Page 12 of Paddy

“What can I do for you two?” The man at the counter turned, initially caught off guard or uncomfortable that the voice that stood before him hadn’t been a white woman.

The woman was an entertainer, I just hadn’t been expecting the woman I’d been verbally sparring with to become uncharacteristically decent the whole time she was talking.

“I was coming home from a gig, and in a rush to meet my husband. Clearly, he was in a rush as well, wanting to surprise me,” she started, giving off this naive and submissive demeanor with each battened eyelash.

Who was this woman, and what had she done with therealPretty Washington?

“In my effort to get home, surprised to see his car, I might have hit him by accident,” she lied, the last detail in her story, but it seemed she’d had more in store to use to her advantage.

“That's too bad, but I'm sure I could give it a look after a tow. Say you was coming home from a gig? You in entertainment or something?” The man questioned.

“Something like that.” She shook her head in a ditzy way, knowing damn well it wasn't as small as something like that.

“I see you’re a Louis Armstrong fan,” she said with a point to the poster on the wall. “He and I go way back. I'm actually a pianist and a singer. I don't like the brag, but I've been in a picture or two.”

“Oh yeah,” the man's face lit up with recognition. “I thought you maybe looked familiar. I think I saw one of them musicals. Pretty good for a race film. You was playing two pianos at once,” he admitted, impressed.

“Guilty as charged,” she flirted. “I actually have a screening coming up in a few months. Honey,” she turned to me, expecting me not break character. “Haven’t we’ve always been talking about how fortunate we are and how much we want to give back?”

“We’ve been talking,” I nodded, unsure of where she was going with this.

“Have you ever been to a premiere?” She beamed, as I assumed the direction she was about to take.

“Can’t say a man like me has?” The man repairman laughed.

“Well, entertainers are nothing without the people filling those seats. Even busy men like you deserve a night out every once in a while. Probably even meet your favorite movie star.”

“I couldn’t?—”

“It’s nothing! We insist,” Pretty persisted.

“I’d be honored. I ain’t never been to no film premiere before. Where did you say that pickup site was again? I should be able to get that tow here and give you a quote in no time,” the flattered ego of their mechanic bragged, before taking down the information.

The moment he left the station, I shot Pretty a look that showed her I was onto her. “What on bloody earth was that?”

“The same energy where that Irish accent went,” calling me out. Of all my brothers, I was the only one who could completely turn off the Irish brogue. Bell could tone it down for sure, but I'd served with so many non-Irish Americans, I learned how to imitate the way they spoke, particularly when I didn't want someone to know I was Irish.

Since I paid everything in cash, I didn't always give my real name when I needed a service. Cash typically spoke for me. Even though I didn’t want to compare my struggle with a Black man’s, there were still a bunch of doors closed to you when you were Irish.

Seeing how my fellow soldiers were treated based on skin color had been a bit of a wakeup call for me, but it didn’t take away the fact I got different treatment once people knew. Toning down the accent just gave me instant respect when I travelled for other jobs.

But Jesus, I didn’t have shit on a Black woman. Were they always so assertive, or was it just her?

“My accent went where it’d ensure we didn’t get cheated because I’m bloody Irish. And the husband thing. So, I’m your husband now?” Not wanting the subject to pass.

“For the record, service workers are more likely to upcharge a single man, than a married couple. The man had shaggy hair, chapped lips, plain style. It was clear a woman’s attention would flatter him and a night out some place out of his league would make him feel special. All you have to do is throw in some sob story about romantically rushing home to each other, and he wasn’t going to care who was white or Black. He was just grateful to be flattered by a woman who’s been in a picture or two.” Seeing the immediate change after she’d dropped the whole nice girl act.

“Something tells me you're going to be dangerous,” I smirked, “And my name's not Patrick, it's Pádraig. But like I said before, everyone calls me Paddy.”

“Well, I will not be calling you Paddy. At best you’ll get Mr. Sullivan, but onlyafterI talk to my husband first. But try to remember that my name’s not sweetheart. It’s Pretty. Even then, you should be referring to me as Mrs. Washington.” The attitude on this woman. Can’t believe I’m even saying this, but my cockgot hard just thinking about her, cooking up an inappropriate situation involving her bottom and my paddle.

She was everything you were taught tonotwant in a woman. Argumentative. Challenging. Bossy. Assertive. So why did I have to convince my body to calm down when it came to our exchange?

Couldn't imagine the satisfaction a man like me would get putting a woman like that in her place. Thank God this woman was married because the things I would do to her…

“Well, shall we?”

Six

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