The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters(96)

A hulk of a man appeared, with scraggly whiskers and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He kicked the lounge chair off to the side, pulled a rope, and the iron basket slid sideways out of sight.

“You!” the hulk pointed to George. “Over here, and stand with your back to the parapet!”

“Back to the parapet? I thought I was supposed to lie down and slide through a hole?”

“C’mon man, we ain’t got all day! Lotsa people waitin’. Hup to!”

Confused, George looked over the edge of the parapet, getting a little dizzy as he saw how far down the ground was. The Blarney Stone was in the outer wall, with a gap between the two walls. Even on your back, you slid through the first wall, and out over the gap to get to the second wall. Hence the iron basket underneath you.

George couldn’t fathom why they’d stand him with his back to the edge, so he just stood gaping down at the ground far below. Brutus grabbed George’s arm and spun him around. “Don’t move, until I tell ya.”

Brutus knelt down, grabbed George by the ankles, and hoisted him up over the edge, so that George was dangling upside down from the top of the castle. Nothing stood between George and his head smashing into the ground like a Halloween pumpkin, except for Brutus holding his ankles.

“Kiss it! Kiss the Blarney Stone, quick, before my fingers slip!”

George swayed back and forth trying to reach the stone with his lips, and the red rose slipped from his buttonhole, falling ninety feet to the rocks below. George’s face was dripping sweat, and he could see the stones below, darkened with human blood. “Oh dear God,” he prayed, “please don’t let my ankles start sweating!” He kissed the stone and hollered, “I’m done! Pull me up!”

“If you weren’t so red in the face, I’d swear you’d turned Irish green!” Brutus laughed, exposing stained, crooked teeth.

George was sweating hard. “Is that blood on the stones below?”

“Hell yes, matey! That’d surely be blood, didn’t they tell ye? I’ve never lost my grip, but the man before me, he lost somebody once — a man by the name of Jack. They say you could hear the man hollering all the way down until his head hit bottom. He hit so hard that his head went splat, and there was nothing left of it. He was like the Headless Horseman, he was, when they dragged his dead body away! I’m sure you’ve heard of him… Jack Splat.”

Brutus laughed, and the man in line behind George turned around and hightailed it back down the stairs. “No refunds!” Brutus hollered as the man disappeared out of sight.

“Don’t go up there! They’ll try to kill you!” the man warned as he fled.

George was right behind him, though George hoped he’d gotten his money’s worth. Surely this was just some silly old legend, and kissing the Blarney Stone couldn’t possibly bless you with the Gift of Gab. Nevertheless, everyone swore by the legend, so he held on to the glimmer of hope.

On his first night back home, he tested his newfound ability. He’d never been good with words, and he was ready to romance Rose as he’d never been able to do.

He smiled, and caressed her face, building up the words to tell her how beautiful she was, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her nose. That mole on the end of her nose, it was the only blemish on an otherwise perfect face. She should have it removed. It was simple, in-and-out surgery. Snip, snip, and the mole would be gone. Ah well, back to the business at hand, romancing his darling Rose. He was about to utter words of beauty, poetic all, but the color had drained from her face.

“Plastic surgery?” she spat. “You think I should have plastic surgery? Snip snip?”

“But… but… I was going to tell you how beautiful you are!”

“That’s how you call someone beautiful? You son of a bitch!” She slapped his face and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

He hadn’t realized that he’d said the words out loud, those ugly words about the mole on her nose. He’d only been thinking it, but somehow it just popped out. That hadn’t gone at all as planned. Instead of setting the stage for a marriage proposal, he’d just insulted the woman of his dreams. He’d gotten so excited, that his thoughts just slipped out.

The next day was the opening at an art gallery for Bertie Butte, an artist from Grimsby that his company was trying to land as a client. Her paintings sold for thousands of dollars each, and signing her would be quite a coupe. The only reason that George had even been allowed to pursue her, was because the top salesman was out of town on holiday, and George was all they had. Against their better judgement, they’d sent him to the gala.

He hung back watching Bertie, gauging his approach, and saw that she was drinking some sort of fruity tropical drink, so he went to the bar.

“Excuse me, do you know what Ms. Butte is drinking?”

“Why yes, she’s drinking Mai Tai’s this evening. What a sweetheart she is, too! She gave me a $50 tip and told me to treat my wife to dinner. A rare bird, to be so nice!”

“Could you mix up another one for her? I can’t tip you $50, but how about a fiver?”

“Sure thing, boss! Thanks!” The bartender handed George the Mai Tai with an Irish green umbrella stuck through a pineapple and cherry. George was relieved to hear that Bertie was nice. This would be easier than he expected.