scattered unevenly among the pews, parishioners sat as the priest spoke. a thick accent. broken English and Italian.
an old guy and gal, manning the front row, stared at the priest. their hands clasped together; still in love after all these years.
an obese giant, his gut hanging obscenely over his sweats, fanned himself as his daughter did the jitterbug beside him. he glanced at me several times.
he disliked me, i think.
my presence alone caused him physical discomfort. or perhaps it was the skin tags abrading his collar as he side-eyed me.
behind this juggernaut, a hot dame in her 40s.
facial features muted by scorn. crows feet carved deep and a valley across her forehead betrayed her past.
she was asking for peace.
for perseverance.
for God to know she was not a bad person.
that her bastard hubby should rot in hell,
and she was not a bad person.
apologies for raising the rug rats so poorly too.
a simple reprise from Jesus, a blanketed statement of absolution is what she wanted.
and she did this every sunday @ st. joseph's catholic church.
now directly to my twelve o'clock (that's in front of me), a man in his 50s. a creeper. hands folded tight and tarnished.
he disregarded the signals to kneel, stand, and recite dogma. his hair was yellowed gray. the grease that held it close to his head smelled of flowers, three types of them.
apparently something was wrong with the cat's legs - an aluminum cane propped against the aisle.
never once did he look up.
never once.
and when the time came to recite the Lord's Prayer, he refused my hand. simply stayed in that remorseful position, staring @ the floor as if an answer laid buried beneath the industrial carpet.
i knew this gent, i thought.
recently released from the big house after the mandatory seven.
inappropriate relations with kiddos under thirteen. he found God @ Corcoran, along with free-base and sodomy - habits he's found hard to quit.
and now, every sunday, he comes to st. joseph's asking Big J to nix the beast that makes him hard at the sight of pippi longstockings and black tar.
so the mass ended.
"go in peace," said the priest.
three hispanic dames, one holding a gilded crucifix, escorted the padre outa the church.
the parishioners slowly rose to their feet. stretched. exhaled. and exited.
but i remained behind. stayed right there. right in the back.
i wanted to go to confession.
some minutes later the padre re-entered. i explained my intentions and he told me to meet him there...
a small room. filtered screen separates us. a Bible and a pen/paper placed on a stool. it smells like leather, cheap leather.
although i don't recite the proper prayer, i tell him my story.
it's long. ugly. sometimes downright disturbing. big things. deal breakers. takes me twenty minutes to spill the beans.
silence. he takes a sip of something. clears his throat.
he talks back.
i don't understand a word of it. but even though i can't understand a word of it, it seems like a template.
do this, that; and you're forgiven.
so i sorted through his gibberish, desperately trying find something that fit.
but i felt nothing. not a goddamn thing.
he mumbled some more, but i wasn't buying what he was selling.
figured he wanted me to say some prayers. so i did.
three Hail Mary's and five Our Fathers.
that's it.
three Hail Mary's and five Our Fathers.
ten years of sin and that's it.
so i left.
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