Why You Lose Your Wallet on Saint Patrick's Day

It was noon on Saint Patrick's Day in Chicago, and Dylan's roommate, Blake, was already on his second pint of Guinness. Dylan was working on a research paper and trying to ignore the noise in the living room, where Blake's friend Sandy and two girls, also well along, played Pin the Tail on the Leprechaun as they sang along to the Pogues.

Blake burst into Dylan's room with his Guinness in one hand and a can of Heineken proffered in the other. "Jesus, man, drink this or you're going to have to walk into Paddy McDrunkerson's sober. You know what a shit-show that's going to be. Hurry up and take your vitamins."

"Ah, don't worry," said Dylan, trying not to sound too irritated; he had to work, but it was a holiday after all. "I'm not going to McDrunkerson's."

"Got to finish your paper? OK, summa cum cum. I'll bring along my cell phone and let you know where we go after so you can catch up."

"I'm not gonna catch up," said Dylan. "I've got a lot of stuff to do tonight, and tomorrow I have both class and work, and it's gonna get ugly no matter what, so... I'm going to have to pass on the holiday this year."

Blake whistled. "Wow. Well, it's your funeral, begorrah. I mean wake." He went back into the living room and shouted for whiskey shots.

A few minutes later, as Blake and his entourage were getting ready to leave, there was a small commotion: one of the girls' purses had gone missing. She knew she had brought it to the apartment, and swore she set it down next to the other girl's purse; they began turning the apartment upside down. Dylan sighed and looked out the window; Blake always went for the stupidest chicks because they were the easiest to get into bed, and then he spent the next week bitching about this ditz he now had hanging around his neck till he could think of a way to scrape her off.

As Dylan was pondering the desirability of getting his own studio, he caught a glimpse of something that made him wonder if he was getting a contact buzz: a little kind of dwarfy looking fellow, in striped green tights, running down the alley outside with what he could have sworn was a woman's purse.

Holy shit... I've been studying way too much. I need some more coffee. He ventured through the living room into the kitchen to pour a cup; people were laughing and looking in the fridge and garbage can for the missing purse. "I don't think you're going to find it, guys," Dylan said; "I think you need to call the lady's credit card company and then just buy her a few rounds."

"Yeah, we don't want to miss all the fun," Sandy said. "You can pay us back on Spring Break, babe."

Where does Blake find these classy guys to hang out with? Dylan wondered.

When they had finally cleared out he set his mind back to his homework, but it kept wandering. I think I need a Pop Tart, he decided, and went to the kitchen, where he found a pile of foil packets and an empty cardboard box on the counter where his Pop Tarts had been. "I'm gonna kill that guy!" he yelled aloud; but then again, he really needed a study break, so he may as well walk to the store.

At the corner store, there were a half dozen kids wandering around the beer cooler, already too drunk to decide what to drink next. He found the chocolate Pop Tarts - the ones Blake didn't like - and moved to the counter. When he pulled his wallet out, he felt a tug. He looked down. There was another little three-foot-tall fellow, grasping at his billfold!

"What the fuck?!" said Dylan.

The little man looked up at him and his eyes widened. "Y-you can see me?"

"Of course I can see you, you little bastard!" He grabbed the little man by the collar and hoisted him to eye level. "And I can see your slimy little paw on my wallet, too!"

"That's odd," said the little man, his green stripey legs a-dangle. "They can't see me." He gestured nervously at the rest of the customers, who were looking at Dylan like he was wearing a tinfoil hat. "Are you... by any chance... sober?"

"I thought I was," said Dylan. "Although I appear to be seeing invisible pickpockets."

The little man sighed. "No, you're sober, all right. I guess you caught me. I owe you my treasure."

"Your... treasure?"

"Well, of course, folklore still calls it a pot of gold... but since nearly every country where we operate has gone off the gold standard it's really a pile of paper bills. In my case I usually keep it in a Bloomingdale's bag."

"Are you telling me you're a..."

"Yeah, yeah, you caught a leprechaun, buddy. Congratuluckingfations. Now, do you want to take this out in the alley, or do you want these people to keep watching you talk to yourself?"

Dylan paid for his toaster pastries with one hand, dangling the leprechaun in the other, looking him up and down as the cashier stared. What, he wondered, is a leprechaun doing in a Brooks Brothers jacket?

Out in the alley, he set the little man - or whatever he was - down and kept a hand around his shirt collar. "You can let go of me," the leprechaun said. "I have a sense of honor, you know. My name is Joe."

"I'm Dylan. Now give me your... bag of dollar bills or whatever."

"Not so fast, not so fast," said Joe. "I give you a bag of dollars, you're flush for today. Teach you how to fish for dollars, you're rolling in it for life. You have a choice, Dylan. Either I can give you what I've got now, or I can tell you the leprechaun secret for getting rich. And believe me, it never fails."

"Well... how much do you have in your bag now?"

"Only about fifty bucks so far today."

"Hmm... well, I'll bite. Give me the dirty: what's your secret?"

The leprechaun chuckled. "It's very simple, dear boy. Everyone thinks Saint Patrick's Day is an innocent holiday - a Christian holiday, even. Well, that is how it started. Just a simple saint's day, when people like to throw back an extra pint or two."

"But we leprechauns, you see, are a throwback to the pagan religion that the Christians overran. Most of the time we're pretty quiet and meek; you don't hear much from the pixies or fairies, much less the spirits of the Druids. But leprechauns are a bit feistier, and though we can take 364 days of being forgotten, about a hundred years ago we got together and decided to take back Saint Paddy's for our own. We did a few spells, threw around a bunch of goat's blood, and managed to enchant the earth for one day of the year. On that day, you humans..."

"Don't you mean 'ye humans'?" Dylan said.

"Tsk, leprechauns in North America don't talk like that. And don't interrupt, the day is passing us by. ANYWAY. On that day, you humans all by custom get drunk. And on that day, when you are drunk, we are invisible to you. You ever wonder why your wallet and your best clothes always disappear when you're at the bar on this holiday?"

"Come to think of it," Dylan said irritably, "I could have sworn I lost a 50-dollar bill last year..."

"'Ay begorrah,' as you would put it - that was me!"

"You little..."

"What a coincidence!" Joe giggled. "Well, now that you know my secret, I guess I'll be on my way. Lots of 'gold' to collect before bartime."

"Wait - shouldn't you only get till midnight?"

"Technically," said Joe, "All drinking holidays last till bartime. B'bye then," he said, and began to scamper down the alley.

"Wait a second!" Joe called. "So how do I use this secret? I'm not invisible!"

"Nope," Joe grinned.

"So how do I get rich?!"

"Never told you I'd make you rich. I just spouted a platitude and said I'd tell you a secret. Criminy, kid, you should know better than to trust a fricking leprechaun. Should have gone with the fifty. Hee hee!" And he disappeared.