"Ah, the Luck of the Jewish!"

WC 878

“Ah, the Luck of the Jewish!”

By Jack Rawlins

“Bernie,” taunted Jezebel, “this photo is cornier than corned beef and cabbage; you standing in a hollow stump dressed like a leprechaun, and me gussied up like a gaudy fairy with itty-bitty wings that would never get my ass off the ground. And both of us holding a goblet of green ale. Yuck!”

“Did you bring me here to Fitzgerald Park just so you could get your old shillelagh in my knickers? “

“Jesus, Jezebel, there’s nothing I’d like better. But this photo is important. The Irish love wee people, fairies and all kinds of green stuff --as long as it’s not growing on their scones or cajones.

“We’ll run the picture in The Muskerry News to promote our St. Paddy’s party. We’ll give each customer an autographed copy. When you become a famous dancer, it’ll be a collectors’ item. And I’ll also send a copy to the society editor to announce our engagement. You’ll get all kinds of exposure.”

“Whoa! What engagement? I’ve told you every day for six months I won’t marry you,” said Jezebel with a toss of her long blond hair. “But I do like to expose myself.”

Bernie squirmed to avoid a lump of wood nudging his rump. “Hurry up,” he told the photographer. “This stump is trying to bugger me and the termites are nipping my wiener.”

On the drive back to Murphy’s Pub in Blarney, Bernie proposed to Jezebel just as he did every few days since they met in her uncle’s pub. Only now, it was his pub.

“I’m short, fat, bald and forty. But what I have to offer is every Irishman’s dream: his own pub and lots of money. Will you marry me?”

“No,” said Jezebel. “You’re old enough to be my mother.”

“What?” said Bernie.

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At twenty, Jezebel was already a legend in Blarney. She was christened Mary Madeline Murphy. But when the sisters at St. Rose Academy called her “ a little Jezebel’’ for wonton acts like chewing gum, talking in class and putting another girl’s head in the toilet--she liked it. She liked the sound…the hint of naughtiness.

The name fit her so well, she kept it. From then on she would answer to no other name.

When she was thirteen, her mom and dad took the wrong way to Tipperary and met a cement truck with the right-away. After that she was raised by her aunt and uncle, Maude and Tom Murphy, owners of Murphy’s Pub.

Jezebel waited tables, danced for customers, took lessons, and entered every dance competition she could. She had a huge collection of trophies and ribbons. She also had lots of propositions. None of which had anything to do with dancing.

Jezebel would do almost anything for exposure: at high noon on St. Paddy’s Day, 2009, she roared through Blarney on a borrowed dirt bike wearing nothing but a helmet and green panties. For a special touch, she popped a wheelie in the town square.

She said it was a protest against the English who once executed folks for ‘The wearing of the green.’ “Well, yes, that was a few years ago,” she said. “But it wasn’t right.”

A friend video taped her ride and posted it on the Internet. It got the kind of exposure she craved.

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When Tom Murphy retired, instead of selling his pub at its appraised value, he raffled it off for more than three times its worth. His only regret was that he didn’t print more tickets.

The day of the drawing, Bernie Swartz, a US importer of Irish potables, was touring Ireland as guest of Smithwick’s Ale. His guide took him to Blarney Castle and dangled him upside down to kiss The Blarney Stone, Ireland’s most unsanitary attraction.

Caught up in the moment, Bernie laid a passionate kiss on the cold blue stone. When hauled to safety, he said, “If there’s a fairy in there, she’s a lousy kisser.”

Next he was taken to Murphy’s to rinse his mouth with a few pints. And that’s when he bought the winning ticket and met Jezebel. She was doing a traditional Irish toe dance to the music of a fiddle and flute. Bernie immediately fell in love.

When Bernie returned a month later and took over Murphy’s, Jezebel stayed on as a waitress and performer with an agreement that she would still pursue her career as a professional.

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The corny photo publicity worked. On St. Paddy’s day, Murphy’s was packed. Bernie knew one thing about the Irish: Tell them there’s a party and they’ll show up. They flocked from all over County Cork. Some hoped for another protest ride by Jezebel.

And among those who showed up was a gentleman whose sister was with The Riverdancers. When he saw Jezebel dance, he was smitten and helped arrange for her to audition with the troupe.

Bernie was crushed. He knew once she left, she’d never return. But he was gracious and philosophical: He smiled sadly and said, “Ah, it’s the luck of the Jewish, “

A month later, Bernie raffled off Murphy’s again. Only he didn’t repeat Tom’s mistake. He sold enough tickets for every man, woman and child in Blarney.

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