A Priest, A Rabbi, And A Minister Walk Into A Diner

The ground was covered with snow by the time Virgil Vestoff got back to his office from the sales meeting. It was the kind of fender-bending, wet slop that demands the sacrifice of any moving vehicle foolish enough to challenge Mother Nature.

“Where’d this stuff come from?” Virgil yells at his friend, Sheldon, who occupies the office next to his.

Sheldon halts in front of Virgil’s office, his camel coat askew and his fedora barely tilted on his head.

“It came out of nowhere. Everybody else in the office has already booked. I just heard we could get up to three feet!”

Virgil sets out for home, a mere forty-minute commute from the Bronx to Katonah. After two hours, Virgil has only progressed eight treacherous miles and is still in the Bronx, having yet to accelerate above twelve miles per hour.

He watches an intrepid and impatient commuter in a Cadillac speed past. The driver follows the tire tracks of cars that have plowed through the snow before him, the back end of the Cadillac swaying from side to side. The car suddenly turns sideways, sliding off the road, and disappearing down a steep hill.

Virgil looks for a place to take a break. Spotting the Champlain Diner on the service road, Virgil yanks on his steering wheel like a navigator trying to turn a cargo ship, sliding his car into the parking lot.

The diner’s fifties-inspired silver exterior gives it a homey, family-friendly appearance, despite a few bulbs on the sign having burned out, making it read: PAIN DINER.

Stepping out of his car, Virgil can feel the snow seep into his imported Italian shoes, soaking his feet as he enters the empty establishment.

“Pretty rough out there, ain’t it?” the owner says. “Name’s Simon Shuster. C’mon, sit down at the counter and I’ll warm you up with some coffee or hot cocoa. Our blintzes are to die for.”

With his bald head, firm jawline, bristling mustache, and plump physique, Simon looks as if he has been sampling his wares a bit too much.

“Just hot chocolate for now,” Virgil replies. “I’m still grinding my teeth from the three cups of coffee I had earlier. Do you know how long the storm is supposed to last?”

“Couple more hours, but it’s gonna come down at the rate of a foot an hour. The Governor declared a state of emergency. Anybody who tries to drive in this is a certified idiot.”

Virgil and Simon look out of the window as three cars careen into the parking lot. The first is an old, but well-cared-for Ford Thunderbird, the second a batted Mazda, and the third is a sporty black Audi TLX with tinted windows.

One man sprints to the door, looking back at the other two as they slowly trek through the rapidly accumulating snow.

“Well, look at that,” Simon says. “A priest, a rabbi, and a minister just walked into my diner.”

“Is that some sort of inside joke?” Virgil asks.

“No. They’re all from the neighborhood. The first guy, the short, weaselly looking one who drove the Mazda, has lived here for a couple of years. His name’s Steve Priest. The tall guy with the beady eyes, mustache, hook nose, and the thousand-yard stare is called “Rabbi,” even though I’d bet the ranch he’s Irish. I think he’s called Rabbi because he always wears black. I’d stay clear of him. And the stocky Black man with grey hair who was driving the Thunderbird, that’s Reverend Evan Elpus.”

Keeping his eyes on Rabbi, Steve Priest backs into the main room.

Rabbi closes the distance between them, his sinister voice eradicating the calm in the room.

“Do you have what you owe Mister Tyson, Priest?”

“More time! I need more time!” Steve pleads.

“We already gave you an extra week. Pay up or go boots up.”

“Hey, Rabbi, this isn’t the O.K. Corral, this is a family restaurant,” Simon scolds.

Rabbi looks around, his laser stare lighting on Virgil.

“Who’s that?” Rabbi asks.

“Just a passerby stranded in the storm,” Simon answers.

“He’s not an undercover?”

“If he was, you’d be busted, Rabbi,” Steve says, chortling.

Rabbi grabs Steve by his arm, twisting it.

“Speaking of busted… If you didn’t need this limb to count out the money in your wallet, what was left of it would be dangling from your side.”

“This isn’t the time or place for threats,” Reverend Elpus says, in a smooth, caring tone. “We came in here to rest, not to fight. I’ll have the steak and eggs, Simon, with a regular cup of coffee.”

“Give me the Cheeseburger Special with a Coke,” Steve says uneasily.

Rabbi exhales like a fully stocked locomotive. “Priest, you’ve got the length of time it takes for me to finish Simon’s pastrami special to figure out how you’re going to pay Tyson the money you owe him.”

“Well, it’s not detente, but it’s a start,” Reverend Elpus comments.

“You borrowed money, Priest. When you lost that at the tables and the track you borrowed more.”

“I have a gambling problem,” Steve replies solemnly, spreading ketchup on his fries.

“No, you have a losing problem. You couldn’t pick a horse if Mister Ed came up to you and told you he was going to win.”

“Mister who?”

Rabbi harrumphs, sipping his Coke. “You can’t spend money like you have a bottomless well when it’s already dry. Understand?”

“All I need is to break my run of bad luck,” Steve replies.

“Run? You’re in a marathon, but you’re running in the wrong direction.”

“You think I’m some kind of addle-minded loser, don’t you?” Steve asks.

“I haven’t seen anything to contradict that assessment,” Rabbi returns.

“They used to call me the Priest of Wall Street. I hand five major accounts. I made four hundred thousand a year and earned three times that amount in bonuses. Then this gambling Jones jumped on my back.”

“And you expect me to feel sorry for you?” Rabbi asks.

“I went from pâté de foie gras to Vienna sausages within three years. From a penthouse on Fifth Avenue with a doorman to a one-room apartment above a garage in a sketchy part of the Bronx with a hungry pit bull scratching at my door.”

“You brought this on yourself,” Rabbi says.

“You do realize that if you kill him, you won’t get your money back,” Virgil points out.

“Not my call. Not my money. Priest owes Puma Tyson half a million. The boss figures Priest is so far in the hole, he’ll never climb out. He’s only got a hundred bucks in his bank account.”

“You checked?” Reverend Elpus asks.

“I’m the last resort. You’re out of options when you see me coming, padre.”

“Well, you can’t murder him in here,” Simon says. “It’s bad for business.”

“I can end our difference in opinion by adding you in for free, Shuster.”

“It was just a request, Rabbi. I’m getting too old to scrub blood off the floor.”

“What about us?” Reverend Elpus asks. “We’re witnesses. We know you. Are you going to murder us too?”

“You’re a man of the cloth, padre. I’m not worried about you. You’re the human equivalent of ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,’ People tell you their deepest, darkest secrets in confidence because they know you won’t rat them out.”

Rabbi rips into his sandwich as his odious stare shifts to Simon. “I know where you live, Shuster. You want to take on a deaf and dumb persona. As for Lord Fauntleroy…

“Virgil Vestoff.”

“You’re scared, Vestoff. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Majorly,” Virgil replies. “But you should stay worried that we might all rush you.”

The others look away, negating the possibility.

“You’d all die trying. Besides, your sense of morality won’t allow you to try and kill me. But I won’t hesitate to snuff you out.”

“So, you’ve killed people?” Virgil inquires.

“I plead the fifth.”

“He comes into my church every once in a while. Always alone,” Reverend Elpus says. “He sits there mumbling to God, asking for deliverance and guidance.”

“Jeez. So much for confidentiality, padre,” Rabbi replies. “Yeah, I pray. And you know what? I’m still waiting for an answer. Do you think I chose this life? I was a smart kid from a middle-class family. I lived two blocks from here. I used to come to the diner for egg creams when I was a kid. In a neighborhood where most of the kids beat each other up for fun, I was in love with art. I discovered I was a good painter. My paintings won prizes. But that didn’t matter to the tough guys. I got straight A’s in school, but I took constant ribbing from the bullies who said I wasn’t man enough.”

“I bet they regret having said that,” Virgil comments.

“Yeah, especially the ones I visited to reminisce about how they treated me. When I was sixteen, I got a scholarship to one of the most prestigious art colleges in the country. My paintings started to sell. But whenever I came home to visit, I’d still get the micky from kids in the neighborhood. So, I started painting under the name of Hayden Dundee.”

Virgil’s eyes bulge with surprise. “Wait a minute. You’re Hayden Dundee? I have one of your paintings in my office.”

“Surprised that the man Art Magazine called the new Rembrandt collects debts for the mob?’ Rabbi asks. “One day, Pinky, one of the guys who’d been bothering me since I was a kid, started in on me again. By the time I got through with him, Pinky had to learn how to walk and talk again. I didn’t know that Pinky worked for Puma Tyson. Tyson insisted I work for him in Pinky's place, and Pinky wasn’t running a Goodwill store. But talking about it after all these years makes me wonder if I should retire and start painting again.”

“You don’t paint anymore?” Virgil asks Rabbi.

“I haven’t touched a brush in ten years, not since I nearly killed Pinky.”

“You need to put your guilt to rest,” Virgil replies. “Paint it. Get it out of your system.”

“…I’d like to be what I was, not what I am…”

“I failed you, son,” Reverend Elpus says. “You and dozens of other kids in the neighborhood, especially Nathan Gallagher.”

“You were his priest?” Virgil asks.

“I should have seen it coming. He was a loner, one of those types who stood in a corner, like he was in a trance. His parents told me he was skipping school. I told them it was a phase. Then I heard he was being cruel to animals. Everything he did was a cry for help.”

“How could you know he was going to kill his family?” Simon asks.

“The same way I should have known an A student who was a magnificent painter would wind up beating people up for a living. I knew that Clarke Conestan was cheating on his wife, that Dora Demerest was stealing money from her job, and that Roric Patterson was pushing oxycontin. Nothing I said or did could help these people because I’d lost my faith.”

“Sounds like it hasn’t returned,” Virgil says.

“No.”

“That’s not true, Evan,” Simon says. “I’ve seen the look on people’s faces when they attend your sermons, or when you make sure they have something to eat, or when you raise money for someone in the hospital who can’t pay their bills. Your God-given talent hasn’t deserted you any more than Rabbi’s has. You just need to be reminded every once in a while that it’s still there.”

“How about you, Mister Perfect?” Steve asks. “You’re wearing an expensive coat, and a tailored suit, and those shoes you ruined in the snow look imported. Is your life as beautiful as your clothes are?”

“Hardly. I’m actually thankful there was a blizzard. It keeps me from having to face my wife of twenty-four years. She’s filed for divorce. She thinks I’m having an affair when I’m actually working late. My two daughters are in their difficult period, drinking and drugging and hanging out with the dregs of their high school. I come home at night to find that my vengeful wife has been out trying to make my credit cards extinct, and my kids are hanging off the back of some biker’s hog or at some kegger. I make six figures a year and I can’t keep my family intact.”

“So, you have your hot chocolate, then when the blizzard stops, you go home, sit your family down and talk to them,” Simon says. “You may not like what you hear, but you need to hear it. Then you give a little, they give a little, and the results may surprise you.”

“So, why doesn’t the philosopher follow his own advice?” Reverend Elpus asks.

Simon huffs. “My two boys were meshugana. Poor Alex couldn’t help himself. Two tours in Afghanistan. He killed people. Old men, women, children. He jumped every time the phone rang, thinking it was an IUD exploding under his tank. He saw his dead comrades die over and over in his dreams. I came home one afternoon, and his brains were all over his bedroom. As for Marc, he fell victim to Puma Tyson too. Only he was sampling too much of what Tyson’s boys were selling…”

Staring at nothing, Simon drifts off into his private hell.

“Is Marc okay?” Virgil asks tentatively.

“After four stays in rehab and relocating upstate, thankfully, yes.”

“Maybe if you came to the church, and helped people who are like Marc and Alex, your heart wouldn’t feel so heavy,” Reverend Elpus says.

Simon moves toward the window.

“It’s slowing down. A snowplow just went up the road. A few more passes and you guys can all get on with your lives.”

“I’d say we’ve all led lives we regret. But I’m not so proud that I won’t say thanks for helping me realize it,” Virgil says. “I’m going to go home, tear up my divorce papers, kiss my wife and kids, and tell them I love them.”

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Amen. Psalm 51:10,” Reverend Elpus says.

Standing, Rabbi gives Steve a long, thoughtful look.

“With all this brotherly love and sense of renewal spreading around, maybe you can give me another chance, Rabbi.”

Pulling his gun from inside his jacket, Rabbi shoots Steve in the heart.

Steve’s body slowly slides to the floor.

“What did you do that for?” Virgil asks. He and Reverend Elpus rush to Steve’s side as Simon slips into the kitchen.

“That’s what I was hired to do. A man is as good as his word.”

“But what about the mutual respect, forgiveness, and understanding we talked about?” Reverend Elpus asks. “I thought you had rediscovered your passion for painting?”

“I had a job to do. Now I’m retired. If I’d let Priest live, someone would chase after me, and I’d eventually be the one kissing the linoleum. Steve Priest had plenty of chances to change. He chose not to.”

Slipping the gun back inside his jacket, Rabbi slips out of the front door.

Virgil and Reverend Elpus watch Rabbi march outside, brush the snow off his car, and depart.

Seconds later, a police car screams down the highway.

Virgil and Reverend Elpus turn to see Simon holding his cell phone.

“Did you call the police?” Virgil asks.

“Yep. Rabbi had plenty of chances to change. He chose not to. But I’d keep my eyes open for more paintings by Hayden Dundee.”