Volunteer Priest

I woke early.  I’d carried a steady job many years and finally found myself out of work.  My body had forgotten how to sleep past daybreak.  I lie in bed with my feet sticking out of the bottom of the quilt.  Bastardly sunlight came through the blinds, punching at my swollen eyelids.  I rolled and turned and passed gas for forty minutes.  It was the only technique I knew to train myself to sleep longer into the mornings.

Finally I got up, put on a pot of coffee, urinated in the shower, and dressed myself.  I only urinated in the shower drain because I’d clogged the toilet the day before.  There was no plunger, of course.  Eventually, I’d have more urgent toilet needs that couldn’t be handled by the shower drain.  It was a recipe for disaster, but like most problematic situations, I went on in ignorance, pretending it didn’t exist.

I opened the window.  Winter was pushing in from the north.  It was as blue as the open ocean out there.  A thousand colored leaves scrambled across the street, driven by a gust of wind.  This was a good time of year.  The weather always got to a point where you could feel the holidays coming.  Without a job, I knew it would be a tight season, but I let myself be taken by the holiday spirit anyway.

The second cup of coffee came and went.  Urgency hit me in the bowels.  I searched the entire apartment for a plunger, for a stick, a wire hanger, anything.  I jabbed at the clocked toilet with the handle of a broom.  It gurgled, but there wasn’t enough curve to make any progress.

Without much thought or choice, I was on my hands and knees.  I hung my t-shirt on the empty towel rack.  The water was cold, thick, soup-like.  I held my breath and reached up to my elbow.  I found the clog with my fingertips.  I pulled at it.  It was impossible to get a grip, so I pushed.  The water level sank a half-inch.  With my free hand, I hit the flusher.  It clunked, lifeless.

I put my feet against the wall, groaned, contorted, and drove myself in up to my bicep.  Vomit was working its way up the back of my throat.  Beneath it all, I worked my fingers, clawed at the blockage.  Finally, I had a grip.  I pulled at it, slowly as to not break it apart.  It felt like a dead rat that had been mummified in newsprint. I worked my arm back out.  The water chocked down around it. 

This time, the flusher gave a triumphant laugh.  I still had the culprit in my hand.  I didn’t look down at it.  That’s not an image you want in your brain.  I used the side of the bowl to break it apart, cleaned my hand as best I could in the water and flushed again.  All I had on the bathroom sink was shampoo.  I used what was left to sanitize my arm, up to the shoulder.

Sitting on the toilet, I came up with a terrific idea.  It was philanthropy, really, something for the holidays.  It was still early, I needed to hurry.  I wanted to catch people on their way to work, before they became embittered.

I was dressed in all black with a long coat.  Speed walking downtown was enough to start a moderate sweat.  I began my work as soon as I arrived.

“Step right up – friends, family, lovers, and sinners – I’m here for you.  Give me your confessions.  Each one of you carry unnecessary weight upon your shoulders.  Free thyself of your burdens.  Come out of the shadows.  Believe.  Accept the light.”

I repeated variations of this.  During some of the monologue, I spun in circles, stamped my feet, tilted my head back, opened and closed my coat.  People watched me cautiously.  The hurried ones bumped past me without excusing themselves.

“Come.  Join me, fellow sinners.  Confess.  Be forgiven.  Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

I got a rise out of a woman from this one.  She was shabby with pointed, uncomfortable shoes.  I felt her watching me from a distance.  I worked my speech until she was hooked and I reeled her in.

My plan worked, straight off the bat.  It didn’t take the strong-arm work I was expecting.  She asked me if I was with the church and I told her, “Yes, but I don’t take a paycheck.”  I was a volunteer, in a way.

The truth was, I hadn’t been to church in many years.  I’d volunteered to sing in the choir when I was younger, but I lacked the vocal talent.  Even in the background, my squealing was unpleasant for the audience.  It wasn’t long before they asked me to help as an usher, or an altar boy.  I tried those jobs for a week and never showed up again.

The woman confessed to me, quite sincerely.  I held one hand on her shoulder, making faces of concern, compassion, and nobility.  She’d committed a forgery, signed an affidavit on behalf of a husband who’d passed away two years prior.  She was expecting to bring in a considerable sum of money because of it.

I took the confession in and made the sign of the cross on my chest.  I hugged the woman and thanked her.  It was good for her to get it out.  She handed me a five dollar bill.  I put it in my pocket and bowed graciously.

When I opened my eyes, I expected her to be on her way, a little lighter on her feet.  She was more buoyant, but she was still standing there, nearly on my toes.  It was then that I realized I hadn’t taken into consideration the aspect of advice, or remedy.  My only plan was to play the role of volunteer priest.  Take confessions at five dollars a pop and send people on their way.

I told the woman that she had rightfully confessed.  As a messenger of the almighty, I granted her forgiveness.  This made her smile.  It gave me a powerful adrenaline rush.  To grant forgiveness worked magic on both of us.  I perpetuated it.  When she asked what she should do, I permitted her to keep whatever money she was destined to.  I told her to spend it wisely, with compassion, and if she found it in her heart, she could always donate to the volunteer priest of W. 9th Street.  The woman was nearly in tears.  She went on walking, to work, or home, or wherever she was headed.

After that, no one would come near me.  Maybe they hadn’t watched me embrace the woman.  Maybe they hadn’t seen how light she was in her pointed shoes as she left.  I tried again and again.  I twirled myself, fell to my knees in make believe prayer, danced, skipped, sung.  I must have given a hundred variations of my initial monologue, but people were content on going about their day.  Some circumnavigated to avoid me.  Others brushed right past the shoulder of my coat without eye-contact.  I tried and tried until the morning rush was dull and quiet.

I thumbed the five dollar bill in my pocket.  On the way back to my apartment, I stopped for breakfast.  I spent what was left of the five on a newspaper and coffee.  For a rogue, whim of an idea, it had shown promise.

The cold breeze was persistent.  I hugged the coat closed and made my way home.  I hadn’t decided if I would give the idea another attempt in the evening.  I was afraid people would be too tired, too broken down to confess their sins in the evening.