by Tim Dorsey
He stopped when he saw a young boy sitting on the steps, grumbling and punching the air with his right fist.
“Son, is everything okay?”
“I want to kill someone!” Another punch in the air.
“Didn’t you just go to confession?”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to know it was me in there,” said Bobby. “That curtain.”
The priest took a seat on the steps next to Bobby. “I’m Father Al. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Somebody stole my bike while I was in there!” Two punches this time. “If I catch them, I’m going to beat them up.”
The priest smiled to himself. “What are you, Cassius Clay?”
“Who’s that?”
“Muhammad Ali.”
“Who?”
“The champion boxer,” said Father Al. “That’s how he got his start.”
“By stealing bikes?”
“No, somebody stole his. And he was fit to be tied. A police officer took him under his wing and suggested the boy channel his anger into something positive, and took him to a gym.”
“I don’t want to box.” More punches in the air.
Father Al smiled again. He had been here many times. Exactly here. Sitting on the steps of the church with someone. And not always kids. He was the consummate flock tender. “Mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Why not?”
“How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“Tell me about your family. Your father?”
The boy shook his head. “Never knew him.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Mom won’t talk about it.”
“And what about your mother?”
“She’s the best. Really strict, but only to help me.”
“What does she do?”
“Cleans other people’s houses,” said Bobby.
“Where do you live?”
“In a duplex with another family.”
“Well, that’s how duplexes work,” said the priest.
“No, I mean another family lives in our side of the duplex with us.”
“That bicycle was pretty important to you, wasn’t it?”
“The best,” said Bobby. “I don’t know how I can get around without it. It’s a long walk home and my mom’s expecting me.”
“Besides the bike, do you have anything else that’s important to you?”
Bobby stared at the ground. “I used to have some football cards.”
“Do me a favor and wait here.”
Bobby was puzzled as he leaned forward on the steps and watched the priest disappear around the corner in the direction of the rectory. A good ten minutes passed, and Bobby was beginning to think that Father Al had forgotten about him. But just then he reappeared.
Bobby’s face pinched up. “That is one ugly bicycle. You actually let people see you riding that thing?”
“I’ll loan it to you until you can get another,” said the priest. “You need to be starting home.”
“Thank you.”
“You can pay me back by meeting me here tomorrow after school.”
“Why?”
“You like baseball?”
“I like football better.”
“But you do play baseball?”
“Of course. Everyone does.”
The priest pointed at the private Catholic school across the parking lot from the church. “You know the baseball field on the other side? Three o’clock.”
“You play baseball, too?” asked Bobby.
“Priests can play baseball.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Bring your glove.”
“I don’t have a glove.”
“Then I’ll bring two. Now get home. And mind your mother.”
Chapter 6
The Present
Click, click, click.
Coleman stared up at a vintage yellow-and-pink neon sign.
Click, click, click. Serge lowered his camera. “You know what’s been bugging me? The expression ‘Don’t make any false moves.’ How can a move be false? It’s still a move. It may not be an appreciated move . . .” He began pirouetting on the sidewalk, frantically flapping his arms and shooting birds at passing traffic. He stopped and nodded. “See? Now that’s what I call ‘unappreciated moves.’ I’m going to get the expression started. I think it has legs.”
Coleman looked down from the sign. “Where are we now?”
“The Upper East Side. Not Manhattan. Miami.”
“My feet hurt.”
“You’re just going to have to suck it up.” Serge resumed a brisk stroll. “Dusk is the perfect time to photograph old neon. I’ve already got the Shalimar, the South Pacific, the Sinbad Motel, but there’s so much more: the Saturn, the Biscayne Inn, the Vagabond, not to mention the gigantic landmark Coppertone girl sign, which has been lovingly restored and reinstalled on Seventy-Third Street after the heartbreak of Hurricane Andrew whacked her good on the side of the old Parkleigh Building.”
Coleman’s head swiveled. “I just see a bunch of old dumpy roadside motels.”
“Bite your tongue!” Click, click, click. “You’re in the midst of the spectacular MiMo district, a contraction of ‘Miami Modern,’ running up Biscayne Boulevard from roughly Fiftieth Street to Seventy-Sixth. Some of the finest examples of midcentury architecture to be found anywhere . . . True, true, the area scraped bottom for a time, and the vice cops couldn’t keep up. But that was a good thing.”
“Doesn’t sound good.”
“The neighborhood was so undesirable that nobody bulldozed these hidden gems to put up condos and IKEAs. And now it’s undergoing a renaissance! Young entrepreneurs with vision are pouring in venture cash to restore the area to its former glory. It’s still in transition, and you’ll get the occasional hooker with a broken leg on the corner, trying to flag your car down with one of her crutches, but how are you ever going to stop that?”
“There’s one waving at us now.”
Serge stowed his camera. “Time to check into our motel and establish the base camp . . .”
A blue-and-white Ford Cobra pulled into a parking lot off Sixty-Fifth Street and stopped in front of the curved 1950s facade of a motel office. Above, more retro signage:
New Yorker. Pool. Air conditioning. Vacancy.
Serge spread his arms and his smile. “I absolutely love the New Yorker!”
Coleman squinted. “Just another old roadside place.”
“Ahhhh, have I got a surprise for you,” said Serge. “It’s one of the payoffs of my trademark brand of Florida research, getting out on foot and investing shoe leather, peeking in forbidden alcoves, interrogating the bus stop people and taking soil samples. Follow me!”
“Did I mention my feet hurt?”
“I have just the cure.”
They rounded the corner of the building and entered a wide alley. Coleman stopped. “What the hell?”
At the end of the corridor stood a large painted sign of a Rita Hayworth–style pinup girl reclining with a martini glass.
Patio Bar.
And a motto: We Prefer to Shake It. An arrow pointed behind the building under a small brick archway.
They entered.
Coleman froze again. “Holy crap! Look at this bar!”
“More like a fantastically spacious outdoor lounge plastered with abstract murals and a painting of the hotel’s flamingo logo.”
They made respective beelines for the bar and the free coffee, before settling into turquoise-cushioned wicker at a table with a tower of Jenga blocks.
“Have to give you credit,” said Coleman. “From the street you wouldn’t have the slightest clue that all this is back here. You wouldn’t expect this behind any old motel.”
“The benefits of boots-on-the-ground research.” Serge chugged his coffee and turned to a gathering of Europeans smoking clove cigarettes in nearby furniture. “Excuse me! I’d like your honest feedback
: ‘False move’ or ‘unappreciated move’?”
“What?”
Serge jumped up, flapping his arms again and shooting birds. Coleman pulled a Jenga piece and the tower collapsed, scattering wooden blocks across the brick patio.
The Europeans quickly left the lounge.
Serge nodded to himself. “Definitely unappreciated . . . Coleman, time to unpack!”
They entered room 110.
Coleman upended his flask. “This place just keeps getting cooler and cooler!”
More turquoise, this time the color of the walls. There was a spleen-shaped mirror and another with spindles holding a constellation of tinier mirrors. Terrazzo floor.
Coleman pointed at another wall and a massive framed black-and-white photo of four people playing pool. “Who are those guys?”
“Can’t you read?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“Just the whole Rat Pack, Sinatra and all. They used to stay here.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Hold that thought.” Serge tactically performed his mandatory tests before unpacking in any Florida motel room. He checked the air-conditioning—ice cold—and the TV—perfect picture. He sat at the foot of the bed with a coffee refill and a remote control, surfing channels. “Ready for our new mission?”
Coleman peered through the bathroom blinds at the patio bar. “Hit me.”
“Discover the Meaning of Life.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Not really.” Serge hit buttons and sipped from a Styrofoam cup. “First you have to start with the premise that we’ll never know the meaning of life. Nearly fourteen billion years ago, the universe exploded from a tiny packet of energy, then matter and antimatter smashed together, hydrogen atoms, nebulae, supernovas creating the rest of the elements, amino acids, single-celled organisms, the first fish crawl onto land, and, finally, Beyoncé. Who can figure that out?”
“Don’t look here.”
“All that unfathomable complexity and design tells me two things: First, there definitely is a God. And second, anyone who claims they can quote him in order to boss you around is a douche-cadet.”
“But if we’ll never know, then why are you looking?”
“Because if the human brain is inadequate to perceive the Big Picture, that requires us to invent our own meaning of life. And that starts with not coveting your own life. We’re just here for a blink, part of an endless cycle of rejuvenation.” A big chug of coffee. “Coleman, do you realize that in the time you’ve been alive, most of the cells in your body have replaced themselves countless times? Hell, since you got up this morning you’ve generated thousands of new cells.”
“I do feel kind of shiny today.”
“So if our own existence is fleeting and irrelevant, I think religion has the answer. Or at least the founding theology before it became an excellent idea for war. And since the meaning of life isn’t about us, it must be how we treat others. I’ve been zeroing in on Jesus’s message from the Sermon on the Mount.”
“Which is?”
“Make as many motherfuckers as happy as possible, as often as possible.”
“Jesus said that?”
“I just kind of skimmed the Gospels, but I think so.”
“Wow. That’s deep.”
Serge flipped open a notepad. “There’s much preparation to do. We need to make lists of good deeds and worthy recipients. But we have to think outside the box because most of the charities have all the obvious good deeds covered.” He tapped his chin in thought, then began scribbling. “Nobody’s done that deed before, and that either, and they’ll never be expecting that . . .” A few minutes later, he tossed the pad aside. “More on the topic later.” Another chug from Styrofoam. He changed the channel.
A commercial came on. A child blowing out birthday candles. A mother holding a newborn in the hospital. Kittens playing with string. A Thanksgiving dinner. A high school prom.
Coleman took a seat on the end of the bed next to Serge and pointed at the TV. “What’s this ad for?”
“Personal injury attorneys.”
The commercial ended and another began. A child blowing out birthday candles. A mother holding a newborn in the hospital. Kittens playing with string. A Thanksgiving dinner. A high school prom.
Coleman gestured at the screen again. “More personal injury lawyers?”
“No, this ad’s for one of those DNA services, called Ancestors R Us.” Serge suddenly jumped up. “I’ve got a great idea! I should send in my own DNA! It is loosely related to our mission.”
Serge got out his laptop and logged on to the Internet.
“Can I send mine in, too?” asked Coleman.
“Absolutely.”
“Great. I’ve been meaning to jerk off, but it’s just been one thing after another.”
“Coleman, you do realize they take saliva? Epithelial skin cells?”
“I like my way better.”
“Then the people in their mail room are in for a treat.”
Coleman stood up. “Wait here.”
“I’ll fight the urge to follow.”
“But you walked in on me that one time.”
Serge rolled his eyes. “Because I thought you were in distress.”
“Those were just my regular noises.”
“Dammit! Can you stop!” Serge tapped the keyboard. “I’m still scarred.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Serge yelled after him. “No noises!”
“I’ll try.”
Chapter 7
Fifty Years Ago
The priest was waiting, and Bobby was right on time, despite taking an unaccustomed route so nobody he knew would see him on the loaner bike.
Father Al tossed him a glove. “We’ll start by warming up.”
They spread out on the first base line and began playing catch. Bobby never had a father to play catch with before, clergy or biological.
“Now go in the outfield and I’ll hit you some flies.”
Bobby took up position in center field, and the priest tossed a ball in the air and smacked it with a bat. Bobby watched it sail high over his head.
“Oops, sorry,” said Father Al.
“You hit it out of the park!” said the impressed youth. “You hit a home run!”
“Didn’t mean to.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Used to play a little at Jesuit.”
Bobby knew all about Jesuit, always fielding a highly ranked team that annually vied for the state championship. Bobby also knew something else about the place. There were regular Catholic high schools, and then there were the elite preps like Jesuit. Father Al had attended back in the day when it was affordable and still building a reputation, decades before tuition went north of twenty grand.
The boy’s reverence deepened. “You played baseball for Jesuit?”
“A little.” Father Al readied the bat on his shoulder. “Look alert. Here comes another one. I’ll try to keep it in the park . . .”
And so began a long series of afternoons at a field that was otherwise empty because it was still football season.
“You want to impress your friends?” asked the priest. “Let me show you how to throw a knuckleball.”
“Cool.”
They talked some more about grades and bullies and saving up money for another bicycle.
A couple of days later, Bobby arrived at the field and got off a girl’s bike.
Father Al smiled and wheeled something out of the dugout.
“My bike!” Bobby sprinted over. “And it has new handle grips! But how?”
“I’ve gotten to know a number of boys like you over the years. I put the word out.”
“You got someone to snitch?”
“No, it was just left on the front steps of the rectory with an apology note.”
“Thanks!” Bobby ran down the first base line and raised his glove. “Ready when you are . . .”
It went t
hat way for the next few weeks. But then, one Friday while they were warming up playing catch: “Bobby, listen, you can always come to me if you have any problems or just want to talk.”
The boy threw the baseball. “I know that.”
The priest caught the ball, but didn’t throw it back. “What I’m trying to say is that we won’t be able to keep playing baseball like this. Maybe once in a while, but the season’s about to start and you can get on your own team.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bobby. “I thought you liked me. Did I do something wrong?”
“Oh, no, no, no. You’re fine.” Father Al finally threw the ball. “I wanted to let you know you’re special. That someone cares. But this is a large parish, and there are a lot of other people I need to try to help.”
“I understand. So this is our last day?”
“For a while.”
The next afternoon, Father Al was sitting at a desk in his room at the rectory. It was a tight fit. A single bed and a small bookcase, with one shelf devoted to cans of soup. And the desk was barely that, just a small wooden table against the wall under a crucifix. A hot plate on the corner. There was a stack of stationery and envelopes, next to a stack of letters he had just completed to members of his congregation, young and old, with adversity and reasons for joy. All of them were signed Shalom. Father Al opened his Bible to the Gospel of Matthew. The room was painted dark green, which made it seem even smaller. A knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Another priest opened. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t recognize him.”
Father Al marked his place in the Bible and went to the front door of the rectory.
“Bobby, what are you doing here?”
“My mom wants you to come to dinner.”
“She does?”
“She’s really Catholic.”
He thought about his soup cans. “Well, I always enjoy a good home-cooked meal . . .”
The priest arrived at the mildewed front door of a duplex to meet a grateful mom. She ignored his outstretched hand and instead hugged him tight. “I can’t thank you enough for the interest you’ve taken in Bobby. He never knew his father.”
