Paddy’s back
By June Capossela Kempf
I almost forgot about him. It was exactly one year ago that I first met Paddy, the leprechaun at the site of the old Viking pub.- ranting and raging about the landmark’s demolition and bemoaning last year’s parade cancellation. He had spent the whole year brooding in the bog, but upon hearing that this year, Saint James was going to resume the legendary march down Lake Avenue; he decided to emerge from his lair and make a grand appearance.
I spotted him, stomping on one of the newly created welcoming circles carved into the intercession of Woodlawn and Lake - hopping up and down like a wounded cave cricket. But instead of leaping for joy, he was trying to attract attention by directing a tirade of expletives at anyone who drove by. I parked over by the old Capital One building.
“What’s the matter Paddy?” I asked.
“Aye, you’re just the one I want to be seeing,” he spoke.
This can’t be good, I thought. He skipped onto a freshly painted shamrock and beckoned:
‘C’mere till I tell you.”
Being well aware of his tricky shenanigans, I cautiously approached him.
“I am deeply troubled by an injustice perpetrated by the officials of this town, and you, darlin’, can bring attention to it in your column.”
“Oh Paddy, I hope you are still not stewing about the Viking…”
“Nay! They’re filling that spot in quite nicely, “he conceded. “It’s the parade itself. The planners made a terrible mistake.”
This piqued my curiosity.
“How so?
“Your parade committee showed no good sense when they selected two grand marshals for the parade,” he screamed.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He drew himself up to his full 36-inch stature - 42, if you count his top hat. He folded his little arms across his puffed-out chest and struck an imposing stance. Tapping one of his clogs on the pavement, the enraged sprite bellowed: “Must I spell it out to ya? “
“I am sure you will,” I said.
“There should be just one grand Marshall and that one dignitary should be none other than Meself!”
“What?”
Ordinarily, I would never intentionally engage in argument with an angry leprechaun, but what was needed to be said, needed to be said. So, I proceeded to tell the agitated elf, as gently as possible that:
Only human ‘people’ who were outstanding contributors to the good of the community were chosen for this honor and that sprites such as himself were indeed perceived as purveyors of mischief and mayhem - leaving them highly unqualified for the position.
“You know that you are not a real person – right?”
He was most agreeable with that assessment – even complimented. But being Paddy, he clung to the claim that he was indeed the perfect contender for the position.
“Tis true…,” he proudly answered, “… but I can be assuming a human form in the blink of an eye.”
“Why Paddy, that would be deceitful - which brings up another issue: You are assumed to be a troublemaker rather than a pillar of the community.”
With the fury of an enraged Drago, his golden eyes morphed to blood red, he showed jagged flesh piercing teeth and displayed menacing razor sharp claws, making himself appear more hideous than threatening.
“You’d better be watchin’ your words dearie,” he growled.” … and remember who you’re dealing with…”
“Exactly” Your reputation precedes you. But to fake your identity only reinforces your bad standing in the community.”
There, I told him right out. He fell uncharacteristically silent. No doubt he was contemplating a suitable consequence for me. But instead of turning me into a toad, he mellowed a bit.
“So yore thinking that I do nothing to help others here? What about last year? I am responsible for resurrecting the theatre on 2nd Ave. They are puttin’ on some fine shows there now, doncha know.. “
“You are taking credit for that?”
“ I am indeed. I put ideas under human bonnets, and the people I choose, carry out MY plans.”
Obviously, Paddy desperately wished to be recognized for all his unheralded good deeds. He rattled them all off in painful detail going back generations. Then conceded:
“Maybe sometimes I get a little bit worked up, but my intentions are noble.”
This was the moment I seized to suggest that he give up his idea of being Grand Marshall in return for being featured in this column once again. Surprisingly, he agreed. He clicked his heels and turned away, but I swear I heard him whisper- just before he disappeared.
“I got her again!”
June Capossela Kempf: Essayist and Author of : Yo God! Jay’s Story, a memoir and Lady of the Dollhouse, a YA mystery