I was eating a cheeseburger, minding my own business, when a drunk priest stumbled into my life. He seemed harmless enough, so I asked him to join me. He liked my french fries, now soggy. Now this particular tavern is not a stranger to peculiar characters. They swarm like moths to the lite... beer, some hang around awhile and others expire pretty fast. My new friend seemed to be on the path of the former. The Father was a fixture... spending equal time on the wooden seats of stools and pews.
The Father was not disgusting, some how. He had a charm that engulfed the area he occupied just as his robe did his body... flowing and non restrictive... comfortable. This I could tell immediately. He preached to me about his foibles and indiscretions and asked about mine. We exchanged our pasts and pondered our tomorrows and drank whiskey.
Suddenly it was 2 am. My stomach was churning, searching itself for a morsel of burger, to no avail. It all moved south, replaced by Irish whiskey. The Father was still there, his eyes still full of energy. It was his body that wasn't cooperating. When he stood to bid farewell to a regular parishioner his knees buckled and a dribble of drool appeared at the corner of his mouth . At first sight, a passerby would have though he just got popped by Mike Tyson. But he didn't fall. The teeter never progressed to a "timber." Just as gravity was about to claim another drunken victim, the bottom The Father's cloak got caught under one of the legs of the bar table, his body stopped moving and hovered at a forty-five degree angle to the floor. The Father extended his hand not occupied with a glass of Jameson and shook the young man's hand and said, "strong cloth, glad I'm a man of it."
Me and The Father walked. We talked some more. He told me about his being raised by a single mother, struggling, using food stamps, being babysat by other single mothers, and eating noodles with butter. He told me about playing soccer and eating Oreo cookies after a game and swimming in a neighborhood pool all day until his eyes were beet red from the chlorine. He stumbled and slurred and told stories.
I told him that I drink too much and don't finish things I start. He asked me if I was mostly happy or mostly sad. I said I was mostly happy, and that was the truth. He went on about the importance of happiness, the most valuable of possessions. The Father was not concerned with minor infractions and spiritual slip ups. He expressed his fear for those with bludgeoned souls. Bludgeoned souls rarely heal... engines that continually drip oil... only a matter of time.
Finding a new one requires finding God. That is what he said, The Father.
The Father walked me home. When we got to my house, I asked The Father why he drinks so much. He put both hands on my face, and looked through my eyes.
"Ask me the next time you see me. Then you'll have your answer," said The Father, still clutching my face for moments after he spoke. He wore a concerned looking smile, like I had just asked a question that I already knew the answer to.
We bid each other farewell and I told him that I hoped to see him again real soon. And as he was walking away into the darkness he gave a reverse wave to me without turning around and without breaking stride. And for the first time I heard The Father laugh, a soft giggle that sounded familiar. I was briefly overtaken with the feeling of deja vu.
I was fumbling around my place getting ready to pass out for the night, eating slices of processed cheese. I meandered my way into the bathroom to take one last piss. I took one step on the linoleum floor and my right foot slips out from under me, lurching my drunken, wet noodle of a body backwards. I was heading for certain pain. My head was definitely going to bounce off the hard tile like a bowling ball. Thump... thump, thump. As I was bracing for the inevitable, my momentum was suddenly stopped and I didn't hit bottom. My back hit the bathroom door and pushed it open and the back collar of my shirt got caught on the little hook used to hang bathrobes on.
Time stood still for what seemed like hours as I let myself half dangle on the hook on my bathroom door. I gathered myself and tried my luck at standing on my own again. I took my piss and went to the sink to wash-up. I looked at my drunken reflection in the mirror and chuckled. Strong cloth.
We have been blessed with Simons... and Garfunkel of course.
