Dance Partner

"Ask him!" Janet yelled above the pounding music and then nudged me with an elbow. "He wants to dance. Look at him moving to the beat. Pretty smooth."

"You ask him," I said.

"You! You're the reason we're here tonight."

I gulped. Then blew out a breath. I slipped off my tall stool, shuffled over to the man, and said, "Looking for a dance partner?"

He was square-jawed. Very attractive. With the biggest smile he answered, "I'd be honored.

                                                       

Dancers jammed the dimly lit dance floor. Loud music ricocheted from wall to wall, making conversation impossible, though my partner and I managed to exchange first names—Judd and Kaitlin. He danced unbelievably well, but after the third dance we drifted off to the sidelines where we could catch our breath.

"Where did you learn to dance like that?" he asked, smiling that big smile again.

"High school. Show choir. You?"

"Three older sisters who made me practice with them when I was a kid. You come to this club often on Saturday night?"

"First time." Then, "I'm the assistant manager of a women's clothing store in the mall. How about you?"

"New in town. Photojournalist for your local newspaper."

With that he hooked his arm in mine and whirled me onto the dance floor again. After two more dances, breathless once more, I told him I couldn't leave my friend Janet sitting alone any longer. "I'll introduce you," I said.

"You guys are awesome together," Janet said as Judd and I slid onto stools.

"Aren't you dancing?" Judd asked her.

"Not tonight," she said. "I'm just having fun watching you two."

And that's the way the rest of the evening went. Judd and I chatted with Janet, danced a few more dances, chatted, danced...until I finally said, "It's getting late."

"Will I see you again?" Judd asked, locking his eyes with mine.

I admit it—my heart beat a bit faster. "Um...maybe next Saturday night."

"Great. I'll be here."

As I drove Janet home that night, she said, "Why didn't you give him your cell phone number? He's hot."

"Because...I want to see if he'll show up. And I'm not sure the first guy I dance with at Dance Land is someone I want to know better. No matter how good-looking."

Next Saturday night, my heart was in a panic. Janet and her fiancé were attending a wedding reception, so a fierce debate raged in my head. Should I go to Dance Land alone and look for Judd. Or stay home? I decided I'd go, peek around inside for a minute or two, and if I didn't spot him right away, I'd leave. I waited until nine-thirty to arrive, thinking he'd surely be there by then. And he was.

"I was afraid you were a no-show," he yelled, over the pulsing music. "Where's Janet?"

"Sorry I'm so late," I said, and then explained about Janet.

"Look," he said, sheepishly. "I'm not really a dance club kind of guy. I was here last Saturday because I was...well, new in town, and looking for something different to do."

"You'll never believe why I was here."

"Can we go someplace quiet? You can tell me."

"I'd love that."

Judd and I settled into a both in a quiet diner with steaming cups of coffee in front of us and discovered we had a lot common—a love of books, museum tours, and symphony performances. Not dance clubs. And then I felt compelled to explain why I was at Dance Land last Saturday night.

"It's Janet who loved hanging out at Dance Land," I said, "and always begged me to come along—I'd find a guy. I told her I'd go with her if she'd come with me to my church picnic—maybe she'd find a guy."

"She did? She found someone?"

I smiled. "In a volleyball game. She spiked him in the face and broke his nose. She played in high school. And now they're getting married. Last week Ted was out of town, so she finally dragged me to Dance Land."

Our eyes locked again. Held a moment. I loved his eyes. Was it the coffee making me feel warm all over? Or was it a thought that had splashed into my head? "The Tri-city Symphony is in town next week," I said, amazed at how brave I'd become. "If you'd like to go."

I held my breath. My cheeks flushed.

Judd sat back, a bit surprised, I think. He offered his big smile once more, and I said, "Of course I'd like to go."

"I promise you won't get your nose broken."

With that we both laughed.

"You want to know something?" he said, still laughing.

Yes—I loved his laugh.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm not worried," he said. "And I wouldn't even care."

The End
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The Cop and the Jailbird

"You sure you want to do this?" Sergeant Steve Baker asked me.

Oh my, he was gorgeous, dressed in his policeman uniform—a gun, handcuffs, and what all hanging from the black belt circling his slender waist.

"Positive," I said. "Jail first. Then after I'm paroled, the dunk tank."

He smiled, a dimple punctuating his left cheek, and my heart beat a little faster. "All right," he said. "Let's lock you up."

The lockup Officer Baker led me into was a mock jail cell set up in the St. Alphonsus Parish parking lot. This was the Saturday of our parish Summer Festival: Great food and beverages. Fun games for kids and adults. Bounce houses of all kinds. Musical entertainment. Simply a marvelous time for everyone on a bright sunny day.

I was the principal of the elementary school. I agreed to be a fugitive to raise much-needed money for school supplies. Hopefully, good-hearted parishioners would pledge enough money to meet my five-hundred-dollar bail and spring me from jail. So that everyone would be generous and so that I could surely raise the money, I agreed to do a forty-five minute stint in the dunk tank if and when I was released. For a dollar, a person could buy three tennis balls to throw at a bull's-eye that—if hit—would drop me into 100 gallons of water.

Sounds crazy, right?

But I thought it would be fun.

And it was certainly a worthwhile project.

So there I sat on a stool, locked behind bars, looking very much like a prisoner, I thought, while parishioners swarmed the parking lot, enjoying themselves.

Officer Baker, looking handsome and official in his uniform, sat outside my cell at a table, collecting pledges.

"Either people are feeling sorry for you," he said, "or they can't wait to see you plunged into the dunk tank. Pledges are coming in at twenty-five, thirty dollars a clip. You'll be out of there in no time."

I'd met Officer Baker, a widower, three years ago when he enrolled his daughter in first grade. I liked him at first sight, but I told myself, Don't even think about it, Clare. I frequently saw him in church, and we'd stopped to chat briefly several times. A month ago he called me at school and suggested the police cell as a fundraiser at the upcoming festival. I later volunteered for the dunk tank. Didn't take long before we were Steve and Clare to each other.

"Look, Clare," he said now. "You've been in there two hours. You've got maybe an hour to go before you meet bail. You want something to eat?"

I smiled. "My, how thoughtful, Officer Baker. Bread and water, I suppose?"

He smiled back. I swear, I could stay in jail forever gazing at that dimpled smile.

"I'll see what I can find," he said.

My jailhouse fare was a pulled pork sandwich, chips, dip, and a monster piece of apple pie. Forty-five minutes later I made bail, and Steve released me amid cheers from the crowd for my turn on the platform above the dunk tank.

"You ready for this?" he asked, gripping my hand—a tingle rippled through me.

I gulped. "I'm not sure."

He led me to the dunk tank as a crowd of mostly kids followed. They cheered and laughed, itching to see Ms. Clare Iverson soaked in the dunk tank.

Before I climbed the short ladder to the tank platform, Steve told me that waiting for the first dunk was the tough part.

He'd throw the first tennis balls, making sure I got dunked right away. The rest would be easy.

Sure enough, he tripped the bulls-eye on his second throw, and down I splashed. I bobbed up sputtering and spitting water and reminded myself to keep my mouth closed. Maybe twenty dunks later, soaked and bleary eyed, amid more cheers from the crowd, I climbed down the platform ladder dripping wet and stumbled toward Steve.

Holding me at arm's length by my shoulders, he said, "You okay?"

"Now I know what a beached whale feels like."

We both laughed.

I'd brought towels and a change of clothes in a gym bag. I hurried off the women's restroom, and when I ambled back outside into the sunshine, Steve was waiting for me, looking solemn. "I have good news and bad news."

"Good news first," I said, frowning.

"You earned over a hundred dollars in the dunk tank."

"That's great! Bad news?"

"I'm your parole officer," he said. "I've been ordered to spend the rest of the day with you and to see that you stay out of trouble and of jail."

I smiled. "Ordered by who?"

"By me."

Oh my!

Now I grinned. I slipped my hand into his. "That sounds like even more good news to this jailbird," I said, as we strolled into the crowd.

The End
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The Luckiest Irishman

Growing up as a kid, I'd heard all the myths about Leprechauns from my family, though I'd never heard of a beautiful female one. But on this St. Patrick's Day—the morning bright and crisp— she swaggered back and forth in front of O'Malley's Pub waving a placard proclaiming: O'MALLEY'S CORNED BEEF AND CABBAGE—THE BEST THIS SIDE OF IRELAND.

People zipped by on the sidewalk, all headed for the St. Patrick Day's parade, but I stopped. The placard's bold announcement caught my eye first and then the Leprechaun. I thought Leprechauns to be a stout, white-bearded little fellows, all dressed in green—green hat, green leotards, and green pointed shoes.

This Leprechaun was dressed appropriately in green, but she was shapely and beautiful with a heart-shaped face, wide-set blue eyes, and full red lips. Her red hair fell beautifully to her shoulders.

"Are you sure O'Malley's corned beef and cabbage is the best this side of Ireland?" I asked.

Her smile beamed bright in the sunshine, copper freckles glistening across her nose. "I'm positive."

"How can I be sure? I love corned beef and cabbage, if it's made right."

"I've eaten here a million times."

"Leprechauns are known to be mischievous and often misleading."

"Trust me," she said, unleashing another smile. "Come back after the parade. Dine at O'Malley's. But hurry. The place will be crowded."

The parade was spectacular. Balloons. Floats. Marching bands. I returned to O'Malley's, but the lady Leprechaun was gone. Like she said, the place was crowded, but I managed to find a stool at the end of the bar.

"Green beer?" the barmaid asked. Her voice, smile, and blue eyes were unmistakable. She'd ditched her Leprechaun outfit for jeans and a bight green O'Malley's T-shirt. Her red hair curled to her shoulders.

"Are you the Leprechaun who promised me the best corned beef and cabbage this side of Ireland?" I asked.

"I am," she said. "Kathleen O'Malley. Daughter of Sean and Theresa O'Malley, owners of this pub. I help out on St. Patrick's Day. We're so busy I had to come inside. Friends call me Katie. And who might you be?"

"Patrick O'Sullivan. Firefighter. Station Four. New in town. Friends call me Sullie." I unzipped and removed my jacket so she could view my T-shirt, which implored: KISS ME! I'M IRISH!

We laughed.

But she showed no interest in kissing me.

Indeed, O'Malley's corned beef and cabbage was delicious. While Katie scurried about behind the bar waiting on customers, I ate slowly, grabbing every opportunity to smile at her. Finally when things slowed down, she halted in front of me. "Good food?" she asked. She'd already cleared away my empty plate.

"Excellent."

"We're sort of in the same business," she said. "I'm a paramedic. And my cousin Tommy is a fireman. Station Four. You know him?"

I think she was testing me, trying to make sure I was who I said I was. "Tommy O'Brien," I said. "Tall and redheaded. Red mustache and goatee. Wife and two kids."

She smiled her blue-eyed smile. Apparently I'd passed the test.

I pointed at my T-shirt. "Did you know," I said, that if a lady Leprechaun kisses a human, she acquires the magical power to grant him a wish."

Katie shook her head, her red hair swishing across her shoulders. "I think you've got that all wrong. It's if ever captured by a human, a Leprechaun has the magical power to grant three wishes in exchange for his release."

"I was close, right?" Then, "Are you married? Dating?"

Ignoring that, she left and scurried around behind the bar again, clearing off plates and washing glasses, not even looking at me. Obviously, I'd come on way too strong. Then she talked on her cell phone. Maybe she was checking me out with her cousin Tommy? Maybe she was calling her boyfriend or husband.

I finished my beer. She was beautiful, I'd tried, but it was time to go. Before I eased off my stool, though, she halted in front of me again. "Called Tommy, didn't you?" I asked. "What'd he say?"

She tilted her head and smiled. "You're a fine fellow. Not married. Are you dating? Tommy didn't know."

"Uh-uh."

With that, to my utter surprise, she leaned across the bar, took my face in her hands, and kissed me on the forehead. I gasped and nearly fell backward off my stool onto the floor.

"What's your wish?" she asked.

My heart thumped. I could hardly find my voice. "Um...that after you finish here, we...go out. If that's all right....I mean, if..."

"Granted!" she said.

Talk about the luck of the Irish.

The best corned beef and cabbage this side of Ireland, a kiss, and a date with a beautiful lady Leprechaun—am I not the luckiest Irishman of all?

The End
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The Male Nurse

         "Are you all right?" the nurse asked as I sat up, the needle removed from my arm. "You look pale," he added. "I've got a glass of orange juice and an oatmeal cookie here."

I'd been giving blood for years. It was never easy. I hated needles, but I'd never had a male nurse guide me through the procedure. I mean, a handsome male nurse—my age—thirty-five—with a wide, warm smile and penetrating blue eyes. "I'm fine," I said, wondering if his unexpected presence had added to my queasiness.

The tag pinned to the lapel of his white jacket said his name was Kent."You sure?" he asked, and handed me a cookie and a paper cup half full of orange juice.

"It's the needle thing," I admitted sheepishly, taking a bite of cookie, a sip of juice. "I've been afraid of them since my first school vaccination."

"Then you're a mighty brave person, Casey. I see from your chart you've been donating a long time."

I told him about the car accident I'd been in as a teen and how several blood transfusions saved my life. "That's when I discovered I'm type AB-positive, and my blood can be transfused to patients of all blood types. I just felt I needed to help."

Smiling, he nodded, and my heart bounced. I wasn't even standing, but my knees felt weak. "Your plasma," he said, "is always in great demand and in short supply. Besides being brave, you're a very special person."

I think we each glanced at the other's ringless left hand at the same time.

My face flushed. I didn't know what to say about his compliment except, "Thank you."

Cookie eaten, juice cup drained, I stood to leave. Maybe a little too suddenly. A flash of dizziness, a wobble in my legs—Kent secured my elbow in one hand and circled my waist with an arm, saving me from sinking to the floor. He eased me into a cushiony lounge chair. "Better stay here for a minute or two," he said.

I did stay for, like, maybe two minutes, but then I quickly said good-bye and left. I certainly didn't want Kent to think I was flirting with him and had faked dizziness so I could fall into his arms. That night I called my best friend, Melissa, and told her what'd happened. "A male nurse?" she said. "Probably a nice guy, but not your type. You're hot. You need someone rugged—I've always told you that."

"I've already dated an iron worker and a policeman, remember?"

Letting out a big sigh, Melissa said, "Sorry, I'm not feeling well tonight. Something I ate, probably. Call me tomorrow."

But I didn’t call her. She called me. From the hospital. Appendicitis. After work—I'm an office manager for an insurance company—I rushed to her bedside. She smiled and said she was fine. She could go home tomorrow. Then she added, "There's a doctor or two around here you might be interested in. Just your type."

"No thanks."

I promised to cook supper at her place tomorrow night, said good-bye, and headed for the elevator. And there stood Kent, waiting at the elevator door. I nearly dropped dead. "Are you okay, Casey?" he asked, smiling the biggest smile. "You left in such a hurry the other day."

My tongue tied itself in knots. If I was surprised to see him here, I was even more surprised that he remembered my name. "I—I'm fine. I never expected..."

"The hospital is my day job," he said. "I just started volunteering at the blood bank whenever they need me. You're really all right? I've drawn a lot of blood, but I've never had anyone fall into my arms before."

Heat rushed to my face, which, I'm sure was—well, blood red. "Sorry about that. It really is the needle thing."

"It's called trypanophobia. Don't feel bad. Famous people like Jackie Chan, Snoop Dog, and Conan O'Brien suffer from the same fear. Nearly ten percent of all Americans do, too."

My head tilted. "Really? I think I feel better all ready. I mean, knowing someone else has the same problem. Famous people, even."

Kent said he was just coming off his shift and was headed for the cafeteria for a cool drink. Would I join him? My heart speeding up, I said, "Yes, of course."

At a table in the cafeteria, while we both sipped an ice tea, he said, he'd been an Army corpsman. He'd served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He'd dealt with lots of soldiers with phobias, and he thought he could offer me help.

"No pills," I said. "No tranquilizers. I'd rather go on as I am."

His smile grew wide. His blue eyes warmed my heart. "I'm simply talking about a date. Maybe if you could learn to trust the person with the needle...well, you might have an easier time."

I think my smile was even wider than his. Even better, I think I really liked this male nurse. "I'm ready for therapy," I said.

The End

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