| by Paul R. Lloyd
In his dotage, Paddy O’Reilly took to going to church more and
visiting the neighborhood tap less. If any of his drinking buddies had
survived to see this day, they would not have believed their eyes. Imagine
Paddy O’Reilly praying his beads and going to daily Mass! But at the age
of 94, Paddy had long ago outlived his drinking buddies.
Ah, but to have known Paddy in his youth! There were the young ladies,
yes. But also a bit of the wheeler-dealer as well. And Paddy usually won
the deal. None of this win-win stuff for Paddy O’Reilly. He had to win
and you had to lose. That was the way of it. And sure enough he usually
won.
Paddy did quite well for himself in real estate and in the buying and
selling of small businesses. As surely as a camel can’t pass through the
eye of a needle, it was sure the rich man Paddy O’Reilly was not
destined for the glory train. But then his taking to church at the end
like he did, put a doubt into the thing. Surely old Lucifer was not a bit
happy with Paddy in the end.
Now, Paddy O’Reilly was a widower. His long departed wife, Agnes O’Reilly,
passed away of a Saturday evening. She visited St. Catherine’s, made her
confession with Father McCauley and then knelt before the Virgin Mary and
said her Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Up she got that long-ago January
evening, stepped out of the church and slipped on the ice at the top of
the stairs that Dick, the old church sexton, had missed with the salt
bucket. Agnes flew off the top step, somersaulted once and landed on her
head. What a perfect way to go, her having just been to confession and
all, and surely the angels rejoiced as she entered the gates above.
Paddy’s ending was a bit different to say the least. Though he had
begun making his way to church on a daily basis, perhaps angling for one
last bit of wheeling and dealing with his immortal soul, he still, even at
age 94, paid an occasional visit to Murphy’s.
It was of a Saturday night at Murphy’s that Anna Borkalsky, a
youthful 72 year-old maiden, struck a fancy for Paddy and Paddy responded.
It was while they were dancing to "The Beer Barrel Polka" that
Paddy took the heart attack and passed away quicker than his head could
hit the floor.
Things were no sooner black around Paddy then he noticed a light at the
end of a tunnel. He got up and walked towards the light and found himself
among white clouds or fog upon leaving the tunnel. Paddy walked through
the fog and after a while it gradually lifted and he found himself on a
dirt road in the country. There were meadows on each side of the road and
beyond the meadows, a wood. In the distance he saw a gate. It was
constructed of two stone pillars with the wooden gate attached. The gate
was made of worn and aged wood boards. Paddy thought perhaps this might be
the promised land, but the gates were all wrong.
As he came closer to the gates, the fog swirled around once more and
Paddy could see nothing but the fog. Then he heard a voice saying,
"Over here. That’s right. Walk this way. Just follow my voice. You’re
going the right way."
Paddy responded, "Who’s there?" Just as he did, the fog
lifted revealing the highest gates he had ever seen. The gates were pearly
white and trimmed in gold, a sight to behold. "Well, I guess I know
this place right enough," said Paddy.
"Harumph," said a voice nearby.
Paddy turned to his right and saw a small table and a bearded man
sitting there in a chair and holding a huge book. "Been expecting
you," the man said gruffly.
"Ah, good. Then I’m expected, am I?" asked Paddy.
"They all come here. Shame I have to send so many away. You’ll
have to be going, too. You’re not welcome here, you know."
"Have I the honor of addressing Saint Peter?"
"You do. Now be off with you. Others are expected."
"Do you mean to say that Paddy O’Reilly is not welcome to
Heaven?"
"You’re pretty smart for a dead guy. Now, off with you."
"But I thought there was to be a trial. A settling of accounts.
That sort of thing."
"They all want that. Trust me, you don’t want the trial. You won’t
do well. The evidence against you is in this book I’m holding."
"But what about the evidence for me? I’m not an evil man,
merely human."
"They all say that as though "merely human" was some
sort of excuse. Here’s your evidence for." Saint Peter reached into
a tiny pouch he carried on his belt and pulled out a tiny slip of paper
too small to write more than one word on it. He handed the paper to Paddy.
Paddy looked at the tiny paper. He turned it over and checked the
reverse side. "But it’s blank," he said.
"They all say that, too. You can write your defense brief on
it."
"But there’s no room for more than but a word at most."
"Then write your word, the court will hear your case."
"One word you say?"
"It’s more than you deserve." replied Saint Peter.
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