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Luck of the Irish
(A Charitable Act)

The last RSVP was transmitted in a six minute telephone call. Sol Schwartzman would, after all, be free to come. He had waited, he said, to make a commitment until the 16th, holding out hope to the last for a seat on the corporate plane flying the two dozen candidates for promotion to the "top echelon" out to the PPCI corporate retreat on the island of Maui.

"Top echelon" was the term used in all the water cooler talk among the anxious employees of Plus Plus Clothiers International that had gone on for much of the last two weeks whenever the subject of their prospects for advancement within the company came up - which it had with increasing frequency as the 17th approached.

Sol had not really been surprised when, on scanning the posted manifest, he had not seen his name among those chosen.

"Doggone it", had been Sol's bitter reaction when he'd overheard Megan Delaney and Kate Hern excitedly inform Maureen Rielly and Mickey McGuire that the only thing on the itinerary that they and their fellow retreat participants would be required to attend would be a Tony Robbins seminar during two of their ten afternoons in paradise. "The title of his talk is Personnel Power", Megan told Maureen between lip smacks and finger licks after devouring a Bismark in the break room.

Personal. Personal Power. That was the name of Robbins' Seminar. Sol knew this because he'd been up late the night before, unable to sleep, and very nearly ordered the tapes of the seminar during the half hour infomercial after regular programming had signed off on the Lifetime Channel.

All this, as well as the news that the dog that the shelter had turned out not to be his still missing Mister Pug, was imparted during those interminable six minutes on the phone.

Paddy decided to smile bravely. It had been a habit of his to do just that on those few occasions when he'd had to face adversity and this was approaching an eight on the little scale he kept in his head.

Paddy set the pencil down along side the note pad by the phone. The guest list was complete at last. There would be one short of half a dozen sad sacks coming over for traditional Irish fare. The green beer had earlier been scratched when it turned out Paddy's wife Lena had gotten into the act and invited Kurt Linder an old friend and consummate drunk to their little gathering. But now, after that six minute chat on that worst of all inventions, the telephone, Paddy was beginning to re-think that no beer policy.

With

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