(Originally
published 11/29/11)
I share
something in common with a certain man of the cloth. It seems we both reside in
street-level
bachelor pads in private homes on the same block. And that
is the long and short of our similarities, I suspect. Everything else I know
about this fellow is limited to our encounters—for lack of a better
description—which have been numerous the past couple of years. When I see him
in the early morning hours—presumably before he
goes to work, if that is
the right phrase—he is without fail walking a small dog and puffing on a
cigarette. The occupational giveaway is the Roman collar, fuchsia-colored
buttoned shirt, and black sports jacket.
I have long assumed the man is an Episcopal or Methodist minister. Having experienced a Catholic
upbringing and education, I just never knew a priest who lived in a basement
apartment, which does not mean such living arrangements are unprecedented. The
priests in my past always called hearth and home a parish or resided somewhere
on the school grounds where they taught. But then again, a friend of mine
worked alongside a Catholic priest in a Barnes & Noble store. The man needed
the money and had to both locate, and pay out of his own pocket, his accommodation.
These are tough times for all.
Anyway,
today—post-Hurricane Irene Day One—I was outside and picking up scattered
debris, including a large tree branch that I dragged to the curbside. With my
back unintentionally turned away from this approaching holy man, I heard
him—quite uncharacteristically—say something. I swiveled around and momentarily
considered asking, “You talkin’ to me?” As per the norm, however, he was
staring straight ahead, cigarette in one hand, and dog leash in the other,
fulfilling his morning ritual. I surmised he was speaking to his canine friend,
because I never saw any technological device in his ear. This man is old school
and, for that matter, pretty old.
But then I
noticed that the tree branch I had moved was jutting out a foot or so onto the
sidewalk proper. Had I seen this before, I would never have placed it in such a
precarious position, and I immediately moved it out of harm’s way. I proceeded
to do something of a double take at that point, realizing that this neighbor of
mine, who always does his best not to make eye contact with anyone—and, by
osmosis, speak to anybody—had indeed addressed me. In fact, as soon as I laid
eyes on the branch partially on the sidewalk, my brain—without any prompting on
my part—replayed the previous moment. Yes, this mystery servant of the Lord,
whose holy threads no doubt reeked of nicotine, had chided me. Considering that
I was cleaning up a big mess, the scolding was at once unnecessary and
unappreciated.
Harking
back to my boyhood, I was always turned off by the unpleasantness and sometimes
outright nastiness of a fair share of religious sorts. The more innocent and
less cynical child quite often cuts to the chase. How could some of these men
and women who purport to do God’s bidding and adhere to the teachings of Jesus
of Nazareth be so disagreeable? I was never impressed with autocratic “good
businessmen” known for running parishes with an iron fist and Wal-Mart bottom
line efficiency. It seemed incongruous to me then, just as it does to me now.
I was
literally both frightened and horrified by the fact that a Sister Lorraine-character passed nun muster and was permitted to teach children. She sported
both a habit and a burgeoning mustache some four decades ago when she threw my
friend Johnny down to the rock-hard marble at the altar’s edge in church. It
was during First Holy Communion practice, and he received this body slam
courtesy of the unforgiveable transgression of having a chewed up
hot lunch
straw sticking out of his shirt pocket.
Happily,
Sister Lorraine was gone the following year—from my grammar school at least.
Where she ended up after that, I do not know. Hopefully, she joined the Teamsters
or was discovered by a talent scout for the World Wrestling Federation. All
these years later in my adulthood—hopeless romantic that I am—I still prefer
religious folk to be on the kindly side and not the Marlboro Man.
