5/6/98

The Messiah Needs a Slim Jim


Father Brian, S.J.: Why do you want to be a Jesuit priest? We talked about your peak religious experiences. But why a Jesuit?

Me: I like curve balls. I want to live the kind of life where I wake up and I'm not quite sure what kind of day I'm going to have. I want a life that's constantly changing, in flux. Pitch me a breaking ball. Mix it up. If it weren't for curveballs, I'd strike out from apathy.

Fr. Brian: And you think the Jesuits will serve you these breaking balls? You know, most of us become teachers?

Me: Teaching is great. But a lot of you become revolutionaries too, right? That's what I want to be. I want to die for some cause. Whether it means dying to myself or really dying, it doesn't matter. God put me here for a reason and it's so that others may live.

What I don't tell Father Brian is that I've watched too many movies like Romero and The Mission, that I dabble in the Hindu belief of samsara and that I'm pretty sure I've lived thousands upon thousands of mediocre lives. I clearly remember reading the four page chapter on reincarnation in my World Religion textbook and thinking that I need to stop this cycle of birth and rebirth. My solution was to become a holy man, a sadhu of the Catholic faith.

I donned rags and a backpack and walked the sixty miles from North Portland to my hometown in Salem, Oregon. I ate nothing but wild blackberries, talked to hobos, slept in fields, and begged for garden hose water from Baptist churches. I kept three dollars in quarters in my pants for emergency phone calls. After mile ten, I stopped at a K-mart and used all the quarters to buy a Slim Jim and a bottle of SPF 30 sunscreen.

Now it's one o'clock in the afternoon. Fr. Brian and I have just finished our lunch at the Pollo Rey on NW 23rd. We walked from the restaurant to the unmarked Jesuit building on Pettygrove. He sits in an vinyl covered armchair; I sit on a plaid love seat.


I feel anxious.


A penny for your thoughts.


A couple of months back I had a spiritual advisor on campus named Father Darren who I met with on a twice a week basis. Usually I'd go to his office at the health center and we'd talk. But today, the weather was so warm and sunny, he recommended we walk together to the bluff behind the cafeteria.

We sat in a wooden gazeebo on brown plastic, sun faded chairs that faced one another.


"I had a dream last night." I told him.

"What was it about?" he asked.

"It was so real -- I think it was a dream."

He grinned slightly and tilted his head. His palms rested in his lap, folded upon one another forming a curvy pyramid.

"She was wearing a blue robe. All she did was walk slowly to me, open her arms, and then she hugged me."

I felt my eyes and throat start to swell.

"You know," he said "they say we play the role of every character that appears in our dreams. She hugged you. She loved you. It means you really love and accept yourself."

A fat watery tear glided down my cheek.

Father Darren reached out with his index finger. He scooped the tear up and brought it to his mouth and onto his tongue.

Then he looked into my swollen eyes and sucked the tip of his finger.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Tastes good."


***


Father Brian: Do you have any disagreements with the Church's teachings?

Me: No not really. I can't even think of one.

Father Brian: Now, I'm going to ask you some pretty personal questions. They are necessary for the process. You might not think so. So, if you don't understand why I need to ask them, just stop me and I'll explain.

Okay.

F.B.: Do you fantasize about men or women?

Women mostly. I mean, I've thought about men. But I am really attracted to women. I only dream of women in my sex dreams.

F.B.: What ages are the women in your dreams?

Usually older. Almost exclusively really. I can't remember them ever being younger.

F.B.: Did you ever have an experience with a man?

Uhhhh. Let me think... Yeah. Yeah I did.

Eyebrows raise.

When I was growing up, my next door neighbor, Joseph, and I used to play this game where one of us would hide a coin. He always would wear some kid of blindfold while I was hiding it. But I made the rule that I would go inside my house while he hid the coin in the yard somewhere. From inside the house, I'd watch him from the corner of my mom and dad's bedroom window. No matter where he buried the coin I always found it.

An adam's apple rises and falls. Hands hide inside pockets.

F.B.: Then what happened?

The loser would have to sit on the first branch of the oak tree on the side yard and pull down their pants and count to one hundred. The winner stood below and watched.

I never lost and Joseph never complained. He would always pretend to not enjoy losing and say things like oh man not again! , but he wouldn't quit. As we got older, he'd even play with himself a little while I watched.

F.B.: I see. But you never thought you were gay?

No, I think I was just curious.


(silence)


So, I have an interview for a nursing job today. It's in like, thirty minutes. I'm sorry. I really gotta go.

F.B.: Oh. Okay. So -- we'll meet and talk about you and the Jesuits next week. Keep writing and working on the autobiography. It's due by September 1st, along with your medical check-up, pysch eval, and HIV test.

Okay. No problem.


We walk to the door.


Father Brian puts his left arm on my back, takes his right hand out of his front pocket and reaches out to shake my hand.


We shake hands.


And he leans in to kiss me on the cheek. The tip of his tongue glides over my clean shaven skin.


I don't say anything. I turn quickly and leave his office. I race down the three flights of carpeted stairs. I pass all the framed photographs that Jesuits have taken of people from around the world. Naked mothers breastfeeding their babies in Guatemala. Next floor. Eskimos sitting around a fire in a snowy barren landscape. Ground floor. A man holding a pale, round piece of bread above his head -- thin people in ragged clothes kneel in submission before him.

I swing the front door open. Suddenly I realize there's something in my tightly clinched hand. I release my fingers and stare into my mottled palm.

Glistening in a sheen of sweat rests a shiny penny.