“Really, Ray,” Fraser said, dodging a large group of intoxicated college students. “I don’t understand why you felt it necessary that we visit the river today.”
“It’s St. Patrick’s Day, Fraser and you said Vecchio never took you to see the river.”
“Not as a sight in and of itself but I have seen it before.”
“Not like this you haven’t. It’s green!”
“I fail to see how that is different than any other day of the year.
And Ray was pushing him up against the barrier, forcing him to look down at the river. It was in fact a rather bright shade of green. Everyone seemed to be wearing it today, as tradition stated, even those whose superficial appearance would suggest a heritage other than Irish.
Ray, who he knew to be Polish when not pretending to be Italian, had affixed Fraser’s Sam Brown with a small shamrock pin earlier that morning - “Frannie doesn’t need any excuses.” – and was wearing a shirt that said Kiss me, I’m Irish.
It was a blatant falsehood, but Fraser did it anyway.