Confession

This is Brooklyn of the 1940s, when Saturday is Hassidic shops close, and Catholics go to confession. St. Leonard’s, Hank’s church, is dark inside. Just the sides of the church are lighted where the three-part confession boxes are. The priest sits in the middle and there is a wooden screen door that he slides open and shut on either side of him. When he finishes with one confession he slides the screen shut, turns to the other side, and slides that screen open, and another confession begins.

 

There were lines of around ten on each side. Hank dreaded what he had to confess. He chose Father Murphy because he was the easiest of the priests. Still he was scared. How could he tell Father Murphy? What could he say? Hank said ten Hail Marys, so he could confess it right. Maybe he could be forgiven without having to go into the box and tell him? Hank moved closer to the head of the line and wondered what the people were confessing. Their sins couldn’t be as bad as his. He watched them as they got out of the box and went to the altar to kneel and say their penance, trying to figure out how many Our Fathers and Hail Marys they had to say. How many would he get? Or maybe his penance would be worse? But the worst thing was what Father Murphy would say to him. Sometimes the priests talked loud and everybody could hear. Then everybody would look at Hank as he came out. It would kill him. Maybe they’ll kick him out of the church? Maybe he should beat it and come back another Saturday? But he knew he was in a state of mortal sin, and that if he should die he would go straight down to hell. So he had to stay in line. Maybe he should go to another church where they didn’t know him? Confess there and come back and confess a few venial sins to Father Murphy? But if he went to another church the priest would then know why he hadn’t confessed in his own church. Maybe he wouldn’t give Hank absolution and maybe he’d him to go to his own church and his own priest? Then when he’d go back to Father Murphy and told him he’d be madder than hell. There is a long confession going on inside. Good. But next one is already him. Oh my God!

 

Hank likes being a Catholic. He’s a good Catholic—an altar boy. He serves Mass, often with Father Murphy even.  He goes to St Leonard’s Catholic School. He’s in the fourth grade. He loves getting up early in the morning and walking to church for the six-o-clock mass. The morning streets are different streets. The sweepers are out and they wash the streets with those big circular brushes under the body of their trucks. And everything is fresh and wet and clean. Why did he have to ruin everything with his lousy sins?

 

Maybe they won’t let him have Holy Communion anymore? That would be terrible. He loves Holy Communion. To have u Signuruzzu (an affectionate Sicilian term for the baby Lord Jesus) enter his body and then he would become completely pure. He loved putting on his surplice before serving at Mass. He loved ringing the little bells when Father Murphy raised the host. He loved Passion Week when all the saints were hidden behind purple cloths. He loved the quiet of the church and the smell of the incense in the early morning. His house was always busy and loud and smelled of garlic. Nobody shouted at him in Church. Nobody hit him in church. Nobody knocked him on the ground and rubbed his knuckles against the sidewalk until they bled. Nobody made him take back a rejected loaf of bread to the grocery store. How many times had he served Mass for Father Murphy! Now he has to tell him. It’s his turn. He has to go in. He can still leave. Too late. He enters the box. He’s stuck. Now Father Murphy is hearing the confession of the person on the other side. Then when he finishes he’ll slide the wooden window and he’s next. O God, Let me have more time, he prayed. The window swishes open.

 

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. I haven’t been to confession for a month or so.”

“Why so long,” said Father Murphy’s kind voice. Yes, it was kind. Does he know it’s Hank? Hank’s voice? Does he know who’s confessing?

 

“I couldn’t.”

 

“Why not?” Hank had no answer. His tongue jammed in his dry mouth. He couldn’t open it. Maybe it was stuck? Maybe he wouldn’t be able to talk? Maybe? “Tell me son. Is it so bad?” Father Murphy-kindness again.

“Yes, Father, real bad.”

 

“It can’t ever be bad enough for Christ’s love,” said Father. “You know that don’t you?”

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“So whatever it is, if you are truly sorry, Christ will forgive.”

 

“O yes, Father. I’m sorry. Very very sorry.” Silence. Father Murphy waited.

 

“Father,” he said, “I did acts of impurity.” It started to come out.

 

“Yes son. How many times?”

“A lot Father. I cant remember how many. A lot.”

 

“Every day?”

 

“Oh yes, Father, every day. Sometimes, two or three times a day—maybe some days not so much.”

 

“Anything else?” said Father Murphy.

“I did impure things with my friends.”

 

“Are your friends boys or a girls?”

 

“Both, Father.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“I can't, Father. It’s too awful. I don’t know how to say it.”

 

“Just take your time,” said Father, “and tell me everything.”

 

“Everything?”

 

“Yes, everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

 

And then it came out. Hank told Father Murphy, “Sex happened when I wasn’t expecting it. Like that afternoon when Tony and I were walking together after school. Tony said, “Let’s go visit some new friends of mine.”

 

“O.K. I said. Who are they?”

 

“A couple of girls and boy are they great.”

“O.K., I said again, then let’s go!”

 

“So we went a few blocks up Lorimer Street to a house I didn’t know. We rang the door buzzer and the buzzer buzzed back and the door opened. And we went upstairs. We climbed up two flights of stairs and Tony knocked on a door and a girl opened it. And there was another girl inside. And we were all alone in the house and we sat on the floor and began playing spin the bottle and we kissed a lot whenever the bottle stopped and pointed at two of us, the nearest boy and the nearest girl. And we did lots of kissing. And then we played strip poker. We played until we were all naked.”

 

Then Hank told Father Murphy all about the sexual explorations and discoveries they made. The touching and feeling and playing with one another. About how the boys explored the bodies of the girls and touched them all over and how the girls explored their bodies and touched them all over.

 

Hank said, “And that was all of it, Father. There’s nothing more.”

 

Father Murphy felt an arousal. He couldn’t believe it. Why was this happening to me? He knew there were priests who struggled with their bursting sexuality and that some of them had sex with little boys. But he shrank from such acts. It can’t happen to me he said to himself. It won’t happen to me he said to himself.

 

“Are you sure there’s nothing more to tell me?” There was an edge to Father Murphy’s voice.

 

“No, Father.” Hank felt he was in deep trouble.

 

A long pause. A deep sigh came from Father Murphy. Then he said, “Son you’ve committed many grave mortal sins. Not only have you sinned against your own body but also you’ve sinned against the bodies of others. You’ve abused yourself and you’ve abused others. And you have to stop it. Right now your soul is in such a dangerous state that you could go straight to Hell. The things you’ve done are the works of the Devil himself. Do you know that abusing yourself will affect you for the rest of your life? You can permanently injure yourself if you don’t stop. So you must stop. You can’t be a good Catholic and do these things.”

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“Are you sorry for all the things you have done?”

 

“Oh yes, Father, it’s killing me.”

 

“You must come to confession every Saturday from now on. You must come to me and to me only. You must go to mass every day for a month. You must say the Stations of the Cross once every week. And right now you must go up to the altar and say fifty Our Fathers and fifty Hail Marys.”

 

“Yes Father. Thank you Father.” Father Murphy then raised his hands and said the magic Latin words.

 

Hank was so relieved when he left the confession box. He went straight to the altar and with tears of joy began his grateful recitation of the Our Fathers and Hail Marys. He now had a clean slate. His heart and soul were pure again. He was so happy to be forgiven that he even threw in a few extra Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

 

*

 

Father Murphy heard confessions until eight o clock. And ninety-five percent of them were about sex. Hank’s confession hit him the most. Of course he knew it was Hank. He knew by the voice and the way he talked. Hank had served mass for him many times. How was he going to face Hank now after he had heard all this? What was more disturbing was his arousal while Hank was describing the sex explorations with the girls. It reminded him so much of his own childhood. Now it was happening again. Now Hank was reliving and reviving Father Murphy’s sexual life when he was a kid. And now Father Murphy was erecting again with the memory of the story Hank had told him and of his own childhood and of his own confused present state. This is crazy, thought Father Murphy.

 

He walked down to the altar. The church was empty. At last alone. He knelt at the altar and looked up at the huge crucifix hanging on the wall behind the altar. He looked at the bleeding, dying Christ, and prayed for his forgiveness. He decided to do the same penance he gave Hank and said fifty Our Fathers and fifty Hail Marys. Then he threw in a few extra. He made the sign of the cross, rose and went into one of the side rooms. He took off his habit and put on his civilian clothes. Of course, all black, with the usual starched white rolled collar.

 

He slowly walked out of the church, locked up, and headed for the nearest diner and cup of coffee. He sat down, drinking his coffee, took out his breviary and mentally recited the evening office. But his mind was not on the prayers in the book. He thought of King Claudius who tried to pray but couldn’t saying, “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: words without thoughts never to heaven go.” How often, Father Murphy sadly thought have I said these words? He gave a deep sigh, paid for his coffee, rose and went to the rectory of the church where he had a small apartment. He was tired. He was weary. He wanted to go straight to bed and just sleep sleep sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned. He reached down but pulled his hand back. What was he doing he thought? He always had a hard time after hearing confessions. He realized that he hated hearing confessions. He loved being a priest. He loved everything about it, except the hearing of confessions. He loved the singing of the old Latin hymns. He especially loved “Tantum Ergo,” and “Panis Angelicum.” He loved the lifting up of the host when Christ entered into it. He loved the holidays, especially Easter and Christmas. Maybe he could find another post? Maybe he could do something that didn’t have confessions? Like a desk job in the Diocese office. But then that wouldn’t be being a priest. That would be being a clerk. And he was a priest.

 

He knew there was trouble with priests. It began in the Seminary even on the first day when all those young men, many of whom weren’t even shaving their faces yet, arrived. He was one of them. And he saw how some of the men were looking at each other flirtatiously, as one would look at a girl. And he didn’t understand quite what was going on. He asked one of his friends about it. His friend smirked, “They're queers.”

 

“Queers? What’s that?”

 

“They do it with boys. Where have you been?”

 

Then it hit him. Then he saw that there was a lot of it going on in the Seminary. He saw that even some of the older Priests, who taught at the Seminary, had a special relationship with some of the younger boys.

And then when they graduated and became priests and were assigned to a parish it would continue. Confession was usually the way it started. The priests easily got to know which boys or girls were ripe. And once it started some

priests even made sex slaves of children like Hank and Tony. He knew he could easily turn Hank’s confession to feed his own sexual needs. Father Murphy tossed and turned. He got out of bed, knelt beside it and prayed long into the night. One Our Father after the other. Over and Over again. But nothing happened. Once again like Claudius. Finally, tired, he got into bed again. And sleep came.

 

Next morning his bed and pajamas were wet. The same morning, a few blocks away, in another house, Hank’s bed and pajamas were dry.

 

May 27, 2009

 

Prison Escape

Louie and the Greek were cumbares, which to those who don’t know mafia talk means something like cousins. They both felt they had been put in the wrong prison. They weren’t the murderers or rapists or hopheads.

 

Greek was auto-theft. But not just any heap. He specialized in Cadillacs. The way it worked was you got the client say in New York and took his or her order; say for a spiffed ‘50 Cad. You get the specs, down to the color. Then you find the car in Miami. You collect it and make all the necessary adjustments down to the stamped registration on the motor. You then deliver the car to your customer, the new owner. It works both ways. New York cars for Miami, Miami cars for New York. You never made a switch in the same city. That was too sloppy. This is the kind of high-class crime Greek was into.

 

Louie was embezzlement. He doctored books clean and tidy. Nobody ever got hurt. Maybe a little dry and thirsty sometimes. But nobody got hurt. Greek and Louie had never had a gun in their hands. Not a knife or even a blackjack. And they counted on some time behind bars as part of the cost of business. They accepted that as their dues.

 

They were in a high-class prison, Danbury, where they expected to be, up in Connecticut. The Country Club of the Federal Prison System. It is a minimum-security prison—a prison you can be proud of. A prison you could boast about to your friends. A prison everybody would be jealous about. But Louie and Greek had gotten a little careless when they were on parole in New York City. And Danbury was crowded so they were sent upstate to a nowhere place called Napanoch, Eastern Correctional Institution. It was a maxi. Why put them in a maxi? Their crimes were nonviolent. Sure but they had long records. Greek since he was fifteen and Louie just about the same. And for that they had to go to a crummy State maxi? To a nowhere place in the mountains and forests with the crazy name of Napanoch? It wasn’t right.

 

At least they weren’t afraid of the hophead prisoners. Greek was big. Great upper body. V shaped. Strong like the ox, they all said. His skin was dark olive. He liked to go around bareback to show it off. His biceps like small bowling balls. His shoulders could smash down four inch-thick wooden doors. He was about five-feet-ten. And he was a ham. He would swing into a pose at any minute. And everybody feared and liked him all at the same time. And he wrote poetry all the time. His favorite poems came from the Reader’s Digest. But he knew his were better. His poems were the awfullest mush and they were long. He loved his own writing and he would corner anyone in sight, and his catch felt forced to painfully listen to Greek dramatically recite his poem. He would enjoy his poems so much and everybody enjoyed his enjoyment. Especially his crazy lines that he would take seriously. Lines like “the tickle of grass as it tickles your ass” and he would look up at you so dramatic-like that you didn’t know if he was serious or just giving you one.

 

He loved to corner a holy dude. Someone who made a big deal about going to church every Sunday and always receiving communion, like the holy chaplain clerks. (Louie was the head clerk of the office.) Greek would read his tickle-grass-poem and try to wheedle a smile out of the victim clerk’s holy face. And the victim knew it and tried to keep the smile back but sooner or later he broke down. And when he did Greek would shout, “You see, you smile. It’s true! It’s true! It does tickle your ass! It does! Hey everybody!” he says, calling everybody to tell them all about his amazing victory, “listen, the grass does tickle his holy ass. Look. Show them your ass. Show them your holy ass. Show them the tickle.” And he would walk away triumphantly.

 

Louie was different. He was a wop. He was small. Wiry. Strong. Smart. He was jovial, engaging, warmhearted, open, and trusting to his friends. He was a “good” Catholic. He was the one to round up all the “Eastside mobsters” he called them, for the choir on Sundays. Louie came from a tough section of Brooklyn: Williamsburg. He enjoyed telling everybody how he used to enjoy walking up the street to go to church and kick the little kids in the ass off of the sidewalk into the streets as he sauntered along, just to show them their place. He said nothing good ever came out of his neighborhood except for him. The rest were all thugs and mobsters. He used to tell about the graduating class of PS 54 where most of the kids played handball. So and so was knocked off. Shot with ten bullet holes in the streets. So and so is pulling fifty years in Leavenworth. So and so burned in the chair. So and so is pulling forty-five for kidnapping. So and so this and so and so that.

 

And Louie loved to argue. He loved to argue for the sport of it. He called himself the black Jesuit. He would argue about anything with anybody. And especially if he could get them mad. He liked to knock you down with his words. It was the volume and persistence that won out.

 

Louie was a bruglione. He loved to get people into an argument and mix them up so that they didn’t know what was up—a bruglione. Like take Slats. Slats was one of Louie’s pigeons. Slats was six-foot-three and stupid. So he was perfect for Louie. Louie would pick an argument with Slats about anything that happened to be floating around at the time. Then Louie would up the pace. He would look around and see if anybody else was listening and he would drag whoever was, by asking for their opinion. Then he would find the newcomer’s opinion worthless so he could set him straight. Now he had two people arguing with him. He would then turn and see if anybody else was there, listening. Most guys were wise to Louie and his ways and usually would flee for their lives when he got started.

 

But most of the guys fell into Louie’s traps because of pulling time. Everybody just everybody in prison no matter what the crime, no matter if they were set up as they usually claimed—everybody had the impossible job of pulling time. Of making time go by. Of making the years shrink into months. The months into days. Because most of the inmates in a maxi had long pulls—twenty or twenty-five or thirty-five years to life. And these years were long. And one of the most valuable things Louie’s crazy embroiled arguments did was kill time. And everybody knew it. And Louie knew it. Louie thought in a way he doing the other prisoners a service. And everybody happily bit the bullet. And Louie had them. And when they were all frothing he would quietly step back and admire his creation as an artist would. And he would end it all with a, “You bunch of shitheads arguing about nothing!” and happily walk away.

 

So everybody at Eastern liked Louie and Greek and everybody at Eastern feared Louie and Greek because they palled together. When the inmates saw Louie and Greek together they thought mafia. They looked mafia. Greek looked like Louie’s enforcer and so the inmates feared and respected Louie and Greek.

 

Louie and Greek basically despised the inmates at Eastern. They treated them as inferiors and the inmates acted as if they were when they were around Louie and Greek. All of this told them that Eastern was not the place for them. They should’ve been sent to Danbury. They applied for one transfer after another but were told that transfers across systems were not allowed. Once in the State Prison System there you stayed. You can’t move from State to Federal or Federal to State. But we were in Federal they argued. It’s only because there wasn’t space at Danbury that the Judge put us here. Our crimes are Federal. No matter. You're in the State system and that’s where you stay.

 

So the idea was born in the minds of Louie and Greek that they had to escape. After studying the place Louie thought that it was easy. So Louie began to make all the preparations for their escape.

 

The plan Louie came up with was simple. Every two months, like clockwork, the Ellenville Elks Club sent a group to the prison. About thirty people, all men of course. They came to visit to give gifts to provide a meal to go to church to show a movie to picnic. It was the Elk’s good deed and display of civic spirit. Louie said that it would be a simple thing just to waylay two of the Elks who were more or less their size. Take their clothes, take their place, and just walk out with the rest of them. What was in their favor was that the day officer who was in charge of security at the admission desk was Officer Robert Pistol. And Officer Pistol was not a pistol. He was a Councilman for the City of Ellenville. But being a Councilman didn’t pay anything so he also had a job working in the prison, like a third of the men and women of Napanoch. Ellenville, Warwarsing, and Kerhonkson, the four towns that surrounded the prison. Pistol loved being a politician, a Democrat no less, in a Republican town. He loved playing politician. Loved talking to everybody about the major achievement of his last year of service as councilman that was to put in a traffic light at a busy intersection. He managed to get the bill to the Council and the council agreed and there was the Pistol traffic light. The good thing for Louie was that Pistol was lame brained and easily distracted. True he had all incoming people to the prison go through the metal detector portals and he checked their IDs. And he stamped their wrists with invisible ink. But everything was done with sort of an air of distraction. When you looked at him while your were talking to him his eyes told you he was someplace else. And Louie liked that and thought Pistol was just perfect. Pistol was gold.

 

Louie managed to get to the front area quite a bit because he was the chief clerk of the Catholic Chaplain who had the best office after the Muslim Chaplain. So he had to come up front to deliver messages, to go to the zerox machine, to make copies of whatever was needed for church services, to go to the business office to order supplies for the Chaplain’s office.

 

Just as Louie expected, the Elks came. When the Elks tour took them to the church, Louie and Greek selected their prospects. Louie approached the two Elks and sheepishly told them the Catholic Chaplain asked if they would please join him in his office for some special gifts. The Elks gladly came. Once inside the office Louie and Greek subdued them, exchanged clothes, went through their pockets, found the keys to the locker units in the front where they had placed their valuables, and most importantly for Louie and Greek, their wallets, for they needed cash. They tied the two Elks up, stuffed handkerchiefs in their mouths, and sealed them with duct tape. It was now two thirty pm. The next count would take place at 4 pm. The Elks had to leave the prison by 3 pm. Louie then picked up the chaplain’s phone, dialed 009 and then the Chaplain’s special code number, to get an outside line and phoned Dick’s Taxi. He informed Dick’s that he was one of two Elks visiting the prison but they had another appointment and couldn’t get back on the bus so could a taxi please meet them in front of the visiting room of the prison at exactly 3 pm? Yessirree. And then seeing that the rest of the Elks had left the church, Louie and Greek carried the two Elks to an old fashioned confessional where the priest would be in the middle with a confessor on each side. The Elks were placed on each side.

 

At around 2:50 pm Louie and Greek joined the group in the front. They went to the lockers and opened their lockers and bless those Elks they left their wallets. Louie and Greek being high class crooks only took the cash the wallets had and left the rest of the contents: photos, and such.

 

Officer Pistol, standing on tiptoe, counted the Elks who were noisily swarming all over the front area and said, “OK guys see you in two months and don’t forget to vote Pistol.” And out they went including Louie and Greek. The taxi was there. They got in and Louie told the taxi to take them to the Kerhonkson Post Office. It was now 3:10 pm.

 

The next part of the plan was to get a car. Again Louie’s plan was simple. They had to get to the Kerhonkson Post Office. The Napanoch Post Office was closer, in fact it was just across the road from the prison, but it was in a shopping center complex and too dangerous for them. The Kerhonkson Post Office was perfect. It was on a cul-de-sac. And the cul-de-sac part was wooded with a trail that led into the woods. Louie figured that the best way to steal a car and the best place to steal a car was in front of a post office because a lot of daffy people would leave their car running, dash into the post office, pick up their mail from their PO box, or do their business, dash back to the car, and off they would go again. The idea was pure poetry. And Kerhonkson was a sleepy town and everybody felt safe. And that’s what Louie counted on. They waited and watched and bingo. The car offered to them was a Honda Pilot station wagon. Louie and Greek agreed this car would be perfect. They could drive all the way down to New Jersey in no time at all. They could even go as far down as Miami and disappear.

 

The woman who left the Pilot shut the door leaving the motor running. As soon as she entered the door of the post office Louie and Greek, who were talking together, as normal people do when they meet at the Post Office, got into the car and drove off. It was now 3:45 pm. Count would take place in fifteen minutes.

 

The entrance to the freeway highway 87 was close and easy. They got on it and headed south. Greek was ecstatic. He kept pumping his arm. You did it Louie! You did it Louie! You're a fuckin genius Louie! You're a fuckin genius Louie! And they laughed and laughed.  Louie looked at the clock on the dash: 4 pm. Count time. Then they heard a wail.

 

“What’s that,” Louie asked? Greek turned around and looked in the back seat and saw a baby strapped in a seat-harness wailing away.

 

“Shit!” he said. “It’s a fuckin baby!”

 

“What” said Louie?

 

“A fuckin baby! A fuckin baby’s what I said. It’s a fuckin baby! Now what the hell do we do?”

 

To emphasize his point the baby obliged by raising the decibel level of wail to ear piercing levels.

 

“Jesus Christ!” said Louie, “What kind of a mother would leave her baby alone in a running car?”

 

“How do you know it was the mother?” said Greek.

“Of course it was the mother. No broad would do that to a baby that wasn’t hers.”

 

“So now we’re in for kidnapping,” said Greek.

 

“We’re no fucking kidnappers,” said Louie and he drove the Pilot off the next ramp off of the freeway. He parked. Greek found the registration in the glove compartment and with the maps there as well they found out where the owner of the car lived and how to get there.

 

The count, of course, was off. The prison was shut down and an intense search was made. The two bound Elks were found and Louie and Greek now were subject to a mandatory six-year stay in the hole or in a super-max once they were captured.

 

The alarm was sounded, search officers were sent into the woods with bloodhounds. But Louie and Greek were not to be found.

 

The house they were looking for was in Poughkeepsie on a street called Academy Street. They drove there. It was an old neighborhood that had received extensive urban renewal. The homes were old Victorian mansions. The gardens were all well kept up. They found the address, parked the car in front of the house and took the baby with them and rang the bell. No answer. So Greek, who was the expert here, picked the lock and they entered. First thing they did was find a bathroom and relieve themselves. Then they made a search for a baby room and found it. It even had a sink and a baby table with all the necessary tools hanging on side pockets of the table: powder, diapers, Vaseline, baby bottles, towels, and changes of baby clothes.

 

Louie got right down to business and unpacked the smelly baby. It was necessary. He dumped the dirty diaper into a hamper at the foot of the table and expertly washed the baby’s ass not forgetting all the necessary amenities like powder and Vaseline and such. He then took a bottle went to the enormous kitchen with an equally enormous frig took out a bottle of milk and filled the baby bottle. He then put some water into a small pot that was hanging over the stove on hooks, lit the burner under that pot, and placed the baby bottle in it to warm up the milk a little. He then removed the bottle, tested the warmth of the milk on his wrist, went over to the baby, picked her (for she was a she), handed her over to Greek with the bottle and said, “Here, feed her.”

 

Greek took the baby in his arms, took the bottle, sat down in a comfortable large sofa and began feeding the baby. And he loved it. He ooed and cooed while Louie looked at him in disgust and told him to shut the fuck up and just feed the baby and don’t drool on it.

 

“Now watta we do?” Asked Greek.

“Watta we do?” responded Louie, “We wait for the mother to get home. We give her hell, we give her the baby, we get something to eat, and we get outta here.”

 

“Wattaya mean we wait? What if she calls the cops?”

 

“She doesn’t cause we’ve got the baby.”

 

“What if the cops come with her after she reports the stolen car.”

 

“No cops in the world are that quick. The best she could do is call a friend or her husband to pick her up come straight home and then call the cops. But we’ll be waiting.”

 

Not for long. They heard the door open. Two women entered, just as Louie said.

 

They went into the living room and saw Louie standing looking at them and Greek with the baby holding a baby bottle of milk in its mouth.

 

“Nellie!” screamed one of the women.

 

“Who are you, the mother?” said Louie.

 

“Yes,” she said, “Nellie, Nellie. Is she all right?”

“What the fuck do you mean leaving that kid alone with the car running? Do you know I could make a citizen’s arrest on you for endangering the life of a baby not to mention criminal neglect? Do you realize what the fuck you did? Not only do you leave the car for anyone to steal you leave your fuckin baby in it so it can be kidnapped. Are you out of your fuckin mind?”

 

The mother was stunned. She looked at Louie and asked, “Who are you?”

 

“I’m the guy that stole your fuckin car and I didn’t appreciate finding a baby in it.”

 

“You stole the car and the baby and you're here with the car and the baby?”

 

“Yeah,” said Louie “but not for long. We’re hungry so whip up a couple sandwiches and coffee for us.”

 

“Yes sir,” said the other woman who went to the frig.

 

Louie and Greek, and the mother, who now held her baby, all sat at the kitchen table. Still in astonishment she said, “You stole the car and the baby and you’re here with the car and the baby? You brought back my baby! My little baby! And you took care of the baby? She has a fresh diaper on. Who changed the baby?”

 

“I did,” said Louie.

 

“You did?” said the mother. “You changed my baby?”

 

“Sandy,” said the other woman, “where are the cold cuts?”

 

“There’s a meat drawer on the top left of the frig, Roz.”

 

“And do you have any cheese, lettuce, tomato? I found the bread.”

 

“Lettuce, tomato in the drawer on the bottom left. Cheese on the top left in the meat drawer.”

 

“Got it,” said Roz.

 

Turning again to Louie and Greek, Sandy asked, “Who are you?”

 

“I’m Louie and this is Greek. We escaped from the prison at Napanoch and if we don’t get outta here soon we’ve got a six year date in the hole for the escape.”

 

“You mean they put you in solitary confinement for six years just for escaping?”

 

“That’s how they do it in New York. Have you called the cops yet?”

 

“No, I just called my husband, but he’s in court, he’s a lawyer, and couldn’t come so I called Roz and she came and he told me to call the police but I was so worried and so upset I just had to get back home first and we come and find the Pilot parked out in front, and you Greek and Nellie and—“clutching her breasts with the terrifying thought, “what are you going to do to us?”

 

“Shit!” said Louie, “Do we look like sex fiends?”

 

“Well you are criminals aren’t you? You just told us you escaped from Eastern. That’s a maximum security prison where they put all the hardened dangerous criminals.”

 

“Nawww,” said Louie. And Roz brought the sandwiches and coffee to the table and sat down joining the others. And Louie and Greek went on to explain how they were sent to Eastern because of overcrowding at Danbury where they should have gone and that they had to get out of Eastern because it would spoil their reputation and that they couldn’t get transferred because of the red tape and that they had to get outta here soon because there wasn’t much time.

 

“But you have time,” said Sandy. “Who knows you're here?”

 

“Naww, it’s too risky,” said Louie. “You phoned your husband. He’s a lawyer. That’s trouble. We’ve gotta go.”

 

So Greek and Louie finished their sandwiches, rose, said good buy to the ladies, went over to Nellie said good by to her, and Louie turned to Sandy and told her she’d better take good care of Nellie otherwise he’d be back, and they left.

 

Sandy and Roz went to the door saw Louie and Greek get into the car and waved as they drove off. Roz rushed back into the house and went to the phone. Sandy, after her shouted, “What are you doing”

 

“Doing,” said Roz, “I’m calling the police so they can stop them.”

 

“No,” said Sandy. “Put down that phone”

 

“Whattaya mean put down the phone? Watta you crazy or something?”

 

“No,” repeated Sandy. “Put down that phone. Don’t call the police.”

 

“Whattya mean? Why not call the police?”

 

“My baby,” said Sandy. “They brought me my baby, they took care of my baby.”

*

A few days later, Sandy got a letter. It was a plain envelope with no return address. It contained a ticket stub from Amos’s Parking Lot in Newark, New Jersey.

 

February 27, 2009

Muy Lejo

Sam is a member of Highland, located in the heart of the jungles of Paraguay, more or less right in the middle of the country. There are some four hundred people who live together sharing all possessions, modeling their lives on the Early Christians lived immediately following the death of Jesus Christ.

 

Sam is excited, for he is going to the United States to help pave the way for the establishment of a new community. Sam has been with Highland for six years and is happy to return to the States, to his home, and he is proud to bring the vision and witness of the radical Christianity of Highland to the States. He thinks of himself as a missionary, in much the same way as the early first Apostles of Jesus were. After many years of searching he found the truth, and the word of God, and the word of Christ, and the Way Christ. And Sam is extremely happy to have found the way. Happy to have found the Christianity that Jesus and the early disciples created: a community in which they all lived together sharing all goods and sharing all funds. The Highlanders look upon themselves as one-body much in the way Paul described it in one of his letters. And they speak with one voice, which means they work at it until they can.

 

What a privilege! What a joy for Sam to be chosen to go back to the States to help establish community in the wilderness of the commercialization and heathenism and rampant secularity of the United States. Yes, he is an Apostle and proud to be one.

 

The first leg of the long voyage home is to get on the back of a truck that is going to take him to the river port of the village of Villa de Rosario, where he would board a small wood-powered steamship for an overnight sail down the Rio Paraguay to Asuncion, the capital city of Paraguay. From there, after a few days, he would board a plane and after a thirteen-hour flight is back home in the United States, home being Boston.

 

The truck trip to Rosario would take about eight hours from Highland. Eight hours to do around sixty miles. That gives you some idea of the condition of the road. Very slow and very rough. Fortunately, it had not rained for several weeks, otherwise the road would have been muddy and probably the trip would have had to be with a wagon and a pair of horses. That trip would take something like two days of sloshing through mud. So Sam feels lucky to be on the bed of a truck.

 

The truck begins its journey in the village of Carolina, next stop is Vaca Jhu, and Highland follows, then, Santa Ni, Itacurubì, and finally, Rosario. The highlight of the trip is the stop at Itacurubì for the great almaçen of Salomòn Portòn is there. There is a two-hour stop there for food, beer, matè, caña, (the whiskey of Paraguay, made from sugar cane and at about 150 proof, it seemed!) and other delightful necessities. There were two benches along both sides of the truck on which people sat down. Of course by the time Sam got on the truck the seats were already all filled up with men, women, and children, for naturally, the first on the truck get the best seats, which are near the front, closest to the cab. The bumps of the road vigorously toss one around in the back of the bus. Passengers include children, chickens, and small pigs. After the seats are all taken, people pile in the center of the truck, standing, sitting on the bed, and using makeshift pillows of blankets, ponchos, wooden carts, and boxes. It is a hot day and people are already drinking tererè, the hot weather cold drink of yerba matè. It is drunk with a silver straw, called a bombilla. The yerba is usually placed in a cowhorn which has been cut near the tip and sealed to make a drinking vessel and is called a guampa. Most people use plain water to drink tererè, but when you want to be fancy you use sparkling water. At Solomon’s almaçen it is always sparkling water.

So, in a way, this truck ride is an adventure for Sam and he boards the truck with such expectancy. He squirms his way to the front with his suitcase and stands facing and leaning on the cab of the truck and places his suitcase in front of him. A Paraguayan man is standing next to him. Sam speaks a little Spanish de la calle, (of the streets), and knows one or two Guaranì words, so he turns to the man and proudly says, in Guaranì, the universal greeting of all Paraguayans, “eM-ba-ee-ja-pà?”  Or, “How you doin’?” To which the equally universal response is given, “ee-po-nà,” Or, “Great! How are you?” And thus the ice is broken and conversation begins. The conversation, of course, is conducted in Sam’s street Spanish with a dribble of Guaranì, and of course, again, all in a local campaña-Spanish, on the part of Wencelao. A loose translation of Sam and Wencelao’s conversation throughout the rest of this story follows, hopefully, with a feel of some of the local idioms and language conventions of the campaña. A few Spanish phrases will be thrown in to pepper the feel of their talk.

 

Sam, brimming with the excitement of his journey, looks at his Paraguayan companion and says, “Great day for travelling isn’t it?’

 

Wencelao, for that is his name, says, “Yeah, it sure is, especially since it hasn’t rained for over two weeks.”

 

Sam, “Yeah, now at least we know we won't get stuck and have to push this truck out of the mud.”

 

Wencelao, “I just hate that. I make this trip once a month and have pushed the damn truck many times out of the mud. Sometimes, more than once on a trip.”

 

Sam, “Well we’re in luck this time. How come you do this every month?”

 

Wencelao, “I go to Solomon’s almaçen, in Itacurubì, to buy supplies. You know things you can't grow or pick off trees like soap and grain and yerba matè and caña, and stuff and tools and things. And also to have a good meal. Solomon makes a great “bif a caballo.”

 

Sam, “Bif a caballo, what’s that?”

 

Wencelao, “Aii, ee-po-nà, (meaning here, something like, “fabulous!”). It’s something to die for. First he makes a nice asado (roast) of the steak over an open fire-pit. Then he puts two eggs with their yolks staring you in the face, on top of the steak, and the steak is surrounded with thin slices of fried mandioca (a root plant, comparable to potato) and the steaks are served with a tall glass of cerveza—Ahhh, I can just taste it. It makes this long trip more than worth it.”

 

Saliva flows in Sam’s mouth, for the food of Highland is rather plain and basically tasteless. Usually, the fare is thin soup, with small squares of vastly overcooked meat floating on top, along with a piece of mandioca, usually over-boiled, and tasting like cardboard. Whenever any of the members of Highland manage to get out to go on a trip, of course, one of the first things they do is have a smacking meal, and now Sam is looking forward to one, saying, “You’re sure making me taste it. I can't wait to get to Solomon’s.”

 

Wencelao, “It’ll take many hours before we get there. Would you like to have some tererè?”

 

Sam, “Thanks, I sure would.”

 

Wencelao opens his maleta, a simple sack with a hole in the middle, useful to sling over the neck of a horse when riding, or over one’s shoulder when not on a horse. The usual contents of a maleta are yerba matè on one side, and matè, (gourd), or guampa (cowhorn) one uses to drink from, and a bombilla, a silver straw-like tube. The other side of the maleta invariably contains mandioca. This is the basic diet of the Paraguayan campesino, without which he or she would die. But instead of mandioca, Wencelao has a plastic bottle of sparkling water for the tererè. In this way he treats himself for the arduous trip he has to make. Usually one uses plain water of any description to drink mate or tererè. In fact many a Paraguayan scoops up water from any stream or puddle, during rainy season without any ill effect. So powerful, say the Paraguayans, is yerba matè.

 

Unlike other cultures, Paraguayans don’t talk when they are sipping matè. Two to four to six people may be sitting by a fire sipping. Usually, either the female compañera of the man of the rancho, or the youngest of the family would prepare the matè, which involves boiling the water, placing yerba into the gourd or matè, placing a bombilla into the matè, pouring the boiling water into the matè then giving it first to the oldest of the group, or the guest, or the man of the rancho. That person sips the matè dry and hands it back to the server who refills it and hands it to the person sitting to the right of the first one. And in this fashion the matè goes around the circle. This continues until one of the circle says “Gracias,” after sucking his matè dry. Next time around, the one who says gracias is skipped. And so it goes until each person says gracias, and the matè ceremony is finished. Then they talk.

 

Sam knew about this strict matè protocol and kept a respectful silence until he broke it with the word, “Gracias.” Wencelao, who is serving, takes another drink. Then he puts away the mineral water, and the guampa, and begins the conversation.

 

“So,” he said, “You're with the barbudos, the bearded ones.”

 

“Si,” says Sam, “I am.”

“Ah,” says Wencelao. “I see many barbudos in the campaña. Especially the vaqueros (cowboys) who work on the estancia, when they drive their cattle they sometimes go through Carolina.”

 

“Is that where you live, Carolina?”

 

“Si.”

 

“And your family?”

 

“Si, mi compañera, and six children, four girls and two boys.”

 

Some words about the use of the word compañera. In the campaña of Paraguay, which means way off the beaten track, away from the major cities of the country, the institution of marriage is rare and casual. This is not because people don’t want to get married, but because priests are hard to come by. Yes, there is usually a church, an almaçen, and a one-room schoolhouse in most villages. The almaçen usually doubles as a bar. The larger villages have their own bar. But having a church in a village doesn’t mean there is a priest. Priests may be in charge of ten to twenty churches and they travel around to them every so often. And when the priest is sick he may stay in the village he’s at and rest. The chief work of the priest when he comes is first of all to baptize all the children who had been born since his last visit. Then he may perform a marriage or two. He hears confessions, and next morning would say mass, usually to a small group, usually female. Then, his work completed, he rests for a day or two, visits the local almaçen or bar, maybe drink matè with some of the people of the village, and eventually, drive off, usually on horseback; or if he’s a priest with enough money, he may have a small wagon with a horse.

 

The society of the campaña is matriarchal. This means the woman of the house stays put and the man roams about. So a man may have more than one compañera at a time. But usually, a woman has only one compañero at a time. The man goes from one rancho to another. He would also have children, usually several, in each of the ranchos where he has a compañera. This gets complicated because all relationships are tenuous and change. A man and a woman may get into a fight and separate. This means that the woman stays in the rancho and the man takes what he claims is his, a horse and wagon, if he’s lucky enough to own them, maybe some livestock, his knives, clothes, and maybe he may have a gun, and off he goes to another rancho where there is probably another compañera waiting for him. Or he may have met a woman at one of the weekend dances in the plaza, who agreed with him that they become compañeros. Then another family begins. At the same time, another man may take the place vacated, and a new compañero relationship begins, this means, more children. So there is a household of several children of different fathers but a common mother. For this reason, one does not ask a child about the details of his or her parentage.

 

“And so you’re off to Itacurubì.”

 

“Si,” says Wencelao, “and you, where are you going?”

 

“I’m going all the way, to Rosario.”

 

“Ah, si, Rosario.” says Wencelao, “Es muy lejo.” (It is very far.) “I’ve never been there.”

 

“What,” says Sam, “you’ve never been to Rosario?”

 

“No,” says Wencelao, “es muy lejo.”

“But it isn’t that far, only about a legua or two beyond Itacurubì.” (A legua is about as much a healthy, strong man, can walk in a day.) “Anyhow,” continued Sam, “how do you like Carolina?”

 

“Is a nice village. It has an almaçen and a school and a church.”

 

“And what do you do for work?”

 

“I have a horse and sometimes I work on a nearby estancia in Vaja Jhu. When there are a lot of cattle it is easy for me to get work at rodeo where the branding and castrations are done. I’m a good rodeo vaquero.”

 

“And do you drive cattle also?”

 

“No, I can't do that because the horse I have is too small and too weak and too old for such work.”

 

“So then what do you do?”

 

“Then I am home with my compañera and children. I plant mandioca and beans, and there are many citrus trees in the nearby woods, and bananas and guavas and papaya, and I have two goats for milk, and chickens for eggs, and pigs for meat. And I go hunting once a month and usually get a small boar or a tapir, and that is enough meat for some time, and so the time goes, and the time comes when I need to go to the almaçen in Itacaurbì, and so I go and here I am now with you. And what will you do in Rosario?”

 

Sam says, “There I catch a steamer, and go down to Asuncion.”

 

“Ahh,” says Wencelao, “Asuncion. Es muy lejo. And what work do you do?”

“Well, as you can see from my beard, I am a barbudo. I come from Highland where our religious community all live together.”

 

“Ahh, si,” says Wencelao, “Highland. And why is it you don’t shave your faces?”

 

“Well, you see, it’s sort of part of our religion.”

 

“Ahh, your religion. And what religion is that?”

 

“Well, it’s Christian, naturally.”

 

“Christian?” says, Wencelao, “With Jesùs and Marìa?”

 

“Yes,” says Sam. “But it’s more than that, you see, because we all live together, we all have everything together, I mean we don’t actually own anything. Everybody owns everything together.”

 

“Ah, si. But what about Jesùs and Marìa? Where do they come in?”

 

“Well, they don’t really come in because, you see, we don’t have to think about them because they’re there already.”

 

“Are they in the church?”

 

“Well we don’t really have a church, you see, we meet in the dining room where we all eat together. We meet there every Sunday and the dining room becomes our church.”

 

“Ah, so Jesùs and Marìa are in the dining room where you eat.”

 

“Well, no. You see it’s not like we have statues like you do you in your churches and put them on shelves. We have Jesus and Maria in our hearts.”

 

 “Ah, si, el corazón. And what about the priests? Where do you keep the priests if you have no church?”

 

“Well, we don’t have priests.”

 

“Ahh,” says Wencelao, “no priests. Then how do you have religion?”

 

“We have religion without priests and we have people who do what priests do for you, only we don’t call them priests. Do you understand?”

 

Wencelao says, “Ahh, si, pero, es muy lejo.”

 

And with that Wencelao slumped down, and with his back to the cab of the truck, shut his eyes and took a rest. Sam did likewise. But he is distraught. Here he is, an Apostle, talking to his first potential convert and he cant get anywhere with him. He realizes what he was saying was indeed muy lejo for Wencelao. And what is worse is that Sam didn’t know words that Wencelao could understand, about what community is all about, what the Early Christians were all about, what one body is all about, what unity is all about. He didn’t get to say anything about that and these are the most important things. He felt he was failing as an Apostle. He wondered if the Apostle Paul had it so bad? Did Paul have such a hard time speaking to people from different countries? He realized that the distance between Wencelao and himself is indeed muy lejo. And he also realized that muy lejo is not merely on Wencelao’s part but also on Sam’s part. Sam is muy lejo from Wencelao as much as Wencelao is muy lejo from Sam. And Sam slept a sleep of doubt. Doubting himself and depressed because of his inability to communicate with his first potential convert. His inability to reach him, make him understand. Muy lejo.

 

Wencelao shook Sam, “Despertarsi, llegamos a Itacurubi.” (Wake up; we’ve arrived at Itacurubì.) Sam opened his eyes, and rose to his feet. They were in a village. It is rather large as far as Paraguayan villages of the campaña go. The truck is parked in front of a huge storefront. On the front white stucco wall is painted in large letters, “Almaçen di Solomon.” Wencelao told Sam that there is enough time to buy supplies and get something to eat and drink.

 

Sam got off the truck and followed Wencelao. Right outside the door, perched on a block of wood is a vulture, holding a raw chunk of meat with his claws. It swooped down with its sharp beak ripping apart the meat and thrust it into its mouth. It gave Sam the chills to see this. “Eso es don Pedro,” says Wencelao to Sam. He says, that don Pedro is a pet vulture of Solomon. They go into the almaçen. It is amazing. It is comparable to a department store like Macy’s up in the States, in that it has just about everything. Not only food of every description: beans, tacos, meats, all sorts of provisions, live animals like pigs and chicken and even snakes and birds. All the fruits found in the campaña, like banana, mango, papaya, guava, grapes, oranges, grapefruits, lemons. The almaçen also has clothing that a vaquero would wear—bombachas, the long trousers that balloon at the bottom, straw hats, leather hats, all sorts of sombreros, leather aprons, worn by the vaqueros in rodeo, umbrellas, boots, all sorts of leather goods, saddles, ponchos, maletas, knives, sharpening stones, sharpening steels, guns, rifles, ammunition, leather holsters, light bulbs, candles, oil and hurricane lamps, and of course, yerba mate, guampas, bombillas of every description, made out of pure silver, bamboo, tin, made especially for mate, or tererè, and all sorts of gourds for the mate with burned-in decorative designs of every description.

 

The king of this domain is Solomon. When Sam sees him he is startled. Solomon looks exactly like the double of Sidney Greenstreet, of the Maltese Falcon. He has the same crusty voice, the same mannerisms, the same laughter, the same smile, and the same almost threatening geniality.   

 

And then there is the restaurant. There are tables inside the almaçen as well as outside. Sam and Wencelao choose a table outside; so they can see the steaks roast on the open fire pit. They have their bif a caballo. They eat, and drink their beer, and finally it is time to board the truck again to continue the journey to Rosario. Wencelao asks Sam, “And what will you do in Asuncion?”

 

“There I’ll catch a plane and fly back to my home in the Estados Unidos.”

 

“Ahh,” says Wencelao, “los Estados Unidos. Es muy lejo.”

 

Sam says, “Adios,” to Wencelao. Wencelao says, “tal luego.” And Sam climbs up the back of the truck. The truck takes off. Sam waves to Wencelao. Wencelao waves back. And Sam wonders. The total ken, the total range of knowledge and experience of this wonderful simple man is narrowly confined to less than sixty miles.

 

And he, Sam, boasts a ken of many thousands of miles. And Sam wonders who knows more about life, he with the larger macroscopic ken or Wencelao, with the microscopic ken? Who gets more out of life, he, Sam, who has travelled to Europe, Italy, Sicily, Africa, Nigeria, Switzerland, and now South America, Brazil, Peru, Argentina, Cuba, Corumbà on the southern edge of the Mato Grosso? Or is it Wencelao who has travelled to Santi Ni, Vaca Jhu, and Itacurubì, where there is the great almaçen of Solomon? Wencelao has not even gone to Rosàrio. Rosario is muy lejo. Does Wencelao find everything he needs in Solomon’s almaçen? In Carolina? Does Sam find what he needs to find in the almaçens of all the cities of the world he visits? Does he find it in Highland?

 

And from there to where? To muy lejo? And Sam wonders who is further away or muy lejo from life? He or Wencelao?

 

 

May 3, 2009