My father was most likely murdered by Catholic-hating Ku Klux Klan members, and I therefore have no memory of him. People forget that the KKK hated Catholics just as much as they hated Blacks and Jews, once upon a time. Mom said no one cares if you hate Catholics anymore because of all the pedophile priests, which is why people forget that the KKK probably still hates Catholics. (Mom also said if priests keep molesting little boys, the KKK would soon have a higher approval rating than the Catholic Church.) This is also why my father’s killer was never brought to justice, according to Mom, nor did any newspapers cover the murder, which is maybe why I couldn’t find any record of it at the library.
“It was once very hard for Catholics in this country,” Mom used to say when I was a boy. “Your father—a good Catholic man—went out for a pack of cigarettes and never was seen again. The police say he left us for another family up in Montreal, where he was originally from, but we know better.”
So Mom did her best and can’t really be blamed for my arrest. I once asked her if my father was also a good pretender, and she said he was. Apparently, he was a lot like me.
Why didn’t my father get to give Mom the fairy tale?
Why do most people fail to give each other the fairy tale?
Do you know why, Richard Gere?
Has your moviemaking taught you this?
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
3
SADLY, I DO NOT THINK I AM TELEPATHIC
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
I woke up this morning, put on coffee, and tried to listen to the tough (or lazy) morning birds, but the tiny angry man in my stomach was raging, screaming, Idiot! Neanderthal! Stupid!
It was quite disconcerting because I had no idea why he was upset. Usually I know right away what’s bothering him, because it’s usually what’s bothering me.
I racked my brain, but I couldn’t remember.
I fixed my coffee, and when I took my first sip—it came to me.
I had completely forgotten the point of my last letter, going on and on about unrelated past things. I didn’t even tell you the most important part about yesterday’s trip to the library, which makes me feel that I am indeed a gigantic emphatic moron.
(I get sidetracked easily by interesting things, and for this reason, people often find it hard to converse with me, which is why I don’t talk very much to strangers and much prefer writing letters, in which there is room to record everything, unlike real-life conversations where you have to fight and fight to fit in your words and almost always lose.)
At the library, I found an article on the Huffington Post that said you “received blessings from the Dalai Lama at Mahabodhi temple in Bodh Gaya.” It was dated March 18, 2010. There were pictures of you bowing to the Dalai Lama and him reaching down, touching your forehead with his hands in prayer position. There was also a photo of you praying with your eyes open while wearing expensive-looking Bose headphones. I wondered what you were listening to. On your left wrist were wooden beads, and on your right an old leather watchband. Judging by your eyes, you were enraptured.
Do you remember that day?
Have you seen this photo?
Being blessed by the Dalai Lama must have been a great honor, and I want to congratulate you right away, even though this event happened almost two years ago. I guess this is your equivalent of meeting the pope. I’d be very excited if I met the pope—even this new pope who is German. Mom never liked Germans, because her father was killed in World War II. (I have nothing against Germans.)
Then I found an article from the Syracuse Buddhism Examiner. It read “A TIME magazine survey on a wide-ranging list of the highs and lows of the past 12 months has listed the ‘Self-Immolation of Tibetan Monks’ as the number one ‘underreported story’ for the year 2011.” There was a picture of a monk on fire. He looked like a pillar of flaming lava. It was hard to believe that the photo was an actual man burning alive because the reddish orange color almost looked beautiful and the man was perfectly still.
(Also, I thought about how it is okay to look at a man on fire on the Free Library’s Internet, but not two naked women licking each other. Who makes the rules? Death is okay. Sex is bad. Mothers must die. Cancer comes when you least expect it.)
I looked at the man on fire for a long time, but couldn’t make my mind believe it was a person. Not that I doubted or mistrusted the caption. It was just very hard to believe that such things actually happen. That people on the other side of the world care enough about anything to set themselves aflame.
From what I understood, these monks performed the self-immolation in order to attract attention to your mutual cause—returning the Dalai Lama to Tibet.
The article went on later to say “TIME magazine has conceded that it generally takes a U.S. President aggravating Beijing by meeting with the Dalai Lama, or a high-profile celebrity Richard Gere fundraiser to get Tibet into the news these days.”
When I read that statement, it hit me—you, my friend, Richard Gere, are more powerful than a U.S. president, because the president wasn’t even named, and yet you were.
How does it feel to be more famous and powerful and iconic than Barack Obama?
I also understood that you can do more for the Dalai Lama by hosting a dinner party than Buddhist monks willing to burn themselves to death. Their sacrifice hardly makes the news—they go unnamed—but your being blessed by the Dalai Lama was in the Huffington Post.
You are a powerful man, Richard Gere.
I’m glad that I chose you to confide in during this difficult period in my life. The more I learn about you, the more I realize that Mom was right to keep your letter in her underwear drawer—that maybe she knew I would need your counsel after she was gone, and left your letter behind for me to find as a clue. It’s almost like she’s still helping me by making sure you and I are corresponding.
On a website called Tibet Sun, I read (and copied into my Interesting Things I Have Heard notebook) this: “A former Buddhist monk, who burnt himself last week in protest against the Chinese rule in Tibet, has reportedly died from burns. He was the twelfth Tibetan to have burned themselves in Tibet since March this year in protest against Beijing’s rule in Tibet. Seven of them are reported to have died.”
Twelve monks have lit themselves on fire trying to accomplish what you are trying to accomplish.
This, of course, reminded me of the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ, including Bartholomew (sometimes referred to as Nathaniel), who is my namesake.
I wondered if you, Richard Gere, were not the modern-day Jesus Christ of Buddhism.
It made me wonder if you ever thought about lighting yourself on fire, since you are also a Buddhist. Imagine how much news coverage that would demand. Everyone around the world would be transfixed if famous Hollywood actor and humanitarian Richard Gere performed a self-immolation.
Imagine it—the power!
Your greatest role!
I sincerely hope you will not light yourself on fire, because I have only just begun writing you. I would like to continue this conversation, so please do not go the way of these Tibetan monks. I believe you can accomplish much more alive than dead, and it doesn’t seem like their sacrifices are doing much to weaken China. Also, there is the clue—what I found in Mom’s underwear drawer—and perhaps you are meant to help not only the Dalai Lama but also me, Bartholomew Neil. Your self-immolation would not help me at all at this juncture, or at least I cannot see how.
No one in the United States even knows that these monks are making such a huge sacrifice, which makes me feel very disheartened for them.
“Life is shit,” my young redheaded grief counselor Wendy says whenever we reach an impasse in our conversation.
It is her default platitude.
Her words of wisdom for me.
“Life is shit.”
When Wendy says that, it’s like she’s pretending we are not bound together by her job, but really truly are friends. It’s like
we’re having a beer at the bar, like friends on TV do.
“Life is shit.”
She whispers it even. Like she’s not supposed to say that to me, but wants me to know that her happy talk and positivity are part of her pretending game.
Just like being a bird.
And I’ll try to connect the freckles on her face to make pictures—like new constellations—and I can make a heart when I try really hard.
Her face is an oval.
Her eyes are sometimes the color of a May sky at 2:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and sometimes they are the color of polar bear ice.
She’s beautiful in a little-sister way.
But back to the monks—I’m not sure I would light myself on fire for any cause whatsoever, and sometimes I worry that I just don’t believe enough in any one thing to make a significant contribution to the world, now that I no longer have to care for Mom.
Sometimes I wish I felt the passion and purpose you must feel for returning the Dalai Lama to Tibet, but I’ve never experienced such intense feelings.
Mostly I’ve just been content to spend time with my mother, and she said that our spending time together was fine by her.
She said she needed me, and it was nice to be needed.
She never made me feel as though I should be doing more with my life—like making money and having beers at the bar with friends—and I sometimes worry that her lax attitude was a mistake, especially while raising a fatherless boy.
Now that Mom is no longer with us, I’ve been wondering if it’s time for me to find something to be passionate about. Perhaps before I turn forty. I’d like to have a beer with a friend at the bar—at least once.
I’d like to take The Girlbrarian somewhere nice—perhaps the Water Works behind the art museum, where you can listen to the river flow.
Wendy says that the “next phase of my life” could be my best. I want to believe her, but she is only a young girl who has not experienced much thus far in life. I like her, but I do not consider her a confidant.
You are my confidant.
I would like to have a beer with you at the bar, Richard Gere.
What do you think?
I would gladly heed your advice.
Do you think I should become passionate about something?
The more I research on the Internet, the more sympathetic I become toward your cause, Richard Gere, I must confess.
The Dalai Lama seems like an extraordinarily nice man. I’ve been reading about him and his philosophies. He says that we must relinquish our sense of I or self.
The Dalai Lama says, “We must recognize that the suffering of one person or one nation is the suffering of humanity. That the happiness of one person or nation is the happiness of humanity.”
In the Dalai Lama’s book A Profound Mind, you wrote in the afterword that our lives are like the beam of light coming out of a movie projector, illuminating the screen, which is emptiness. I liked that. It was good—beautiful.
Is it true?
I will read more about Buddhism.
But regarding my becoming passionate—maybe I should start with something smaller than taking on China.
I can’t even speak with The Girlbrarian, and I’ve been secretly trying to do that for years now. I’m at a disadvantage because I’m not Richard Gere handsome. I’m six foot three inches tall with too much hair on my arms and in my ears, but not enough on the top of my head. Plus I do believe my nose isn’t symmetrical, even though no one has ever commented on this or made fun of it. But mirrors don’t lie.
Sometimes I send The Girlbrarian messages with my mind, but I do not think she is telepathic. Sadly, I do not think I am telepathic either.
I’d appreciate any input you could offer.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
4
I WOULD EVENTUALLY HAVE TO GO INSIDE OF FATHER MCNAMEE AND TAKE INVENTORY
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
Father McNamee seemed distracted this past Saturday night.
First, he announced that Mass would be held in Mom’s honor, even though I had not requested it, nor had I filled out the required card, nor had I made a donation to the church. What’s even stranger: he had already dedicated last week’s Mass to Mom. As a Buddhist you probably wouldn’t know, but it’s not customary to give two masses in one person’s honor in such a short period of time.
Then, even though it was not a funeral or Easter or Christmas, Father McNamee insisted on lighting and swinging the incense censer, much to the chagrin of the other priests, who tried to stop him by putting their hands on his shoulder and whispering fiercely, but Father McNamee would not be persuaded otherwise. The other priests stopped whispering fiercely only when Father McNamee’s efforts to overcome them sent the incense ball swinging all the way around like a slingshot and flying across the sanctuary. There was a collective gasp as it rocketed toward the stained glass window, but luckily, gravity won out and the censer smashed against the stone wall. A small cloud plumed up before the altar boys were able to extinguish the incense and clean up the mess.
And yet Father McNamee didn’t even acknowledge the interruption.
Under normal circumstances, he would have made a joke, perhaps referencing David’s victory over Goliath. Father McNamee can be quite funny and is very popular—his spirited bingo calls bring out old women by the hundreds, and he’s often raised money for worthy causes by doing stand-up where he combines “homilies with comedy”—but after the incense incident, when he failed to put the congregation’s fears at ease, you could feel the tension thickening inside Saint Gabriel’s.
Something was wrong.
Everyone knew it.
The other priests kept exchanging glances.
But the Mass continued and the routine settled everyone into the ritual of Saturday-night service—that is, until it was time for Father McNamee to give the homily.
He took the pulpit, lowered his chin, grabbed two fistfuls of wood, leaned out, and glared at us without saying a word.
This went on for a good sixty seconds or so and created more of a stir than the incident with the incense.
“Mmmmmmmmm,” he finally said, or rather he moaned. The noise seemed to bubble up from deep within him like a monstrous belch that had been waiting a long time for the opportune moment to explode.
Then he began to laugh until tears streamed down his face.
When he was done laughing, he stripped off his robe—stood before us in an undershirt and slacks—and said, “I renounce my vows! I am now—at this very moment—officially defrocked!”
There was a great gasp from the congregation.
Then Father McNamee disappeared into the priests’ quarters.
Everyone began murmuring and looking at each other, until Father Hachette stood and said, “Let us sing hymn one-seventy-two, ‘I Am the Vine.’”
The organ started up, pews creaked as everyone stood in unison, and the congregation happily began to sing, relieved that we were once again on familiar ground.
Standing alone in the last pew, I hid my Interesting Things I Have Heard notebook inside the hymnal and scribbled away.
When we finished, Father Hachette said, “‘I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me, and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing,’ John 15:5. You may be seated.” (I also wrote that in my notebook. Accuracy confirmed.)
I don’t remember what Father Hachette spoke about during his impromptu homily, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Father McNamee. A few times I thought I might get up and go into the priests’ chambers to see if he was okay—to encourage him, to tell him he shouldn’t quit being a priest. There was a warm feeling in my chest. It made me feel like I should help in some way—but what could I do?
Father McNamee is an accomplished and trusted priest; he helps many people—like, for example, his famous program where he organizes troubled inner-city youths and “transforms” them into counselors at his sum
mer program for handicapped kids, which makes the local news every July.
He came to visit Mom often when she was sick and arranged for a church member to do all of the legal work required for me to own the house after she died, since she didn’t have a very good will. Father McNamee arranged for Wendy to visit once a week at no charge to me, because Mom left me with very little money. He also spoke so beautifully at her funeral, calling her a “Woman of Christ” (I wrote that in my notebook), and—because I have no other living family members—he drove me to the shore afterward and we walked the beach together to “get my mind off” her passing.
“We’re just like Jesus and his disciples hanging out by the sea,” I said to him while we were strolling past cold whitecaps, and Father McNamee must have got some sand in his eyes because he started to rub them. I heard him whimper in pain as the seagulls screamed above. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he answered and waved me off.
The wind flicked one of his tears airborne, and it landed on my earlobe.
Then we walked for a long time without saying anything at all.
He spent the first night after Mom’s funeral with me too, in our home, and we drank more whiskey than we probably should have—Father McNamee doing three “fingers” for every one of mine got him red and drunk quickly—but it was good to have his company.
The Good Luck of Right Now Page 3
