of Leperchauns and 4am train rides

I once met an oversized leprechaun on a train from Bakersfield to Stockton.

Actually, that’s a lie.

I first encountered the leprechaun on a connecting bus from Fullerton CA, to Bakersfield.

Well, that is also a fallacy. I never actually met him, per say.

I rather, observed him from my seat in the back of the bus. Because that is where people like me sit: the back of the bus.

To be quite honest, I didn’t even want to be on that bus. In my own mind, I should have been in my ultimate destination of Roseville, California at least four hours before my encounter with the titanic representation of Gaelic Mythology.

I had begun my journey around 1:30pm in the afternoon, after my final class leading into Easter Break.
Mind you, my university is a Christian university. Hence, we are given both Spring and Easter break.
At any rate, I began my drive North in my noble, yet humble, cherry red Ford Escort SE; a car which I dubbed Lola Kay during my sophomore year of high school. Only for her to sputter, klank, stick, violently quake, click, freak out, and nearly kill me.

I had gotten to the foot of the grapevine. Two hours from my starting point in Fullerton. It was then I realized that I was not going to make it safely to my destination.

Of course, I did not react as calmly as my previous statement implies.

It was more a panic attack induced by vivid visions (would you check out that alliteration) of trusty Lola Kay exploding, flying off a cliff, crashing into gasoline tankers, crashing into anything, and of course, implosion. These hallucinations were, as always, followed by tear-jerking images of my friends and loved ones at my seemingly inevitable funeral.

But what was so tear-jerking about the images wasn’t the fact that I was six feet under. Although I must agree that the loss of such an eccentric personality in such a freak accident would be a loss to mother earth. No, it wasn’t the fact that I was dead. It was the fact that of all my eulogies, obituaries, funeral speeches, et cetera, there was not one that gave a clear picture of who I was, and moreover who I was aspiring to be.

Now, the understanding of exactly what had happened didn’t come until much later. The immediate action, after the drawn out recovery from the panic attack, was to call a car savvy friend. A friend who upon hearing the description of the noise blatantly ordered “Turn around”

Hence, I was sitting on a bus/train with an over-sized leprechaun.

It is my belief that everything happens for a reason. I also believe the theory that suggests that a butterfly flapping it’s wings in the Amazon causes a hurricane in the gulf of Mexico.

But my beliefs aren’t all that interesting. What is interesting is the leprechaun.

I boarded the train from Fullerton to Bakersfield at one in the morning. It was the last train out of Orange County that could possibly get me up to my lovely Sacramento suburb.

Yet even at that ungodly hour for anything besides mayhem, the leprechaun donned a beat up, stud-lined, slightly torn Top Hat. Oh but wait, it gets better. Not only did he have a top hat, which in and of itself is not that incredible. He also wore a pair of perfectly polished cowboy boots. The boots led up his leg into a pair of ultra tight “skinny jeans.” He also wore a black shirt of some sort or another. In my thirty second glance at him I didn’t get a good enough glimpse of his shirt to give you a description with merit. I was not able to secure such a look though, because over the shirt (whatever kind it may be) he wore a green jacket which appeared to be fashioned out of cheap suede.

Now, when I say green, I have to assume that you think I mean military green. Simply due to the fact that most green jackets are militaristic in style.

Such is not the case with the leprechaun’s jacket.

The jacket itself is not military in neither cut nor style. The lines of it, while still clean and straight, are not crisp and rigid like that of a military jacket. The best example I can come up with is that of an old tux jacket, like on a lounge musician would wear. It is the type of jacket that a pianist or saxophonist may wear while performing in an upscale restaurant. In a word: classy.

However, I would have to assume that the jacket would not be appropriate for lounge musician, no matter how classy the cut may be.

This is due to the fact that it is green; not a militaristic hunter green, nor a velveteen forest green.
No. The shade of green this jacket boasts is a subdued lime.

I only describe it as subdued to remove any presuppositions you may hold about lime green. The jacket is not a neon. The leprechaun is by no means radiating.

That stated, the only reason the leprechaun was not glowing is the material of the jacket. It was constructed out of a cheap suede. I only say cheap suede because who it would be very very silly to die a nice suede jacket lime green.

A thin red polka dotted tie was snuggly set around his throat. Note: it was snuggly placed on his neck. Not hanging halfway down his chest like the majority of punker morons that run around today. And when I said the tie was red. I do mean red. Standard, 8-piece-crayola-marker-set

red. No more, no less.

To complete the ensemble, about his neck he had a metal brace for a harmonica. The harmonica itself was locked into the brace and the whole contraption hung approximately thirty degrees from his face.
This was just the first impression I got of the punk-rock leprechaun. An observation that was taken fifteen feet behind him on the bus ride from Fullerton to Bakersfield.

I first realized he was an oversized Leprechaun while waiting on the train platform at Bakersfield. He is a very short fellow. Not quite a hobbit, but at any rate he would never-ever be picked in the top ten for basketball at school. He stood about 5’5 maybe 5’6. And I paid particular attention to him on the platform not because he was astonishingly witty, good-looking, or charming. I paid attention to him because he had removed his top-hat for a young woman named Sara; a fact that I had learned through eavesdropping, a skill that many would find “creepy”.

His hair hung down to the base of his neck and I use the term hung rather loosely. For hair to be hanging from ones head it must have some semblance of straight. He was gifted with no such thing. Fluffy hair, not necessarily curly, just fluffy, although I may point out there was a slight curl due to the encasement of his head in the top hat.

He had bleached and dyed his hair green in various tufts throughout his unruly mane. However it would seem by the length of the black roots that he had not re-bleached his hair in some time.

From my position on a bench no too far away, I was able to observe his belongings.

Slung over one shoulder were two separate satchels. A satchel, by definition, is a fabric sack with some sort of shoulder strap. In the leprechaun’s case, the strap was a rope. True, make-yourself-noose-and-hang-yourself-with-it rope. In one of the satchels he had an old scooter, that even in the dim 4am light I could tell that it had seen too many years. The other was sealed so I had no idea as to its contents.

At his feet sat a large rectangular guitar case. White lettering had marked the instrument. “THE TRUTH IS A VIRUS” painted in jagged, white, letters across the face of the case. Having seen the early nineties movie PUMP UP THE VOLUME, I immediately understood the reference and did not look so oddly at him as the older, more conservative travel companions did.

I took particular notice to the fact that he did not have a suitcase. He had the guitar case, the satchels, and a small laptop bag, from which he later furnished a laptop and several books. So I know that there was no clothing in that bag. I found it odd. For even I and my four day excursion back home had packed my small bag whose sole contents was clothing. But this young man had none.

Now he may not have clothing because he was traveling between houses. Both of which houses had his clothing safe within. Or he may have had a freak accident and his clothing was stolen or burned or lost. However, I don’t like any of these stories for the young man. I choose to believe that the reason he did not have a suitcase was simply because he believed that he didn’t need one.

What a statement.

I began my journey with a panic attack because I did not know that my loved ones knew who I was. But here was this young man that I happened to observe on a bus at 4 in the morning.

And I instantly knew who he was.

Without question, he was musician. Moreover, he aspired to be a musician. He had a fondness for early nineties teen movies, all of which had the same theme strung throughout them. The “man” is lying to us. He is a rebel with a cause. Whether or not that cause makes sense to us, it doesn’t matter to him. He probably wears a top hat to give honor to the guitarist Slash. He wears a polka dotted tie, he is playful and a child at heart. The style of the jacket is classy, he must also have a trace of class.

With only a few minutes observation, without even saying a word to him, without him even realizing I was looking.

And yet, with all the hours I spent, sitting in conversation, deep conversation nonetheless, I’m afraid my loved ones will not understand me as much as I understood the young man.

He boarded the train before I did. He walked up on to the upper level, rounded the corner and disappeared into an empty train.