Authors: Chuck Stepanek
Tomorrow would be Saturday. And with that in mind, he decided on how to do both.
2
The men were grousing about the cold and basking in their new found wealth as they met for Saturday afternoon focus group. The meeting went like all the others, participants talking about their ambitions (all phony), Slim taking the stage at every opportunity and Mr. Lister impatiently deflecting his wisecracks. Sobriety dates, serenity prayer, restitution, blame, acceptance, and then a new thing. Church.
“I’d like to go to Saturday night mass and confession tonight.” Whitey shared quietly. I would go on Sunday, but you know…” The men did know. Sunday would mean more people, a lot more people who would point, stare and talk.
“That’s very good Whitey. We know that a strong spiritual base is part of recovery. Would any of the rest of you like to go with him tonight?”
Whitey’s heart stopped. He was going out alone. He didn’t want
anyone
with him. The only reason he brought it up in group was so that it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows when the words ‘church and confession’ appeared in the log book.
“You gonna stick out your tongue and eat a cookie Whitey? If so bring back a dozen Oreos for me!” Slim was sticking out his tongue and making the sign of the cross – backwards.
“Slim” Mr. Lister exhaled. “We should all respect each
other’s
faiths.”
“Aww, I got’s me plenty of sins to confess. Maybe I can make a list and Whitey can drop it off for me.” He yucked as his own wit and earned disapproving stare from Mr. Lister. “Okay sheriff, I give up.” He raised both hands in surrender and finally shut his trap.
Mr. Lister resumed: “Anyone?”
No takers.
Whitey was relieved, and very frightened. It was on. It was really on.
3
Mass was at 6 with confession at 7 until all were served. At 20
'til
, Whitey signed out of the log book. “Mass and confession – St. Marks.” He was on his way out the door when he endured one final jab from Slim, “Don’t be picking up no nasty habits Whitey! Get it? Nuns? Habits? Slim and his stupid laugh drifted off in search of a new audience.
‘Yeah, I get it you corn-holing cocksucker.’ Whitey was not drifting. He was wired. He could see the whole night ahead of him in perfect clarity.
He headed up Elderberry but never achieved
Front street
. When he thought it was ‘safe’ he turned left, went a block over and doubled backed the way he came. He really was headed to St. Marks tonight, but that was for later. Right now he had a pocketful of cash and a date. A date with bob.
4
“My man! Good to see you.” The greeting had lost some of its enthusiasm ever since the recent visits had been to see Sam, and not his big brother Bob. “Come on in, Sam has been expecting you.” The dealer welcomed his client into the door.
“I’m not here to see Sam.” Whitey said factually. “I’m looking for Roberto.” Apparently sunshine bubbles were not exclusive to the Boone Merrill’s of the world. The dealer beamed in delight. “Roberto! Yes, Roberto is upstairs. You grab a seat and I’ll be right down with him.”
Whitey had expected many things. He expected to be shaking in fear, fraught with regret, trembling with excitement. He was none of those things. His mind had become detached. Tonight he would do what he had to do. After that, it didn’t matter. After tonight, nothing would matter. He pulled two twenties out of his pocket and laid them on the coffee table.
“Just like old times!” The dealer offered gaily as he descended the stairs. “I didn’t even have to ask you how much.” He placed a plump plastic baggie in front of his customer. “You’re gonna like this a lot, let’s just say it’s my own special blend.”
The words were lost on Whitey. He had his weed, now he had things to do. He rose from his chair unceremoniously and moved to the door. “Lemme know what you think.” The dealer called after him. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
As his client shut the door behind him the dealer smiled, ‘oh yes, you’re in for a special treat my friend.’ The white powder that
he had liberally sprinkled on the product would return him to the status of repeat customer. Gaur-an-teed!
Whitey left the brick building, the baggie stuffed comfortably in his jeans. He checked his watch: 6:20. Later than he had planned, but there was still time. In the fading daylight he looked to the horizon and saw the marker, the cross; his destination lay beneath.
He stopped once, warming himself by browsing in the magazine aisle of the Rexall Drug store. He held his face close to the rags, not seeing the words or pictures, and, more important, not wanting to
be
seen. He thumbed through titles at random, Sports Illustrated, Vogue, Ladies Home Journal. He only became self aware when he realized he had been staring at an article about Toxic Shock Syndrome on one page and a strategically placed full page ad for Kotex Maxi Pads on the other.
He dared a quick glance around, replaced the Journal on the shelf and again checked his watch: 6:45. Perfect. He left the store and covered the last four blocks, arriving across the street from St. Mark’s just as the first members of the fast exit crowd were taking leave.
He watched as the parishioners extended their hands to someone just inside the entry. An arm draped in a billowing sleeve reciprocated and covered the expanse. There would be a quick handshake, and then the parishioner would be gone. Over and over he watched the arm extend from the recess. A few times he caught glimpses of a robe, and belt ropes, but never the full figure.
Eventually it came down to the lingerers. Blessedly few on a Saturday night, and then they too were done. Mass was over, it was time for confession.
5
This was why he came. For confession. With confession you didn’t need to look someone in the eye, in fact the opposite was true. A heavy black mesh screen separated penitent from absolver. Anonymity between mortal men; full transparency for an all seeing, all knowing God.
He waited two more minutes, then crossed the street and climbed the 13 steps to the church. The large doors that had been propped open to release the 6 pm service-goers were now firmly shit. Whitey allowed himself the briefest moment of reconsideration, shoved the thought aside, and entered the sacristy.
He dipped his finger in the holy water basin, noticing with some amusement, the light scrim of ice along the edge. The cold air had searched for and found a target during the recessional. Apparently even holy water was not exempt from the elements of the mortal world.
The church lay before him, empty but for 20 or 30 sinners scattered among the pews. Whitey was in no hurry. He would be one of the last, but definitely not
thee
last. It was unspoken courtesy that the final penitent informed the
priest
that they were the last one in the church. It prevented two things: Having the priest sit unnecessarily long, waiting for any lingering sinners, and, it avoided the awkwardness of the priest popping out of his chamber prematurely just as a sinner was climbing into his.
He had time, and he had things to do. Whitey turned left, flanked the last row of pews, and made his way into the men’s room. He entered one of the two stalls, shot the bolt home, and took a seat.
The first part was easy. He took a perfectly good cigarette and started rolling it back and forth between his fingers, loosening the tobacco. As it began to flake, he positioned it between his legs, the loose stuff fluttering harmlessly into the bowl. When
just the tiniest clump remained, far back by the filter, he declared it good.
Now the hard part. First he closed his legs, blocking the toilet water and creating a makeshift workspace. He pulled out his baggy and gave it a good once-over. Nice. Good golden color, lots of buds, and limited sticks and seeds.
He regretted not having the opportunity to manicure it in advance. The small paper tube of the cigarette prevented him from using the plump buds. He would have to resort to the powdery shake at the bottom, and even that would be a bitch to funnel into the cigarette.
He massaged the baggy up and down, getting all that was leafy and powdery to the bottom. Satisfied, he carefully inserted the cigarette, gathering up scoopful after tiny scoopful. The job was tedious but within 10 minutes he had re-packed the miniature paper cylinder with Columbian gold (and unknowingly, China White). He pinched off the end, then sealed it with a scrolling lick. Next he broke off the filter, and the stray clump of tobacco tumbled out. But the important stuff, the good stuff, stayed put. He sealed the second end, then licked the former cigarette (now joint) from end to end, fusing the paper to the powdery contents. A quick inspection and then he tucked the wrinkled joint back into the flip top. The sandwich baggy he rolled closed; providing one final lick, this one to the cover flap, then made the fold to seal the filmy package.
Whitey got up from the toilet and shoved the baggy into his pocket. Until this point he hadn’t expected what to feel. In fact just an hour ago he was feeling what? Nothing. But now he was feeling good.
Damn if he wasn’t feeling good! He glanced at the toilet and reached for the flush handle. There were hundreds of stray tobacco shavings, and one big cigarette filter, floating in the bowl. They looked like a massive armada of ships ready to
invade some unsuspecting country. He worked up a ball of spit and let it slowly descend from his mouth.
Pow! Five ships were decimated and the rest were bobbing precariously. Whitely laughed at the image. He was a bombardier pilot on a secret espionage mission, the enemy is in sight, bombs away! A second ball of spit was released. Bulls-eye! And next the filter, an aircraft carrier among destroyers, became his primary target.
Bombs away! A miss, but a close miss. The aircraft carrier was listing badly and taking on water. Whitey hocked up a megaton loogie.
The voice of one Sarge Denker filled his head. ‘Bombs away! So close! She’s still floating captain! Let’s make another run at her!’ Whitey let out a giggle over his ad hoc game and took to it with passion. Hock and spit. Hock and spit. Finally, when his ammunition had nearly run dry, direct hit! Captain Whitey memorialized the moment by triggering the flush handle and sending the fleet to a nautical graveyard.
Good he was feeling good! And he couldn’t wait to smoke some of that reefer! But there was something he needed to do first. What was it? He looked around and tried to get his bearings. This was a bathroom stall, but where? Whitey fumbled with, then clicked the slide bolt. He saw the larger surroundings and felt familiarity. Then he felt sick.
The church. H
e was in the church and he was here for confession. After that he planned to forget it by getting royally fucked up.
He stepped out the bathroom door, walked to the main hall and then froze. Shit! The church was empty! Or
nearly
so. There were only a couple of people left in the pews and all were on their knees reciting their post confession prayers. How long had he been in the goddamn bathroom! He scanned the pews
frantically like a lost child searching for a familiar face. All he saw were the unfamiliar backs of a few penitent’s heads.
Panic swelled up in his brain and fought with his determination. Damn it! He had planned this so well! What happened in there?
With everything he had, he measured his courage and then made his decision.
6
For all of his influence, Father Milliken knew it couldn’t be avoided. Contemporary people needed contemporary services. Saturday night services. Years ago the Catholic church had reluctantly approved Saturday evening mass as an acceptable substitute for the traditional Sunday offerings. The option to offer the additional service; would
rest in the hands of each congregation
.