be an Irish connection between you and Duncan Hynes?' 'Sure, anything is possible,' he replies. 'Then,' say I, 'do you think you can get me a free dozen of their great donuts, assorted? I'll split them with you.'