Beer and Stone
written by: Phyllis Souza
A bartender, a leprechaun, beer, and a stone.
What do they have in common?
The answer is Michael Fitzpatrick.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, Michael Fitzpatrick’s favorite holiday. He’s a proud Irishman with a crooked smile and freckles. His eyes are a cold blue, and his hair is bright red. He’s good-looking and loves beer. He slams his fist on the bar and says, “Give me a beer. Green beer!”
An English bartender named Henry wears a collarless white shirt and suspenders. He rolls his right shoulder as if about to throw a one-two punch, walks over, and says, “Ain’t got no green beer.”
Rowdy patrons, like fans at a boxing match, raise their steins and shout, “We want green beer, too!”
“Ain’t got no green beer.”
Michael Fitzpatrick, fired up by his barroom supporters, tries again. He slams his fist on the bar and says, “Give me a green beer!”
“Get out of my bar. I told you there’s no green beer here.”
A leprechaun named Mighty O’Malley, dressed in red and wearing a buckled hat, appears at the bar. He climbs onto a stool. “Not so fast, Henry. Why is there no green beer?”
The English bartender leans back and hooks his thumbs under his shiny black suspenders. “I’ve got orders. They’re in the pocket of my trousers.” He snaps his suspenders, then searches through gum wrappers and toothpicks, pulling out a wrinkled yellow slip of paper. He hands it to the leprechaun.
Cocky son of a Brit. The Mighty O’Malley leprechaun puts on wire-rimmed glasses and reads the scribbled words: No green beer is to be served to the Irish.
The bartender smirks.
O’Malley has something in his pocket, too. Not in his trousers… in his coat. He rubs his sandpaper forehead for luck and takes out a small stone. It’s not just any stone, but one from Blarney Castle in Ireland.
Henry reaches for the stone.
O’Malley pulls back his hand, lowering his fingers, sending the Blarney Stone down the wooden alley like a bowling ball.
Quickly, Henry grabs it. He’s heard rumors that: ‘Kiss the stone and receive the gift of the gab.’
Henry rolls the stone around in his right hand, thinking, should I? or shouldn’t I? He romances the stone. He imagines himself as an English gentleman, a fine man, a refined man, one with impeccable manners. He kisses the stone.
Mighty O’Malley crosses his arms over his puffed-out chest and waits.
Time doesn’t stop, but everyone and everything in the barroom is now moving in slow motion.
The ‘gift of the gab’ gradually sinks into Henry’s mind.
Michael Fitzpatrick raises his hand slowly, then lowers it. “I—I—want a green beer.”
The barroom grows quiet. The patrons are nodding off.
Then, as if a light comes on after a power outage, the bartender says, “I’m at your service. Please let me know what you’d like.”
Mighty O’Malley yells, “Green beer for Michael Fitzpatrick and everyone in the house!”
Thanks to the magic of the Blarney Stone, green beer is now being served.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!
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