Luck of the Irish by Frederick Foote

Luck of the Irish by Frederick Foote

Life’s good. I get plenty of hours down on the docks and at the rice mill. I’m working with good crews that work smart and keep each other safe, and I still got $20 in my pocket and payday’s tomorrow. Life don’t get much better than that.

I walk into my home away from home, The Shipshape Tavern, and I hear her before I see her, bells of laughter ringing out loud, clear, and joyous. That kinda laugh makes me smile from my gonads to my eyebrows. A woman laughing like that’s Christmas in July.

And there she is, sitting at one of the back tables, away from the bar, a White college girl with a lovely throat and blond hair, not my type at all—but the laugh. And, she’s a big girl, maybe five-ten, I think. She got lips and hips, solid build. Interesting.

I lean back against the side of the door and watch her get a little mirror from her purse and check her makeup. I want her to stand and walk. I want to see what she got.

Right on cue, she’s up and on her way to the ladies’ room. She got an ass on her; you don’t see on many white girls. A round ass that’ll make you change direction and change your mind about whatever it was you was going to do.

Whew, she got a fine Swiss movement to it, too. Too hot for this place. I’m right, she’s about my height, five-ten and not fat, but big and strong and sure of herself, comfortable with herself, and the clincher, she happy to be here, glad to be alive. That nails it for me.

She is four or four years younger than me, 20, 23 maybe.

She’s with a good-looking college boy, more rugged than handsome, a rugby player, yeah, like that, not football.

Now, I got to be clear. I ain’t looking for anyone. I got a girl treats me good. Only lies to me out of necessity, and only steals from them that can afford to lose it. My girl must think I’m the Bank of America.

And she do go out with other guys now and then, but there’s a reason; “Baby, when you see me with some other guy, just you remember. I’m always going to get something out of it for us. I’m working in our best interest.” You don’t give up a sweet deal like that on a whim.

I move around to the other side, so she won’t see me when she comes back. I want to see her walk again. Maybe I missed something the first time.

She walks back smiling like she at home in this blue-collar, dump of a bar, like she at home with Southeast Asian, Latino, Black, and White working men and women. Her hands give something away, nails cut short and square, hands are tough, strong, working hands. Shit, that don’t compute. If she works at all, she’s probably a clerk or something. An odd girl just in the way she walks and carries herself.

She sits with her friend, puts her hand on his shoulder, smiles, and laughs with him.

I move over to a table across the room where I can see her face. Mexican Mary materializes at my table with my draft Mickey’s.

“Please don’t create a disturbance, Brady.”

Now, how’s she going to be talking to me like that? Just because I don’t sit at my usual spot don’t mean I’m up to mischief. She disappears before I can set her straight. She can be a pain sometimes. She ain’t even Mexican. She’s Italian. And her name ain’t Mary, it’s Madera.

As long as I been coming here, we have had a few adventurous college kids in here. They think they’re walking on the wild side. As long as they cool, and there ain’t too many of them, they are as welcome as anyone else.

He has his hand on the back of her neck and says something that makes her laugh again. The laugh is infectious. I can’t help it – I laugh with her. She sees me and shrugs her shoulders. I shrug back. We both laugh harder.

Rugby guy is not laughing. I think she and I got the laughing bug. We can’t stop.

Rugby decides it’s time to help us put a stop to this nonsense. He crosses to my table.

“Hey, buddy, we got a problem?” He ain’t angry just a little irritated.

I choke back my laughter to answer him. “Man, she started it. You need to talk to her.”

And here she is at the table. She apologizes to Steven and to me, that’s her boyfriend’s name.

She has a fresh, country look about her, a farmer’s daughter, a milkmaid, yeah, I like it. I like her looks.

We introduce ourselves. Her name is Brigid, and when I shake her hand, I feel a current running between us, a connection. She must feel it too. She has to.

“No apology needed. Aww Steven, could I have a few minutes with ahh, ahh, your girlfriend, just two minutes to talk to Brigid?”

Girlfriend jumps in. “Why don’t you ask me? I may not want to talk to you.”

“Look, I upset Steven. He came over to my table and asked me to cool it. I owe him the respect to ask him because I’m interfering in his date, taking up time he could be spending with you. I don’t want to upset him again, okay?”

Steven puts his arm around her shoulder, “Man, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Brigid jump on that quick. “Wait, wait, you can’t decide what I want. I decide what I want.”

I try to straighten things out. I mean, these are college kids. You can’t expect too much out of them. “Look, it’s not about what you want. It’s between me and Steven. I’m asking him for a favor, a favor that will be greatly appreciated. You don’t have anything to do with my asking him a favor.”

I think girlfriend is getting a little upset. She’s pointing fingers, “Brady, I don’t want to talk to you. Not now or ever. End of conversation. Steven, let’s get out of here.”

But Steven’s not ready to go. “Brigid, just give me a minute.”

Steven turns to me. “Sorry, man. No hard feelings?”

I shake his hand. I like this, Steven. “None at all, I was going to arm wrestle you for permission, but… You guys have a good evening. Sorry if I spoiled things.”

As they return to their table, I start to call Mary, but when I look for her, she’s right at my elbow. “How do you do that? Mary put their bill on my tab.”

“Humph, you’re over your limit now.”

“Tomorrow is payday. I—” She has already crossed to Brigid and Steven and is telling them their bill’s paid.

Brigid marches over to me.

“No, thanks! We’ll pay for our own drinks. Thank you very much.”

“You have an accent. I hear it more when you get mad.”

“And you have a misogynist attitude and a host of other vile vices, I suspect.”

Steven joins us with a question. “Look, Brady, no disrespect, but you were going to arm wrestle me? I must outweigh you by 25 to 30 pounds. Are you a City or State arm wrestling champion or something of that nature?”

“Steven, we don’t have time for this.”

“One minute, Brigid, just one minute-“

“No, no, I’m, I’m not that good at arm wrestling. I can beat our waitress consistently – “

From across the room, Mary shouts out, “Three out of five.”

 “And a few of the other guys around here, but I can beat you two out of three.”

Steven has a serious look on his face now, “Well, I, I work out. I can bench 285. Are you serious about beating me?”

Brigid’s showing signs of irritation. “Steven, you’re not even thinking – “

Steven waves her off. “How much were you thinking of betting?”

“All I got, everything.”

“Well, I have fifty on me. Will you bet me fifty?”

Now Brigid is off the chart hot, “Oh, fuck no, Steven!”

I turn to Brigid, “Don’t worry. You two can go. His arms are too short, and he would have to use a book or something. That kinda messes with the fairness of it.”

Steven’s now the irate one. “That’s not true. I’m six-one. And you are what, five-nine or ten? Your arms are too short. You are just trying to get out of this. Brady, are you that scared? It’s only $50.”

“Mary—“ As usual, she’s right there. We bend our arms at the elbows and compare the lengths of our lower arms and hands.

Mary does the judging, but no judge is required. “Brady by about two inches,” Mary shouts out the results for those who could not see the obvious.

“How wonderfully exciting, will you boys pull out your pricks and compare them too?”

“You know, Brigid, there’s a supposed relationship to penis length and – “

“Brady, it was a joke, a joke. I don’t want to see your penis, ever.”

Steven’s still looking at his arm and then looking at mine. “Brady, your arms are freakishly long, unnaturally long for a person of your height.”

 I respond quickly, “Did you look that up on the internet? Your arms may be freakishly short. Did you think about that?”

“My patience is what’s short. Can we go now?” Brigid tugs at Steven, and they head for the door.

“Of course, we could lift the pool table. Arm length’s not a factor there, just brute strength. No, no Brigid’s right, time for you to go, nice to meet you both.”

They almost make it to the door. Steven turns back and points at the only pool table in the tavern. “That pool table? You can lift that pool table?”

“Well, yeah. I can get two legs off the ground —  I think. I’m pretty sure. I used to could do that.”

“Mother of God! I need an aspirin.” Mary hands Brigid a glass of water and two aspirin.

Steven is inspecting the forty-year-old massive pool table. “So, what would the bet be, Brady?”

“Who could lift two legs the highest. Everyone in the bar can judge. If it’s too close to call, you win. If it’s a tie, you win.”

“Stakes?”

“All I got is twenty. I’ll bet that and two minutes with Brigid.”

I hear Brigid muttering to herself in some odd, familiar language. “Is that Gaelic? You’re fucking Irish. Thank God. I thought you were a White girl there for a moment.”

Brigid is instantly furious. “Aww, and for a moment there, I thought you were Black, but you must be Black Irish.” She’s all up in my face now. “Who put you up to this, my sister Aideen? Ohh, I’ll make her pay.”

“I have yet to meet my future sister-in-law, but – “

Steven steps in. “Well, look, let’s do the lift, and then we can sort this all out over a beer. I’m buying.”

“Sort out what Steven, my Whiteness, or my Irishness? What is it you want to sort out?”

I try to clarify what I meant. “Look, you are Old Country Irish. You haven’t learned how to be white, like white people here, and that’s very good. I love you for it.”

Brigid is breathing hard, fast, and shallow. Her face is flushed. “Brady, what is it you want? Would you tell me that, please? And, how do you recognize Gaelic?”

“I, I just want to beat Steven at lifting and get his permission to talk to you for two minutes to tell you about our life together and our happiness and – “

“Fuck, are you off your medication, man? Is he sick? Does he act like this all the time?”

Who else, but Mexican Mary, shows up to respond? “His usual prescription is two beers after work. And, he’s more sickening than sick. I think you’re making him act like this. That’s what I think.”

“What? It’s my fault?” Too late, Mary has disappeared.

Steven tries to reason with Brigid. “Look, we lift, and we go. No beers.” He turns toward me. “Sorry, man.”

“No problem, Steven. She’s a little high-strung, huh?”

“Fuck you both, Sister-in-law? Did you say, sister-in-law? Never, never in two lifetimes, Brady. No chance in hell.”

“Pagans believe in hell?”

“Pagan! Pagan, who’re you calling a fucking pagan? I’m fucking Catholic, you, you idiot.”

“Irish Catholic with a lot of Pagan-“

“Fuck, fuck fuck…” She sounds a little upset. Brigid collapses in a nearby chair and lays her head on the table.

Steven and I look at each other and shrug our shoulders.

“Steven, she may be feeling better after we lift.”

“Yeah, you may be right. We’ll just give her a little time to recover.”

Brigid barely raises her head to wish us well, “I hope you both get hernias the size of watermelons, and your spines become as limp as your dicks. That’s my pagan curse on you, you heathens.”

I stand up on a chair. “Okay, everybody heard the bet?” Of course, they have. It’s a slow Thursday night and there no games on TV. “So, how many are going to cheer me on to victory? How many of you believe in me?”

Four or five hands go up. That’s a little disappointing. I thought there would be more hands, but some of these guys are pretty tired from working doubles and such.

“Wow, thank you for your support. Now, how many are going to bet on me?” Not a single hand goes up. Wow, they must be exhausted.

I step down and turn to Steven. You can check out the table. I just want to check on Brigid. I owe her an apology or two.

“Good luck with that.” Steven goes to the bar. I sit beside Brigid with my head low on the table and whisper to her, “How much cash you got?”

She turns her head to look at me. She looks like she doesn’t understand what I said. I start to repeat myself.

“Are you fucking, fucking insane? You, you — I don’t have any words for you. Go away; please go away.”

“Your eyes change color from light to dark and back. You know that, right? So, here’s the deal. You bet on me. You’ll sweep the house. Get odds like ten-to-one. We’ll win big, and we split everything half and half, deal?”

Brigid looks dazed and a little faint. Before I can even think it good, Mary’s putting a glass of ice water in front of Brigid. I pull Brigid up and give her a sip of ice water. It seems to instantly revive her.

“Just for the sake of argument, why do you think I have any money?”

“A sixth sense I have about beautiful women… I’ve always had it. Do we have a deal?”

I do have a sixth sense, and I also saw a roll of bills in her purse when I was standing by the door.

“Fuck no. You’re going to lose, and I don’t like you, I don’t believe you, and I don’t trust you. Did I say I don’t like you?”

“Brigid, listen to me. You’re a working woman. You know the value of money. We’ll make a lot of money, and if I lose you come back here tomorrow, and I’ll give you back your money. I promise.”

“Fuck you and your promise.”

And there’s Mary at our table. “For what it’s worth, he keeps his word.”

I want to thank Mary, but she’s gone.

Brigid thinks for a while and drinks more water.

“I have five-hundred and change. I just cashed my check — Fifty/fifty? And you obviously are interested in Irish culture, so if we lose, you will wear a dress and do a clog dance on the bar for like, oh, fifteen minutes.”

“That is cruel, demeaning, vicious, and so unlike your gentle nature.”

“You’re right, Brady. Go lift and good luck.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes with five-minute breaks every five minutes, and I supply the dress and underwear.”

“Underwear?” I sigh and give in.

“Okay, we’re partners, equal partners. What kind of underwear?” We shake hands.

“What’s going on?”

We didn’t even notice Steven’s back.

I defer to Brigid.

“Oh, just a business deal, nothing important… Bet, we’re betting on the lifting, but we’re not betting against you. What I mean is I know you’re going to win, and I just want to get back at Brady. Oh shit… What have I done?”

“You should get half of her winnings, Steven. I mean, you’re doing the heavy lifting and – “

“Jesus, Brady, what kind of partner are you? The deal is off.”

Awww, but we talk it out, the three of us, and Steven is in for half of her winnings, and he’ll use some of that windfall to buy drinks for the house.

Now, there’s a problem. Steven has a reason for losing. I know he wants to beat me more than he wants the money, but there’s a conflict of interest. I stand on the chair and explain the problem to the bar. After much loud and profane discussion, it’s decided that betters will choose a champion, and I will have to best Steven and their challenger.

Their knight is Outlook Efi, a big Samoan, known for his prodigious feats of strength.

It’s great news for the betting line and bad news for Steven and me.

Steven is off to the bar.

Brigid’s back to normal. “You never told me how you recognized Gaelic.”

“Oisin Quinn, an economic refugee from the most recent bad times in Ireland, works on the docks with us.

When we win, maybe you and I can go to Ireland. I would love to see your family there.”

“Brady, you are a very aaahh interesting man, and I’m sure that somewhere in this wide, wonderful world – “

“Is your father a farmer?”

She’s caught off guard by the question, “Fisherman, but – “

“You mended nets, cleaned fish, rowed – “

Steven’s back with three beers, “Yeah, she did. How did you know that?”

Efi’s at our table, smiling at Brigid and scowling at Steven and me. “Let’s do this. I got places to be. I’ll lift first, then college boy, okay?”

I stand and shake Efi’s huge brown paw. “Right on.” I turn to Brigid, “Time to place your bets, partner.”

She bets $500 on me at ten-to-one odds.

We all move over to the pool table. Everyone in the bar is around the table laughing, and drinking, and making all kinds of weird side bets.

Efi steps up to the table. There’s a roar of loud laughter and cheering for Efi. He acknowledges the crowd with a wave. I remember I still have $20 in my pocket.

I hold up the twenty. “Efi, Efi, twenty to one, I beat your ass.”

Efi turns and grins at me, “Brady, you are on and, and if you win, I’ll also buy you drinks the rest of the year.” Efi laughs so hard I think he might split a gut.

Steven’s shaking his head in disbelief.

Brigid’s laughing out loud. “Brady, you are unique in the world.”

Efi don’t mess around or milk the scene. He squares up facing the table, takes a deep breath, and lets it out, and lifts the end of the table, muscles bulge; sweat pops, the crowd ows and aws. The table jumps like a trained dog up about four inches. The crowd is in a frenzy.

Steven looks a little green about the gills. Brigid’s patting him on the back, and we’re encouraging him. “Come on, Steven, even if I lose, I want you to beat Efi, man.”

Steven tries. He gives it his all for a one-inch lift. His reward is a hail of “well done” and pats on the back from the crowd and me and Brigid.

My turn. I shake hands with Steven. I hug Brigid, and surprisingly, she hugs me back, gives me the promise of her body. She whispers in my ear, “Don’t worry about the money, but you are going to dance your ass off.” Boy, I want to hold her forever, but the crowd’s growing restless.

I slap hands with Efi.

I need a drink first. Mary hands me a beer. I drain the glass in one swallow. I wipe my brow, roll up my sleeves. I kneel and say a short prayer.

I square up facing the table. I take a deep breath and let it out. “Aaaww fuck this shit.” I turn and face the crowd. “Can I get two chances-”

I’m booed down. I look down, my shoulders sag. I hang my head. I fall to my knees, slide under the end of the table, taking the weight of the table on my shoulders. Using my legs, not my arms, the end of the table raises like an elevator two, four, six inches.

There is pandemonium. The Tavern’s a fucking madhouse. I get doused with beer. Mary and Big Mike, the bartender, had seen me do this trick years ago. I suspect a few others knew what I was about, but they were cool; that’s why this is my home away from home.

Steven, Brigid, and I are at a table splitting our big winnings.

“Not too shabby, huh?” I ask with a smile directed at Brigid.

Steven looks at me and shakes his head. “You’re all right, man. You’re cool.”

“Steven, you did good. Most people can’t budge that damn table.”

Brigid hands me my share of the money. “You two need to get a room.”

Steven stands, “Right now, I need the men’s room.”

Brigid and I watch him stumble toward the restrooms.

I hand her back my share, “Hold on to it, and find us a good flight to Ireland.”

Brigid’s all serious now. “Brady, Brady… I — we have nothing in common. I like fellows who are taller than me by more than a bit. You called me a pagan and insulted my religion. You are a chauvinist and a trickster. And a –. It could never work.”

I smile at her. “Hey, I’m a nigger in America. You’re a nigger in England. You’ve done hard work with your hands. I’m a stevedore. That’s a start. All we need’s a start.”

I wait for the explosion, the denial, the outrage. Instead, she looks at me and drops the scales from her eyes. I see her clearly now, all the pain, anger, suffering, the dark times, and the too-bright moods.

And the laughter and love of life and family, it’s all there. She has stripped naked for me to see her, see her clearly. She’s much braver than me.

Man, I can’t fuck this up. I need the right response. I lean across the table, take her face in my hands, and kiss her with passion and need.

She kisses me back but pushes me away.

“Brady kisses notwithstanding, your strange courtship provides insults piled on insults. You’re a great charmer, you are.”

“Brigid, I think you are the seventh wonder of the world, and between your thighs, there’s a honeycomb of sweet delights, and those thighs inspire dreams of an unending euphoria – ”

“Enough, already-”

“You’re blushing.”

I take her strong hand in mine.

She sighs and sighs and sighs. She squeezes my hand, “In the summer, maybe during summer vacation. Are you sure?”

“Do you know Van Morrison? If you don’t know Van, we might as well stay here.”

She frowns first and laughs next, long, loud country girl laughter that thrills my soul all the way to Ireland.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Frederick Foote 2025