by Leslie Pike
“Well thanks for that. And you don’t have to worry about anyone entertaining me. I’m going to have my friend Paul with me for the eight weeks. I want him to have some fun, so maybe he and BB will get along.”
Jack laughs. “Is he a man between the ages of sixteen and ninety-six? They’ll get along. In fact I may be thinking too conservatively.” He looks innocently at Nicki. “Word is she’s a wild one.”
Steven weighs in. “Paul’s going to be a consultant on the film. He was in the Jesuit seminary when he was young. It’ll be good to have someone who has a working knowledge of the priesthood.”
This bit of news gets Jack’s imagination working. “I can already see how it’s going to play out. The BB bird and the seminary student. This porn film almost writes itself. Oh thank you God. This is going to be fun.”
“He’s no longer in the seminary, Jack. And the guys almost forty years old. Sorry to ruin your freaky fantasy,” I say.
Paul has asked that only Steven knows he’s actually a priest, and I’ll honor his request. So will Steven. Something’s amiss with Paul. I think he’s second-guessing his choices. But I guarantee by the time he leaves Park City, he’ll know which life he wants. All thirsts will be quenched.
I’m pulled out of my imaginings when my pussy radar goes off. I see there’s a hot blonde Barbie server by the pool. Her arse trumps any conversation here or in my head. I picture myself spanking that until it’s red. I bet she’d like a ride in the limo. I bet she’d like a ride on me. It doesn’t take long for her to turn my way. I get up.
“I think I’ll mingle.”
Chapter Two
Father Paul Cruz
One more hour. That’s about all I’ll be able to take. This noise is really getting to me lately. Screaming, steel doors slamming shut, fights, it’s relentless. The sounds of human misery are everywhere. It’s all day, every day. And if one more person throws their shit or piss at me, I’ll lose it.
I wasn’t always this way. My first months as the Catholic Chaplain at San Quentin I was a different man. A different priest. Now as a result of being a witness of constant violence and brutality, I’m demoralized. I’m finally admitting that to myself. I’m second-guessing all my choices in life. Is it burnout, or genuine discontent? And more disturbing, am I questioning my calling?
I almost feel like I’m a prisoner in a jail of my own making. So many similarities to these inmates. Loss of autonomy in many areas, lack of choices in everything from when I eat, to what I wear. My cell mates are the other priests at the rectory. And depression. It’s a big problem in the prison system, and I feel it creeping into my world as well.
The oddest truth is that in this setting there are moments of such tenderness and kindness. That’s when I know what purpose is. Once in a while I feel like I’ve made a difference. And sometimes I meet a prisoner who elevates my understanding of the nature of God.
There’s no crying in prison. It’s the one thing that’s unforgivable, as far as the inmates are concerned. To the men it shows weakness. And being weak inside the walls of a prison is the worst thing you can be. So sometimes when I’m alone with a prisoner, they cry. They’re the tears of men who know loss and regret. They do it with me, because it’s the only place they can. These are the most moving scenes I’ve observed. More than the deaths or the pain I’ve seen, the crying is what’s heartbreaking. That’s where I can help. Just by sitting next to them, being a silent witness to their tears, that’s where I see the real spirits of the men. The part of them that feels empathy and regret. And the realization of things lost. Their confessions in these conditions are never more sincere.
But those moments are rare. Other than those times, I can’t really say with any certainty that I’ve had an impact here. Mostly I’m happy if by the end of the day I don’t smell like shit. The bar could not be set any lower.
What a rookie I was five years ago. I didn’t yet understand the affect being outnumbered and unarmed has on a man, when you’re the target. I believed I would be the one to affect them, not the other way around. They’re the easily despised and disposable in many people’s eyes. I don’t see them that way. But every day inside here worked to change my mind. And that bothers me tremendously. My desire was to share Christ’s word, by showing compassion and understanding. I don’t think that happened in any real way.
The inmates have twenty-four hours a day to think of ways to screw with you. They’re always looking for your weakness. Always looking to game you. You learn to watch and listen to what’s happening around you. It’s unbelievably draining on your psyche. You’re part of a huge dysfunctional family. And most of them think of you as the cousin they love to hate and love to fuck with.
I have to say I had it easier than some. The men knew I was there to help them. But that only goes so far. The fact that you’re a priest works against you in some ways. They think of your compassion as a weakness, and they believe you’re an innocent. They love to try to shock you, because they know you’re celibate. I don’t know how many cocks I’ve seen pointed my way, or how many offers I’ve had. I only know it’s gotten very old.
No guards or staff carries a weapon or gun, because it would quickly be taken from them. Many men here have suicidal or homicidal intent. So I made sure to bulk up, and toughen up. And working out with some inmates was a way to connect. Unfortunately, I’ve had to use my skills many times. I can take a man down in seconds. It never fails to surprise them. What a legacy.
With six thousand prisoners, and seven hundred on death row, it’s a never ending job. Just the full sacramental calendar, baptisms, confirmations, confessions, the Eucharist and last rites, fill my hours. Not to mention drug counseling and gang intervention. It goes on and on.
When asked if they’d like to attend Mass, twenty-five percent of inmates identified as Catholics. I soon learned most just came for the coffee served afterward. The others came to get a break in their mind-numbing routine.
For both inmate and staff, your spirit is sucked out of you on a daily basis. Good intentions aside, you’ll see things that change you. Eventually the way you do your job will change too. No wonder prison workers have a life expectancy of fifty-nine years. That gives me about twenty more years before it’s over. When you become numb to the horrors around you, that’s when it’s time to walk away. For me, that day is today. I have to take a break, before it’s too late.
Lord, I hope you have a better plan for me, because today this one seems pretty shitty. I don’t think I can or want to do it. I feel no hesitation saying that to you.
Just knowing I’m about to walk out of here makes me anxious. Like something bad is going to happen in the last few minutes. I can see the headline. “Priest Stabbed Leaving San Quentin!” The article would go on to say I was covered in shit. There would be a short obituary, for a thirty-eight-year-old man, who didn’t live much. The doors lock behind me, with one last loud coupling. I walk out and never look back.
All the way to St. Justin’s Rectory, I’m decompressing. I have this routine. When I leave the prison, I remove my collar and change my shirt in the car. I check my cell for any messages that shouldn’t be ignored. If I’m in the clear, I turn on the radio to classical music and take off for the long drive.
It’s forty-three miles from start to finish, and I never rush the trip. Occasionally, I stop at the Hole In The Wall Bar, tucked in a strip mall about fifteen miles from the rectory. I’ve been doing that more lately. Nobody there knows I’m a priest, and that’s the way I like it. I’m not on call or on display. I have just one drink. But I sip it very slowly. And I fade into the low light background, glad to be just another guy at the bar. I see the off ramp and the flashing neon sign. The car practically drives in the right direction and parks itself.
“Hey, Paul.” The bartender greets me like I’m here every night. I guess I’m getting to be more of a regular than I realized.
“Hey, Jeff.” I take a seat at the bar, all the way to the back of the r
oom. That way I can see who comes in. You never know when a parishioner might be in the mood for a drive, and a stiff one.
He doesn’t ask me what I want. He knows it’ll be a whisky. He grabs the bottle and a glass, pours it, and brings it to me.
“Thanks,” I say. He just nods and goes back to watching the baseball game on the television on the wall. I see in his face he feels the same way about his job, as I feel about mine.
A very drunk middle-aged woman, and I use that term loosely because she’d have to live to a hundred and twenty to be considered middle aged, makes her way across the dance floor. She’s dressed way too young for her age and body type. Her hair is in that eighties style, when women used to have an awkward, permed poof right in the front. She hasn’t changed her style since the eighties. Of that I’m certain. She has a faded pink leopard print short dress on, and her earrings are pink leopard patterned discs. Her deflated breasts are pushed up to her chin, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what kind of man would find this look appealing. Maybe a seventy-year-old guy with bad vision.
I try to come up with something positive to think about her. Ummmm. I’m thinking. More than anything else, this recent development proves to me I need a break. If a priest can’t summon up compassion at a moment’s notice, there’s something seriously wrong.
She teeters over to the Jukebox in the corner and searches for a song. Or maybe she’s just using the edges of the machine to hang on to. Her legs are wobbling atop the high shoes she wears. I forget what you call those shoes, but they remind me of Herman Munster’s footwear from the TV reruns I used to watch as a kid. I’m hopelessly lost when it comes to women’s fashion. I guess it would be fair to say I’m hopelessly lost when it comes to women in general. It’s not stupidity, just lack of experience and exposure.
She chooses her song. I assume it’s a favorite, because she knows every word, and she wants us to know them too. The Rolling Stones “Brown Sugar” fills the air and grabs every patron’s attention. And now we have a floor show. Right away, she starts to move across the dance floor, which is empty except for her. She uses the entire space, twirling and grinding, and generally spazzing out. I shouldn’t judge the poor woman, but I just want her to stop. I’ve seen enough ugliness to last a lifetime, and tonight I’m short on understanding.
Oh no, she’s spotted me. I seem to be the only single man under seventy in the bar. Or maybe my Hispanic face reminds her of brown sugar. She points a long painted curved nail and begins to sing directly at me. She mouths the words, “How come you taste so good?” and does a messed up shimmy. Crap.
I down the shot of whisky in one gulp. I can’t get my wallet out fast enough. The pink leopard’s doing high kicks now, and I swear I saw her sixty-something year-old bush. I toss eight dollars on the bar and head for the door. I see another headline in my mind. “Herman Munster’s Daughter High Kicks Priest To Death In Bar.” It’s a very large newspaper, apparently.
“Baby, where you going?” I hear her slurred words as I exit, but I don’t respond.
Once in the car, I check my rearview mirror. My fear is I’ll see a mad woman running after me as I pull away. I’m out of there and back on the freeway in thirty seconds. I drive the rest of the way in total silence. I’ve had enough noise today, and I’ve got a headache.
* * *
By the time I make it back to the rectory, it’s nine o’clock. I know Father Prindeville will be awake, playing poker on his computer, while he has his wine. And I’m certain he’s waiting to talk with me. As I walk toward his room, I hear the click click click of his mouse. He’s old school. I knock on his open door.
“Are you winning?”
Before he answers, Father Prindeville makes one last move and collects on his winning hand. Only then does he turn around.
“Paul, I’ve been waiting for you. Come in, sit.”
As usual, he has food on the front of his vestments. A dried stream of mustard snakes down the middle of his chest; this is the first thing that’s made me smile all day. I take the seat across from him.
“Hot dogs tonight?” I ask.
A look of surprise comes over the Pastor’s face. His features remind me of Ward Bond, the old cowboy actor who was in every John Wayne movie. He’s rough and weathered. A priestly OG. He’s six-foot-four, but he’s a gentle giant of a man.
“How’d you know? Did you eat something already?”
“No. I’m not hungry. I had my meal at the prison, with the men. You know, one last time.”
Father Prindeville looks at me. I know he’s choosing his words carefully. My great affection for the man lets him have a pass, regardless of what he’s about to say.
“You know son, at first when you told me you didn’t want to continue your service at the prison, I thought it was a mistake. You’re so good with the men. It surprised me. But when you told me you were questioning more than your job, it all fell into place.”
“How so?”
“A prison environment is no place to sort out the complex issues you’re considering. I think you’re right about taking a sabbatical. Step back from prison life, and step back from this life. Be apart from what you’re doubting. Its beauty may only be apparent to you in its absence. If it’s the right life for you, it will call you back. If it isn’t, well you’ll know that too.”
“I hope things become clearer than they are now,” I say.
“Figure out whether you’re suffering a crisis of faith in God, or in yourself. That’s key. Both can be conquered. Remember Christ’s love is always with you, no matter what you decide. But I’ll be praying you come to the conclusion that brings you back here, because we love you too. All of us here, and all the people you’ve served so selflessly.”
I just nod my head. I’m on the verge of tears, and like the inmates, I wouldn’t want anyone to see that. He takes my hand in his powerful grip. I’ve never been with a gentler soul.
“Have you ever doubted, Father?” I ask.
He thinks about my question.
“Yes, many times. But never so much that I wanted to leave. But remember, I didn’t have the pressures you’re under, and I’m from a different generation. We didn’t have the distractions you do now.”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s it. But being away for a few months should tell me something. At least I hope it does.”
“You’re going to be staying with your friend?”
“Yeah. I’m flying to his place tomorrow.” I conveniently leave out the part where I’m going to be on a movie set, consulting on the Jesuit life, surrounded by life’s greatest temptations.
I’ve been in such a tightly controlled environment for years now. I’m tired of restraining my emotions, my reactions, my temper and my desires. Starting now, and for at least two months, I only have to answer to myself. And I won’t be wearing a collar. It’ll be the first time since I entered the seminary at eighteen.
Chapter Three
Esme
I’m scared. It’s my normal state of mind, but today I’m on high alert. My hand keeps going to the St. Jude medal around my neck. I just want to remind him I need his help. He watches over me. I need to believe that. I know he’s the patron saint of lost things, and I figure I qualify. I’ve been lost in some way most of my twenty-three years.
I keep looking out the bus window, expecting to see Kevin’s black Ram truck following. I’ve taken a seat by the back door, in case he storms in and tries to get to me. I’m wearing my favorite cowboy boots, if I need to run or kick. At five-foot-four, that’s about all I can do. That’s what I’ve imagined anyway. And I better make it good, because I won’t get a second chance. This all may be a horrible mistake, but things are set in motion and it’s too late to back out now.
What if he comes home early and sees I’m gone? He doesn’t like it when I’m not there without his knowledge. And what would he do if he notices my things are missing? When he discovers my guitar is gone, that’s when he’ll know it’s serious. I to
ok only what was mine, and only what was absolutely necessary. But he’ll figure it out quickly. He’s not a stupid guy. He’s just a cruel one.
I went to my grandmother’s psychic reader a few weeks back. She told me not to underestimate the man in my life. She saw trouble ahead, and said if there was a war she’d want him on her side. His determination to get what he wants will override anything in his way. She advised me not to “poke the bear”, just because I could. I didn’t know what to do with the information, because it wasn’t anything I didn’t know already.
I can see the bus stop ahead. Then it’s only a one block walk off the main street to where Grandma and her friend Eva are waiting. They’ve got my car and my things. Only my guitar and a few important papers had to wait to be removed today. I have a tight grip on them now. I’m carrying just one small duffle and the guitar case. Everything else was taken out a few items at a time, each week. I made copies of papers I may need, like bank statements and tax documents. I followed the guidelines of “Escaping Abuse”, the online guide for women trying to get away safely. Eva looked everything up for me and told me what to do. I don’t have internet access, because Kevin never wanted me to use his laptop or phone.
My grandmother has been keeping my things under her bed, in a suitcase. Waiting for today. What would I do without my sweet grandmother? It’s been her and I since I can remember. My mother died from a drug overdose when I was four, and my father was never around after that. I have a dim memory of him, holding my hand as we walked. I don’t know why it was so easy for him to let go.
Grandma took me in, and from that moment forward mothered me as if she were thirty instead of in her sixties. Now that she’s eighty-three, I need to know her life will get easier. The fact that I’ll be gone should help. Because with me being married to Kevin, her concern and worry has only increased.
