The Good Luck of Right Now(9)

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.’”