The St. Patrick's Day Parade Date

On the morning of St. Patrick’s Day, he woke up later than he wanted to. “Should have set my alarm,” he said to himself aloud. He quickly went through his morning routine listening to Van Morrison, the northern Irish singer of great renown.

Dressed in his traditional crisp white shirt, Kelly green trousers and emerald, green bow tie, he picked up the phone and dialed Nora MacBrian, a woman he had dated briefly about ten years ago. He always wanted to look nice for her.

“Good morning, Vincenzo,” she said. “I thought maybe you forgot me this year.”

“Comma stai, my sweet Irish friend. I would never forget you, Nora.”

She laughed. “Are you wearing that goofy bow tie today?”

“He looked in the mirror as if he had to check. “Yeah, and it looks really good.”

“You must have bought a new one.”

He straightened the tie. “Hundred and fifty bucks, all the way from Ireland.”

Nora, who had just turned 40, had long, reddish brown hair. Divorced and casually dating a guy she met on a trip to Disneyland, she was, in fact, thoroughly Irish. “Vincenzo, I cleared our date with Kevin Dean. He’s ok as long as you have me home before midnight. Where do you want to go?”

He tried to laugh. He wondered why he couldn’t quite pull it off. “Must be serious. I’ll pick you up at nine. We’ll have lunch at my Uncle Anthony’s pizza joint. Then we’ll head to the parade. How does O’Leary’s sound for dinner?”

“I don’t want to drive into the city. Let’s take the bus again this year,” she said.

Vincenzo was a muscular, handsome guy of average height, clean shaven with black hair he combed straight back. “Ok, I’ll pick you up. I’ll leave my car in Newark. We’ll take the 108 bus to Manhattan.” He dabbed a tiny bit of cologne on the back of his neck. “O’Leary’s?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your corned beef and cabbage and Irish soda bread.”

“Not to mention a Guinness,” he added. 

The bus let them off at New York’s Port Authority twenty minutes after ten. The streets were already crowded in anticipation of the parade, which started at eleven. Anthony’s Pizza was a short block away. Vincenzo’s Uncle Anthony, a native of Italy, was still making pies at 83. He greeted them. “Nora, that is the perfect blouse for the parade! Those shamrocks will make you a star, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He offered a sheepish grin. Anthony was always uncomfortable around young women. 

They ate slices standing up. Chatting with Vincenzo’s uncle was one of the highlights of St. Patrick’s Day. Right on cue he said, “You know, St. Patrick was Italian, right?”

“Oh brother,” Nora said, mock exasperation in her voice. “This again? Every year you guys tell the same outrageous lie.” She smiled and patted Anthony’s hand. 

Vincenzo nodded. “That’s because it’s true. Why do you think I celebrate the day?”

“To give you an excuse to spend time with Nora,” Anthony said.

Nora shook her head. “No way. He just wants to show off his silk bowtie.”

Vincenzo took his last bite of pizza and wiped his mouth. “St. Patrick’s mother’s name was Concessa. That ain’t Irish.”

“My mother’s name is Mei Ling. Does that make her Chinese?”

Vincenzo really laughed. “You made that up!”

Nora shrugged. “Maybe.”

Their third and final date had fallen on a St. Patrick’s Day. When she asked him why he celebrated the day with such enthusiasm, he explained his theory of St. Patrick’s origin. She told him she’d heard that one before. They argued about it good-naturedly for about 20 minutes. Finally, she said,” I’m not upset with you, but I just realized we shouldn’t see each other anymore. It had been an instinctive judgment, but she was sure she was right.

What made it easy was he didn’t act offended. They agreed to be friends. When he dropped her off at her condo, he said, “Let’s do this every year. Spend St. Patrick’s Day together.” 

Nora said, “Sure,” assuming she’d never hear from him again. 

A year later, a week before the big day, he called her. Since she wasn’t seeing anyone she said yes. That was eight years ago. 

They said goodbye to Uncle Anthony, promising to see him next year. As they walked to the spot where they usually watched the parade, she said, “This tradition is a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“No. I look forward to it every year,” he said.

That surprised her. “Really? If I wasn’t Irish, would you be doing this with me?”

He looked away from her as if he suddenly saw something very interesting in a store window. Then, stopping in the middle of Fifth Avenue, he said, “I would do this with you no matter what your background was.” He took a deep breath. “I settle for once a year. It isn’t easy.”

“Why haven’t you ever told me that before?” She asked. The sound of bagpipes signaled that the parade was starting. A sea of green decorated a wall of happy faces.    

Vincenzo nervously surveyed the scene. “Would it change anything?”

“Only one way to find out,” Nora said.

He took her hand. In all their years of parade watching he had never done that. “Does the luck of the Irish ever rub off on a guy like me?”

Nora squeezed his hand.” Maybe.”