The Good Priest

Thank God this is over.  (Lesson learned: If you start a story without having a solid conceptualization of the beginning, middle, and end, it'll take you forever to write.)

The fools of the world have been those who have established religions, ceremonies, laws, faith, rule of life.

                                    -From The Cabal of the Cheval Pegasus, by Roman Catholic scholar Giordano Bruno, whom speculated that there are myriad worlds inhabited by intelligent lifeforms, and for this and other crimes, was burned at the stake by the Roman Catholic Church in 1600.

The Good Priest

I

On his fiftieth birthday the priest sat at his office desk in the Church of the Blessed Sacrament in the Upper West Side of Manhattan.  He was flipping through a bible, taking notes for tomorrow’s Easter Mass, and eating the unleavened bread which he had slipped into his shirt pocket while pilfering foodstuff from the church pantry.  He washed the bread down with wine left over from communions past and corked the bottle.  When he thought of something potentially applicable to his sermon, he would look up from his ledger and stare out of his window toward the city buildings and Central Park.  It was a sunny and marvelous day, and the priest attributed this wonderful weather to the power and will of God.  He looked down to his ledger and deliberated, “Easter, Easter, Easter.  What to say about Easter?”  He looked outside and said, “Easter bunny?”

                As the priest ate bread and contemplated the resurrection of Christ, a fly was buzzing around the room and it buzzed up against the window and landed there.  Gripping the bible in his hands, the priest stood up and walked over to the window.  He used the bible to strike the fly which splattered against the glass.  “Beelzebub,” said the priest, his mouth full of bread. 

                As he walked back to his desk the priest started choking.  He tried coughing but was unable to clear his throat of the dry bread chunks that were obstructing his airway.  He began heaving over the mahogany desk and his face turned red.  He dropped the bible and stumbled around the room.  He then turned and picked up the bottle of wine on his desk and struggled desperately to pull the cork but his atrophied muscles lacked the strength required to do so adroitly.  He managed to uncork the bottle and take a sip of wine, yet then he fell to his knees, dropped the bottle, and planted his hands on the ground. His face turned purple and he made strange guttural noises as he crawled toward the bottle of wine that was rolling away from him.  His eyes were bulging and his burgeoning blood vessels pulsated bright red. The priest lost consciousness and collapsed to the floor, his twitching body splayed out beside the fallen bible.

II

                In the darkness of his suffocating mind the priest saw his body lying prone on the floor.  His spirit floated away and he was afraid as he rose toward an orb of blinding light.  He entered the light and sailed through a wormhole. Unfolding on the walls therein were haunting images of religious persecutions perpetrated by murderous Christian fanatics throughout history.  There were brutal scenes of New World conquistadors, armor-laden infantry and horsemen donning steel breastplates, armed with lances and swords, slaughtering indigenous natives whose bodies lay strewn in pools of blood in the zocalos and temples of ancient citadels in tropical forests.  There were relentless images of religiously-fueled madmen ravaging townships and slaying the occupants in a deranged and barbarous lust for flesh and plunder.  He bore witness to foul and possessed mercenary hordes massacring Jews and Muslims in desecrated holy lands.  He saw visions of Iberian villages alight, innocent women and children murdered in the name of God by bloodthirsty Crusaders bearing crosses and flags, their sieges ordained by insidious papal edicts. 

The priest could feel the pain of those who suffered and was unable to close his eyes.  He screamed in terror as he traversed through the phantasmagoric horrorshow of vicious crimes committed by the sinister leaders of the Church.  He could see them: demonic bishops and ruthless cardinals, convening esoterically in depraved worship of fiendish underworld beings, wearing wild animal masks, dark cloaks, and beastly costumes, engaged in perverse and twisted rituals where children were of the fare, corrupt and conspiring with incestuous monarchial families and the nefarious political elite of fallen empires.  The spirit of the priest sobbed lamentation as his journey through the hellish wormhole continued.  He endured scenes in which devious ecclesiastical tribunals tried righteous men of science as heretics and watched them burn at the stake in agony.  He saw a vile and drunken priest stumble down a dark corridor and push open the door to a boy’s dormitory where he proceeded to molest and abuse the children.  He could take no more and he cried out denunciation and regret.

He shot out the wormhole and was suddenly in the garden of a serene courtyard.  A little boy was exploring the garden, examining the leaves of plants and studying the insects upon them.  The boy was the priest as a child who had wandered away from Sunday school.  The spirit of the priest stood in the garden as an invisible entity observing this experience of his past.  A man’s voice was calling out for the boy who became scared upon hearing the man.  The man was his father, who was a priest as well, ordained after the birth of his only son.  His father stormed into the garden and spotted his son.

“There you are!” his father yelled, “What the devil are you doing?”

He marched over to the child and scooped him up. 

“No!” protested the child.

“How dare you leave the church?  How dare you defy your father and betray the Lord?”

“I don’t want to go to church, I want to be outside!”

His father gripped the boy by the arms, “You have no choice, you insolent apostate, you naughty little bastard!   You will do as I say!”

The boy wept as he was carried out of the garden and off to church. 

The spirit of the priest was then transported to another point in time where he saw a manifestation of himself as a teenager engaged in a romantic tryst with a young girl in his bedroom.  Once again his father intervened, startling the couple.

“You despicable monkeys!  Thou shall not!  Thou shall not!”

Frightened, the girl screamed and the young priest said, “No, father!”

His father forcibly separated the couple and said, “What in the name of God possessed you to sin in my house?”  He turned to the girl, “How dare you violate my son, you sinful wench?  Out, out, out!  Be gone you treacherous witch!”

The girl was chased out the door and the young priest was left pleading with his insane father whom proceeded to scold him for succumbing to lustful indecencies and for deviating from his seminary practices and clerical path. 

Throughout the bulk of his adolescence, the priest was coerced into following in the footsteps of his father whom persistently emphasized that their respective existences would be devoted solely to God and the Church.  Any inclinations that the young priest exhibited toward secular activities or atheistic knowledge were perceived by his father to be blasphemous and were instantly crushed.  Thus, his father seized his son’s science books, denied him access to natural history films, and when he discovered a telescope that his son attempted to keep secret he slammed it against a wall and smashed it to pieces.  For over a decade the young priest was beaten into complacency as he tepidly pursued his course toward priesthood.  His father’s final command was that the fledgling priest continue to carry out God’s work on Earth and remain committed to the Church – an institution that his son tested the waters of with initial reluctance and despair, yet grew to accept as his calling and destiny as he went forth in life obeying his father’s will, which he came to believe was also the will of God.  

From his hospital deathbed, his ailing father said, “Come closer, my son.”

The priest leaned in and his father clutched the gold cross that hung from his son’s neck.

“No longer can I guide you in life.  You must stay true to the doctrines of the Church.  You must never stray from God.”

“Yes, father.”

“We shall be together again in the kingdom of heaven.”

“Yes, father.”

“Now read me my last rites.”

The priest began, “I believe in God, the father almighty, creator of heaven and earth…”

His father suddenly cringed and groaned.  “Ack!” he said, “I can see the light.  Hurry, give me the body of Christ, boy.”

The priest reached into his pocket, but the morsel of bread was not there.  Frantically, he checked his other pockets.  “I think I forgot the bread, father.”

“You son of a bitch!” exclaimed his father.

“Forgive me,” said the priest, still searching his pockets.  “Hold on, I’ll go check the car.”

The priest leapt to his feet, but his father was already dead. 

The spirit of the priest was sucked back into the wormhole.  He lamented as he reflected on his past – at all the years in which he had betrayed his passions and desires, at all the missed opportunities to experience something new.  He had slaved in life for a purpose that only in death did he realize was fictitious and delusive.  The vacuum through which he traveled was reaching a point of blackness that resembled a black hole.  The priest’s spirit passed over the event horizon and was ejected out the other side.  In the darkness of space he saw countless stars and galaxies littering the vast cosmos.  He sensed that his lone spirit would float aimlessly through the universe for eternity in a dark and melancholy peace tempered by a profound understanding of that what he had espoused on Earth about heaven and hell was wholly unfounded and utterly irrational.  

A buzzing sound emanated from a corner of space and from out the void a little fly buzzed up beside the spirit of the priest.  Floating there, the fly said, “Don’t you see?”

“See what?’ said the priest.

“It was all horseshit.”

The priest gazed at the glittering stars and distant galaxies.   He looked into the compound eyes of the fly --- its ommatidia bonded together like clusters of atoms.  The priest said, “Yes…yes, I see.  So now what?”

“Cough,” said the little fly.

“Excuse me?” asked the priest. 

The fly flew straight into the priest’s mouth and down his throat.  He began to cough and was plunged into a vortex swirling backward through space.  At tremendous speed he reversed through a ball of light and fell through the church roof back into his office.  His spirit slammed into his corporal body and they were once again unified in life. 

III

The priest lay on the ground and began coughing up chunks of bread which went flying into the air.  His airway began to clear, and clanging church bells struck three in the steeple above.  He gasped and turned over to his side, wrenching his torso and vomiting up a purple mélange of bread and wine. He caught his breath, rolled onto his stomach, and rose to he knees.  The priest wiped tears from his eyes and inspected his surroundings: the wine-soaked floor strewn with chunks of sodden bread, the fallen bible, the disheveled desk, the window and the sunlit world beyond.  He gazed outside and saw the bright blue sky, the sunlight casting down upon the buildings and trees.  It was springtime and the air was clear.  In the park the pure wind and rustling leaves whispered, and on the street the flowing traffic of the bustling city beckoned.  

He stood up and wiped off what mess he could from his shirt.  His head was throbbing and his throat was parched and sore.  On his way back to the desk he scooped up the bottle of wine which was still one-quarter full.  He sat at the desk and closed his ledger then swiveled his chair toward the window, opened it, and poked his head out to look toward the park and at the people walking on the sidewalk two stories below him.  He drank the rest of the wine and watched the activity and life flowing outside his office window.  The women were wearing bright dresses or short skirts, and from above the priest attained an ample view their cleavage.  Upon scrutinizing every pair of passing tits, the priest grew increasingly aroused as he fed his starved romantic inclinations which he had previously suppressed or disregarded entirely.  Mesmerized by the tantalizing female bosoms bouncing by below, sex loomed at the forefront of his mind. 

For the first time in decades, he addressed his erection with his hand.  He unzipped his pants, produced his neglected member, and began fondling his penis.  He was breathing heavily as a woman in a black blouse passed by on the sidewalk below.  “Have mercy,” he said to himself.  He fantasized pressing his body against hers and smothering his face in her voluptuous breasts.  He stroked his erection ferociously and closed his eyes as he erupted in orgasmic rapture – hooting and howling in ecstasy as he ejaculated and set free his sperm which shot up like a geyser and gushed across his pants and the floor.  From the sidewalk, the woman in black looked up and made eye contact with the priest as he was pulling his head back in from the window.  Drained, the priest sank back in his chair and reveled in bliss as he savored the unprecedented state of absolute relaxation he had achieved.

“Holy Virgin Mary,” he said with his eyes closed and his hand across his forehead.  After a minute of rest and contemplation, the priest zipped up his pants, got up, and walked out of his office. 

IV

                He walked across the hall and stepped down a staircase which led to the cool and dim nave of the church.  His footsteps echoed as he made his way along the row of pews.  Dispersed amongst the benches were several worshipers murmuring and praying toward a giant crucifix that hung at the altar.  Tipsy, the priest accidentally bumped his thigh into the edge of a pew.  This disturbance alerted a supplicant who stopped praying, stood up, and approached the priest from behind. 

“Excuse me, father?”

The priest kept walking, for he recognized the man’s voice and knew him to be an obnoxious zealot whom often pestered the priest with paranoid confessions of regularly committed trivial sins for which he consistently sought absolution. 

“Father, I was hoping to see you,” the man said. “I would like to make a confession today.” 

The priest increased the pace of his walk toward the narthex and the doors that lead outside. 

The man tugged at the priest’s sleeve.  “Wait, we just passed the confessional.”

The priest turned around and said, “Listen, it doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your confessions are pointless.  No one’s listening, no one cares. You’re not going to Hell, because it doesn’t exist. 

The priest started toward the door the man tugged at his sleeve again and said, “I don’t understand, aren’t you going to listen to my confession today?”

The priest stopped again and said, “No. Be a man.  And keep your hands to yourself.”

The man looked at the residual vomit on the priest’s black shirt, at the cum stains on his pants. “Are you feeling alright, father?”

“I’m not your father.”

The man leaned in close and sniffed the priest’s shirt.  “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, and I’m going to do it again.”

“But…but, you’re a priest.  You’re prohibited from doing such things.”

“Oh, go to hell.”

“This is blasphemy,” cried the man, “I’m going to report this to the archdiocese!”

By now the people dispersed amongst the pews had stopped praying and were watching the dispute.

“Go ahead,” yelled the priest as he walked away, tossing up his arms. “It’s all a bunch of horseshit anyway!”

He kept going until he reached the end of the nave, at which point he turned around and looked back to the church interior and saw the enormous crucifix, the stained glass windows, the pulpit upon which he had given so many liturgies.  He gazed upon the worshipers staring back at him from the pews.  The priest threw an arm up to the sky and loudly proclaimed, “Ad astra!”  He then marched through the lobby and out the door. 

V

                Standing in the sunlight beneath the portal of the church, the priest closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and listened to the passing cars.  He walked down the steps to the sidewalk, and instead of turning left as always to the 72^nd Street Metro station in Verdi Square, he turned right to go to Central Park.  The blocks leading to the park were lined with blossoming magnolia trees, tall brownstone rowhouses, and ostentatious boutique shops. 

                He cheerfully greeted each person he passed, and when he crossed paths with an attractive woman he would smile and step to the side to let them pass.  He walked to the end of the block and found himself standing beside a woman in her mid-thirties who was waiting at the crosswalk.  The priest smiled stupidly as he stared at her from the corner of his eye.  He then turned to her and said, “Hello, fancy lady.  I’m going to the park.”

“That’s good,” she replied without looking at him. 

“Would you care to join me?”

“Umm, no thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

The streetlight changed and they began to cross.

The priest said, “Look as us, we’re just two human beings, a man and a woman, walking across the street together toward our respective and uncertain destinies.”

The woman sighed.

“You know,” said the priest, “If people didn’t know any better, they’d presumed we were a couple.”

“I don’t think they would actually.”

“Well, that’s because we’re not holding hands.  May I?”  The priest reached for the woman’s hand before she could answer.  She pulled away and stepped back.

“Don’t touch me, you pervert!” she yelled, slapping the priest in the eye.

“Ow!” he cried.  The woman marched off and the priest stood in the crosswalk holding his eye.  The streetlights changed and people began honking their horns at him.  He hurried onto the sidewalk and held his face.

“What the hell was that?” he asked himself, watching out for the woman.

                The priest kept walking toward the park, touching his eye and checking his hand for blood.   A young lady was walking opposite him down the sidewalk and the priest said, “Excuse me, mamn?”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me if my eye is bleeding?”  He pointed to his hurt eye.

“Sure, let me see.”

His vision came back into focus and he priest saw that the young lady was beautiful, and his heart melted as she inspected his eye.

“I don’t think you’re bleeding, but it does look little red…” she said.

The priest wasn’t listening to her because his mind had drifted off into a daydream in which he was pressing his lips against hers.  He deduced that a profound and intimate connection had instantly been established between them, and his soul was enveloped by a fierce and passionate desire to love her. 

“So this is how the immaculate conception happened,” said the priest.

“What?”

“I’m joking.”  The priest smiled then closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and leaned forward to kiss her, but she quickly backed away.

“Whoa!” she yelled. 

The priest’s eyes were still closed when the searing impact of her open palm sent a flash of light though his head.

“Yow!” he hollered. 

“You’re disgusting!  That’s totally inappropriate!”

“Why did you do that?” asked the priest, protecting his face.

“You’re a sick man!”

“Really?” He was worried.  “Should I go to the doctor?”

“Fuck off, asshole.”

The young lady strode away leaving the priest flabbergasted.

“What in God’s name is wrong with women?” he said. 

Discouraged, the priest resolved to go to the park alone.  On his way there he passed a man walking a puppy.  The priest turned around and witnessed multiple women expressing the utmost affection for the puppy – dropping to their knees in order to pet and coddle it, and talking to the man as well.

“That’s what I need,” said the priest.  He walked up to the man with the puppy and said, “Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“If I wanted to get a hold of one of these little bitches, where would I go?”

“Well, I bought her from a breeder, but I suppose you can try the pet store.”

“The pet store?” asked the priest, bending down to pet the puppy.

“There’s a Petland on Columbus.  It’s up a few blocks on the left.”

“This is the ticket.”

“They’re man’s best friend.”

“I’ll bet if I have one of these I can get all the girls I want.” 

The priest strolled off toward the pet store. 

VI

                Several people were crowded outside of the pet store window admiring the numerous puppies rolling around a playpen inside.  The priest walked into the store and went directly to the display case.  He reached down and picked up the closest puppy.  It was a little Shar Pei and its head slipped into a bundle of wrinkles as the priest held him up to his cheek.  The Shar Pei began licking the priest’s mouth and a female store clerk rushed over to him.

“Excuse me,” said the clerk.

“I’d like to purchase this canine,” said the priest.

“You need to sanitize your hands and get permission before you handle the puppies.”  She took the Shar Pei away from the priest. 

“Wait a second, I want to buy him.”

“He’s a very expensive dog, sir.”

“How much is he?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

“Holy shit.”

“It’s a rare breed.”

“Don’t you have any cheaper puppies?”

“Well, the Labrador costs just seven hundred fifty dollars.”

“I don’t need a puppy for very long.  I just want to borrow one for the day.  Don’t you do puppy lending?”

“We don’t do that here.  And even if you did purchase a dog now you wouldn’t be able to leave with it today.”

“Damn you.  Haven’t you anything that I can leave with today?  Something affordable?”

                Five minutes and fifty dollars later the priest left the pet store grinning and carrying a cardboard box.  He stopped at the corner and put down the box, lifted the lid, peeked inside, and smiled.  A woman was coming down the street and as she approached the priest he reached into the box and pulled out a big, furry lionhead rabbit.  He aimed the rabbit at the woman and said, “Hello, fancy lady!”

The woman melted and said, “Oh my goodness!” 

“Say hello to the Easter Bunny.”

“He’s so cute!  May I pet him?”

“Please do, he loves to be pet.”

The woman squealed in elation as she pet the furry mane of the rabbit who did not like being pet. 

They’re man’s best friend,” said the priest.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

The question caught the priest off guard.  “Umm, well…his name is Judas.”

“Awww, that’s such a cute name.”

“What’s your name?” asked the priest.

“I’m Jolie.”

“Hi Jolie.  I’m…I’m…” the priest had forgotten his own name.  “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” he said. 

“Thank you.”

“You have nice breasts.”

Jolie stepped back and shouted, “What did you just say!?”

Nervously, the priest repeated, “You have nice breasts?”

“You fucking asshole!” yelled Jolie as she slapped the priest in the face and then stormed off down the sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ,” said the priest, “That was a compliment.”  

He rubbed Judas against his cheek and looked at himself in the window of a corner store.  Seeing that he still had is collar on he said, “Goddamnit,” ripping it off and shoving it in his pocket.  He bent down to set Judas back in the box which was lined with loose newspaper pages.  A newspaper advertisement caught his attention.  He ripped out a portion of an old classifieds section which read:

ADULT MASSAGE
 Heavenly full body massages by Angels

Super Magic Fingers

152B W 146^th St.

(212) 873-6194

“Angels?”  The priest was intrigued.  He picked up the box with Judas in it and walked to the street to hail a cab.  As he waved his free arm toward the traffic he heard a man calling out toward him.

“Hello!  Good afternoon, father!”

The priest looked around. On the opposite sidewalk was another priest – this one from Holy Trinity Church on the Upper East Side – who was waving at him.

“Oh shit,” said the priest, walking away from his colleague and waving his arm for a cab. 

With a bible in one hand, the other priest jaywalked across the street and intercepted him.

“My God, what happened to your face?”

The priest tired to sidestep the man and said, “Sorry, I can’t talk right now, John.”

“Come now.  What’s in box?”

“Nothing.”

John lifted the lid and peeked inside.  “Goodness gracious!  What a marvelous prop for Easter mass.”

As John reached in for the bunny the priest pulled the box away and exclaimed, “Leave Judas alone!”

Glaring at the priest, John said, “’Judas?’”

A taxi pulled up beside the priest.  He tired to walk around John but John stepped between him and the taxi door. 

“Why aren’t you wearing your collar?” asked John.

“Because, I’m not a priest anymore, so get out of my way, you centurion!” 

“Not a priest?  Since when?  I haven’t heard of you submitting a leave of absence.”

“Since today.  Now move it!  I’m warning you…”

The cab driver beeped his horn and said, “Come on, buddy!”

“I’m trying!” said the priest. 

He tried to force his way past John but John refused to let him pass.

“Just a moment now,” said John, grabbing the priest’s arm, “Why are you behaving so queer?”

“You’re the one touching me, you disgusting pervert!” exclaimed the priest as he pulled his arm free and snatched the bible from John’s hand.  He lifted the bible and slammed it into the priest’s forehead, dropping him to the sidewalk.  Several bystanders were watching in shock. 

“How dare you?” John cried, “What the devil has gotten into you?”  He had hand on his forehead and the other holding out the cross on his necklace to ward off the priest.

The priest looked up at the crowd of people. His adrenaline was surging and turned back to John.  “Leave me alone you fucking asshole!” he yelled, “I’m not a priest anymore.  I want to live my life!  I want to get a heavenly full body massage by Asian angels!”

A person in the crowd said, “Right on, man.”

From ground, John said, “You’ll pay for this!”

“Oh, shut up,” said the priest.  He hurled John’s bible into the street and then got in the cab.  “Drive!”

As the cab drove off, police sirens and lights resonated through the streets, and police cars arrived on the scene in response to calls alleging sexual assault and lewd acts committed by a priest.

 VII

The priest caught his breath and peered out of the back windshield from the backseat of the cab. 

“Where to, pops?” asked the driver.

“Take me here,” said the priest, handing the driver the ad for the massage parlor.

The cab driver looked at the address and said, “You sure you wanna go up there?”

“Yes.  Why not?”

“Well, it’s just Harlem, that’s all.”

“What’s wrong with Harlem?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it.  You may just be a little out of place is all.”

“Just take me there.”

“You got it.”

The priest leaned back in the cab and looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror.  His face was red and puffy.  He sighed and said, “Goddamnit.”

“Whoa,” said the driver, “Saying the Lord’s name in vain.  You should know better, being a preacher and all.”

“I’m not a preacher.”

“Well then what are you?  A priest?”

“No, I’m not.  I’m a…”  The priest drew a blank.  “Well, I’ll be damned.  I’m not sure what I am.  I guess I’m not anything anymore.”

“You look like a priest.”

“I’m not a priest.”

“You sure look like a priest.”

“I said I’m not a priest.  Would a priest be riding in a cab to go get a super magic fingers massage?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I just used a bible to strike down a man.  Would a priest do that?”

“No, no, I guess not,” said the driver.

They drove north on Central Park West.  The priest leaned on the box with Judas inside and marveled at the wondrous tress encompassing the eastern edge of the immense park.  He gazed above the tree canopies and saw the estranged and lifeless moon floating beyond the world in the daylight sky.  He sighed and instinctively reached for the gold cross that he wore around his neck.  Upon the cross Christ was crucified.  He took it off, and as the cab entered Harlem there was a homeless man holding a cardboard sign and begging for food and money at an intersection.  The priest rolled down the window and gave him the necklace.

“God bless you,” said the man.

“Not anymore,” said the priest.

The cab moved on.  Cluttered bodegas and dilapidated apartment buildings lined the rundown streets.  The priest gazed in fascination at the prosperous black market flourishing on the sidewalks – an underground economy comprised of shell games and drug dealers, tortured addicts and insatiable consumers, peddlers of cheap plastic products and scoured electronics that lay like twisted altars in snarled heaps of ruination.  Businessmen glided past loitering throngs of impetuous delinquents and wayward urchins, salivating imbeciles languished in intoxicated stupors, and the forlorn multitudes wandered forth in a dreadful daze as though deeply troubled and perpetually lost. 

“I’ve never been to this part of the city,” said the priest.

The cab made a turn and they rode down half a block and stopped in front of a squalid grey building.

“Here you are, Jack,” said the driver. 

The priest watched the people maneuvering around on the sidewalk.  Some were posturing and shouting over the discord of rap music blasting out of competing stereos, others were laughing manically and speaking gibberish, toothless rag-and-bone men rummaged through piles of trash, delirious lunatics and half-clad hookers stumbled erratically through the noxious miasma of methamphetamine fumes and fetid human shit and piss that flowed and settled in the concrete crevasses.   

“They’re all negroes,” said the priest, “What is this place?”

“This is where you wanted to go,” said the driver, “The spot should be right through that door with the metal gate.”

“Right…” said the priest.  He paid the driver, picked up the box containing Judas, clutched it tightly, and reluctantly stepped out of the cab.

                His nervous smile met the confounded and amused faces of those dark and leering indigents upon whose territory he encroached.  He stepped across the sidewalk toward the massage parlor gate and looked back as the cab took off.  A half-dozen black men lounged on the steps of a condemned building and began sneering and casting aspersions at the priest.

“You lost, baby?” said one.

“Who dat, who dat?” said another. 

“Look at yo white ass up in Sugar Hill, nigga” said another.

“Box-carrying cracker,” said yet another.

The priest pretended he didn’t hear them, and continued to smile as he walked toward the metal gate.  Two of the men got up from the steps and approached him.  The priest saw them coming and quickly turned to the left so as to walk away.  His heart rate was skyrocketing as he sped up his walk on the sidewalk, disconcertingly aware of the formidable presence of the two men following close behind him.  He spotted a subway station signpost one block ahead and had resolved to go there. 

“Where you going, grandpa?” said one of the men who then grabbed the priest’s arm.

The priest froze in his tracks. 

“What you doin’ up the in hood, old man?”

“Oh, hello there,” said the priest, “I’m just visiting.”

“Visiting my ass.  Where you coming from, nigga?”

“Oh, well I came from the pet store, but before that I was at church.  Where are you gentlemen coming from?”

“Harlem.”

“Oh wonderful,” said the priest.  “Well, it’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance, but I must be on my way.  Have a wonderful day, young man.”

The priest turned and started off but was grabbed again.

“Stay cool, bitch” said the one holding him. 

“What you got, man, what you got?” said the other, looking at the box.

“I’ve got a bunny rabbit.  What have you got?”

“I got a fuckin’ blade, mother fucker.” 

The man produced a knife while the other slammed his hand against the top of the box which fell to the sidewalk.  The lid toppled off and Judas was exposed. 

“Judas!” cried the priest, reaching down.

“Don’t move, cracker,” said the man with the knife. 

The priest stood still as the other man checked his pockets, finding a wallet which contained two dollars and a credit card.  

“Where’s the bread at, bitch?”

“Bread?  Oh, I believe that there should be some in my coat pocket.”

The man reached into the priest’s coat pocket and pulled out some leftover chunks of unleavened bread.

“We got a fucking comedian here.” 

“Where?” asked the priest.

“I’ma ax you one mo’ time, fool.  Where’s the dough at?”

“I don’t know,” pleaded the priest, “I didn’t bring any with me, but there should be plenty back in the church kitchen.”

The man checking the priest’s pockets pulled out the white collar.

“Yo, Tyrone.  This fool’s a preacher.”

“No, I’m actually not ---”

“Shut yo fuckin’ mouth.”

“We be robbing a preacher, nigga – I don’t know man, that shit ain’t right.”

The men looked at the priest, at the collar, at the rabbit in the box.

“Well then, I guess I’ll just be on my way,” said the priest, reaching down to get Judas.

He was pulled up straight by the man with the knife. “Yo, who the fuck you think you are?!”

The priest was trembling.  “I don’t know,” he said.

The man pressed the knife blade against the priest’s neck.  “I don’t give a fuck who you think you are, but if I ever, ever, see yo cracker ass up in Sugar Hill again, I’ma cut yo goddamn head off.  You got me?”

“I don’t understand…” pleaded the priest.

“I said…I will kill yo white ass if I ever seen you up here again.  You got that?”

“Yes.”  

The man with the knife then stepped back, lifted his leg in a vertical motion, and then brought it down hard on Judas, stoving in the rabbit’s skull with one swift stomp.  The men turned and walked away from the priest who stood in utter horror and disbelief.  He knelt down at looked at the disfigured corpse of Judas, his furry mane mangled in the blood and bones and brains. “Oh no, Judas…oh please God no, Judas,” said the priest.  He hung his head as tears gathered in his eyes.  The priest put the lid back on the box and looked up for the men but they were gone.  He wiped away his tears and stood up carrying the box containing the corpse of Judas.  He walked toward the Metro station, and his steps were sullen and monotonous, as though he was taking part in a funeral procession.

VIII

                In a melancholy daze, the priest walked down the stairs to the subway station.  The frenzy of trains rushing rapidly underground sent a strong current of air up the stairwell and the lid of the box almost blew off.  As he arrived at the turnstiles, the priest realized that the mugging incident had left him penniless.  He casually walked over to the handicap gate and pulled it open – thereby setting off the alarm – and he then entered the station without paying.  A female station agent ran out of the booth and chased after the priest. 

“Hello?  Sir!” yelled the agent, confronting the priest on the subway platform as an arriving southbound C train came screeching to a halt.  “Sir, I saw you go through that gate, you have to pay the fare.”

“But I can’t,” said the priest, “All my money was stolen.”

“You’re going to have to come with me.”

“But this is my train,” said the priest.

“Well you’re going to miss your train, come on, let’s go.”

The priest looked to the open train doors that would be closing any second now.  He wanted to be on the train.

“I’m sorry,” said the priest, “but I’m going to go now.”

The priest stepped toward the train and the woman followed.

“Sir, you have to pay the fare, this isn’t a game!

As the priest stepped into the train car the agent reached out and grabbed the back of his coat, pulling him toward the subway platform.

“Hey!” said the priest. 

“I said you gotta come with me!”

But the priest resisted and stepped into the train again.  From the platform, the station agent again grabbed the priest’s coat and tried to yank him back.  People on board watched the priest thrust and stride into the train car, and as the doors closed the agent let him go.  He went stumbling forward and accidentally dropped the box.  The lid popped opened and the corpse of Judas tumbled out and rolled across the train floor like a butchered sock puppet.  Commuters screamed and leapt away from the mangled body of the rabbit, stuck to which were bloody pieces of newspaper.  The train began to move and the priest got down on his hands and knees and was crawling to fetch the carcass, following the trail of smeared blood. 

“Pardon me, sorry,” said the priest.

“That’s disgusting!” cried a woman.

The priest got hold of the dead rabbit and swept into the box.  He then took a seat and looked around at all the people who were staring at him. “Sorry everyone,” he said.

As the train made its designated stops, passengers shuffled on and off.  A mother and her child boarded the train and they sat beside the priest.  The boy looked at the box and was curious as to what it may contain. 

“Hey mister,” said the boy, “what’s in the box, mister?”

The priest looked over to the boy and his mom, who was smiling at the priest.  His stop was coming up next and the train was slowing down.

“Well,” said the priest, “Would you like to see a magic trick?”

“Yeah!” said the boy.

As the train stopped at 72^nd St. the priest reached into the box and grabbed a tuff of Judas’s broken body.  He lifted up the rabbit for the boy to see and boy broke out in a loud cry.  

Shocked, the mother said, “How dare you!  Who do you think you are?!”

The priest stood up and left the train. 

IX

            The priest carried the box containing the dead body of Judas into Central Park.  He hung his head and as he passed the flowers and shrubs of Strawberry Fields.  The late afternoon sunlight fell through the elm trees and the shadows of the leaves flickered upon the earth at the base of the grove where he stood.  Before him lay a grassy slope that unfurled into a sprawling lawn where groups of people lounged near the edge of a lake.  The priest stood solitaire on the mound of earth beneath the trees.  He put the box down and knelt to the ground and began to dig with his bare hands.  It took him ten minutes to dig a hole that was large enough to accommodate Judas.  He opened the lid of the box, reached in, and pulled out the limp body of the rabbit.  He placed it in the excavation, turning his head so as to avoid looking directly at the unsightly and contorted corpse.  “Poor guy,” said the priest, “You never did anything to deserve this.  You never hurt anyone.  You never…you never even got to see Easter.  I’m sorry, little guy.  It’s my fault.  I should have stopped them.  And I’m sorry I didn’t, I am so sorry.”  The priest filled the pit with dirt and stood up.  He turned and walked away from Central Park and the tears were streaming down his face.

X

                The priest had resolved to finish the job he had started that day.  He walked back to the church and stepped through the doors.  Inside, the immense nave seemed tranquil and void of life, save for the ghostly presence emitted by the inanimate wooden effigy of Christ hanging above the altar.  The priest leaned over the basin of holy water and applied a few splashes to his face so as to wake up.  He went upstairs to his office where warm air had settled and he took off his coat.  It seemed that the housekeepers had arrived because the vomit had been cleaned off the floor.  He went over to the window and opened it, noting that the squished fly had also been cleaned off.

                The sun was setting and the sky was churning orange and red.  The priest went over to his closet, pulled out a new bottle of wine, and uncorked it at his desk.  He opened his ledger and wrote something down and then turned to the window.  Leg by leg, he shuffled his body outside to the ledge and sat two floors above the concrete sidewalk.  He held onto the bottle of wine with one hand, and with his other he clutched the window frame.  He watched the people walking by on the sidewalk below and no one looked up and noticed him.  He leaned forward and practiced launching himself forward.  His eyes were closed and he was swaying his body back and forth on the ledge when a woman saw him from the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

The priest opened his eyes and looked down to the woman the black blouse. 

“Uh oh,” said the priest.

“What are you doing up there? Praying?”

“No.  Jumping.”

“I see.  Am I in your way?”

“Yes, a little.  Would you mind moving over that way?”

The woman moved to the right.  “Is this okay?”

“Yes.  That’s perfect.” 

“You’re planning to jump from there?” the woman asked.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You won’t die.  It’s not high enough.  You’ll just end up hurting yourself, maybe breaking a leg or two.”

“That’s why I’m practicing pushing off like this,” the priest showed her how he would lean forward.  “Because I’m thinking that I’ll sort of roll over and land on my head, like Judas.”

“Oh, I see.  You may be onto something.  When are you going to do it?”

“After I finish his bottle of wine.”

“That’s sensible.  Do you mind if I join you?”

“Join me for what?”

“For some wine.”

“Are you making fun of me?” asked the priest.

“No.”

The priest could think of no reason to decline her, and said, “Sure, if you want.  Just hang to the right past the confession booth, then take the stairs up and you’ll see my office.  The door’s open.”

The woman walked into the church.  The priest waited at the window, listening to her walk up the stairs.  He was curious if she recognized him from the moment they made eye contact during his ejaculatory rupture earlier that day, but was not prepared to inquire.

“Hello,” she said from the door.

“Hi,” said the priest.

“I’m Jessica”

“Good to meet you.  Have a seat”

She sat down in the chair beside the desk, upon which stood the empty glass from before.  She picked it up and held it out to the priest whom poured her a glass.

“Did you have a nice day?” asked Jessica.

“No,” said the priest.

“Why not?”

“I almost died.”

“I thought you wanted to die.”

“I didn’t want to then, but I should have.  Now I want to, so I will.”

“Aren’t you going to miss the world?  The people you care about?”

“I’ve been missing the world for a long time now.  I don’t have a family.   I was supposed to be married to God, but we got a divorce.  So I’m leaving the kids to and the house to him.”

Jessica smiled and sipped her wine.  She looked outside the window and the priest saw the absolute perfection contained in her green eyes and jet black hair.  She was beautiful, but he didn’t care anymore.  He looked outside as well and watched the people walking by in the final light of dusk.

“They look so lonely from up here,” said Jessica.

“They look lonely from down there, too,” said the priest.

“But they’re not.”

“Some are.”

“Some aren’t.”

“Are you?” asked the priest.

“Yes,” she said, “but that’s alright.”

“That’s true.  Physical pain, having a broken heart, those are facts of human life.  And this can be a mean city.”

“But that’s how it is.  It’s like the seasons which come and go.   And it’s spring time now, for us at least.  Things will get better, and then maybe they’ll get worse, and then better again.”

“I know.  I’m just done participating is all.”

They sat there in silence for a minute.  Jessica finished her glass of wine, whereas priest had gone through half the bottle.  The first stars were appearing in the deep blue sky.  The priest thought about his life, about all the suffering he had put himself through, and he used these thoughts to gather courage in preparation for his fall.  Jessica placed her glass on the table. 

“I’m so tired of it all,” said the priest.

“Then rest,” said Jessica, “but don’t die just yet.”

Tears filled the priest’s eyes and he was ashamed so he looked down to the sidewalk and could see his teardrops fall through the air. 

He turned to Jessica and through his tears he saw a face of an angel. 

“I want to live,” said the priest, “But I don’t know why.”

“Come this way,” she said, “Rest.”

“I can’t.”

“Come down from there.  Come down from there, babe.”

She offered him her hand.  He did not take it.  She stood up and stepped toward the priest and wiped the tears from his face.  She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.  She took the bottle of wine away from the priest and set it on the floor.  She took his hand and led his body back inside the room.  He fell to knees on the floor and wept in her arms.

XI

                On Easter Sunday the curate arrived at the church as planned to assist the priest with preparations for Mass.  He walked up the steps to the second floor and knocked on the priest’s door.

“Father?” said the curate. 

After knocking loudly and calling out several times without receiving a response, the curate turned the door knob and slowly opened the door.  “Oh my God,” he said, rushing over to the body of the priest.  The priest was splayed out supine on the floor, his face cold and blue, and he was dead.  Beside him lay a fallen bottle of wine.

                Bewildered and scared, the curate stood up and wandered over to the desk and collapsed in the chair.   He opened the window to let in the fresh air and there was a dead fly splattered upon the glass.  He then leaned forward and read the notes in the open ledger that was on the desk.  He was confused about the final note that the priest had written down.  He read the sentence to himself over and over again, giving it much thought, but alas remained confused.  He looked up and repeated the words aloud, saying, “God bless Judas.”