Tomorrow's Lament

“Jaysus died for all our sins…”

Henry “Hank” Hope pondered over the words thrust at him by the short, skinny priest stood before him in front of a row of trash cans.

Startlingly appearing from out of nowhere within the Bostonian alleyway that Hank was relieving himself, the small man bore a remarkable resemblance to the old Irish actor, Barry Fitzgerald – a legend of the atypical Irishman depicted in old black and white movies. A guise that was curiously disarming in its visual demeanour, but highly suspicious in its sudden out-of-the-shadows materialisation.

The shortcut home from his favourite watering hole - via a different path than he normally walked, had suddenly taken on a strange air of uncertainty to the travelling man. Shaking off the last remnants of pee from his bladder, Hank quickly zipped up his fly, then wiped his hands down the side of his raincoat in a feigned attempt at sanitising himself.

“JESUS… IS FUCKING RIGHT, FATHER!” He blurted back at the emaciated man – who by all appearances resembled a bonafide person of the cloth. “You just made me piss on my shoes.”

“Sure now, doesn’t the ammonia in urine cleanse all… Would-ja believe that in the days of ancient Rome, urine was used as a kind of laundry detergent.”

“Loverly thought, Father… I’ll file that under things to not remember next time I run out of washing powder,” was Hank’s annoyed response. “…What are you doing out here in the dark?”

“I’m saving souls, my son… God has commanded me to bring him the lost, the infirmed, the vulnerable, the inquisitive - to where his love and forgiveness will set them forth onto the path of redemption.”

“You believe that shit, do you?”

“It is me calling in life, my son.”

Hank stared directly into the eyes of the seemingly devout clergyman. Something in the deep and dark brown pools of the priest’s eyes, sent a small shiver down Hank’s spine. The urge to flee back to the emptying street was shouting at him loudly; however, being of larger frame and well able to take care of himself, Hank’s curiosity superseded any other desire to extricate himself from the moment.

“So…” Hank asked in a mocking tone of voice. “How many souls have you saved tonight?”

“Counting yours?”

“I’m beyond saving, Father. Plus, I don’t believe in all that nonsense and I’m sure I’m of no interest to your man upstairs…”

Sensing that the priest was still waiting for an answer, Hank reluctantly acquiesced and played along with the priest’s game.

“Fine… alright… counting mine, how many souls have you saved tonight?”

A sly smile crept across the priest’s face, replaced quickly with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

“…None…”

Hank chuckled at the Priest’s dry sense of humour and the ease of which he had fallen into the trap to disarm him.

“You’ve a strange way about you, Father. I’m not too sure about your intent.”

“Ah, wouldn’t it be easy to dismiss me without any intrigue in the air?”

“Too true Padre. Alright, you got me there.”

“…And sure, hasn’t God instructed me to act mysterious?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“…And hasn’t he also told me that a man of no interest, like yerself, a man with no defined path and no direction – is just awaiting guidance from a higher authority than we mere mortals dream of achieving?”

“Sounds more like what Confucius would say, than your imaginary boss.”

“Sure, it does at that. Wouldn’t you have just loved to sit in on a conversation between those two, eh? God and a Chinese philosopher…”

“Indeed, Father. But some may say that the moral philosophy of Confucius also renders him a god, yes?”

“Tis a fascinating concept, Mr…?”

“Henry Hope. But please call me, Hank.”

“Unfortunately, Hank. There is only one God… and I’m afraid there can be only one.”

“You mean, like the Highlander?” Hank’s comparison was lost on the preaching little man. “…I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod,” Hank quoted the TV series character.

A growing awareness of Hank’s meaning lit up the priest’s face with the expression of a light bulb suddenly turning on in his brain - resembling a combination of shock, surprise, and juvenile delight.

“Yes, I see. But he is just a fictional character, no?”

“Unlike your god,” Hank mocked. “…who has never been seen,” he sarcastically noted.

“Sure now, why reveal yourself when yer always inside everyone’s waking thought?”

“He’s not in mine.”

“I’d wager he is. Sure, is his name alone not guiding your conversation with me right here and now?”

“You’re the one that brought him up.”

“I am a man of the cloth, Hank. It is my duty to praise the word of the Lord. I live to serve him. All Christians and Catholics live to serve him.”

“That’s rich, Father. However, If one cannot serve humans well, how can one serve ghosts and gods?”

“Have I not heard that somewhere before, Hank?

“It’s a quote from Confucius’s reply to one of his disciples, Jilu, who consulted him on the issue of serving ghosts and gods… You unfortunately, have crossed paths with a sceptical, professor of philosophy on his way home from a pleasant alumni night out.”

“Ah… I tink I understand you now, Hank… I can see the logic in your wee statement, but it only proves that Confucius was an agnostic. A non-believer. Secular in his philosophy rather than transcendent. Sure, you could argue that Confucius was just a simple con man, bent on generating a mass following to bolster his popularity. A bit like those Tik-Tok eejits all over the Internet these days.”

The priest’s candour tickled Hank to the point that he no longer felt a threat from the man debating him in a dark alley. In truth, he was rather enjoying the tennis match of ideologies.

“…What do you say we find somewhere warmer, Hank? Somewhere we can swap opinions.”

“Okay, um… Father…”

“Frankie is me name, Hank. Father Frankie Connor at your service, me boy. Look, at least let me compensate you for the shoe stains. There’s a pub just around the corner of the alley. Can I buy you a drink to celebrate our crossing of cordial philosophical paths?”

“You promise you won’t try to convert me, Frankie?”

“I am just a conduit for God’s mysterious ways, Hank. I don’t force people to do anything. Through me, God just guides them onto the right path.”

Leading the way, Father Frankie’s small quick steps left Hank several paces behind him. At the cusp of disappearing from Hank’s view – as Frankie forged forward and around the corner - Hank picked up his pace, quickly catching him up before they reached the entry to the pub. Halting at the entrance, the chatter, music, and all-round gaiety emanating from within the pub’s walls, immediately warmed Hank to the idea of another drink – his earlier trepidations about Father Frankie Connor dissipating into the night air. Looking up at the pub sign, Hank read the curious name out loud.

“Tomorrow’s Lament - Irish Pub… Frankie, how come I never seen this place before?”

Guiding Hank through the door, Frankie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“…Sure, tis not always here…”

Hank threw the priest a bewildered look, but before he could question the opaque statement, Hank felt a forceful hand push him through the pub’s door and into the most bizarre scene he had ever encountered. For a few moments, Hank thought he had lost his mind. The small bar was packed with all manner of clergymen and women – some, staggering around drunk. At the opposite end of the bar was a platform stage lit by several coloured-gelled lights. On it, stood a lone microphone stand with a microphone in its cradle. Talking into it was another priest, who appeared to be in the middle of a stand-up comedy routine.

“Did I tell you the one about the Tibetan monk ordering sandwiches in a deli…?” The one-liner priest asked rhetorically. “…It was called the Deli… Llama!”

After the whistles, jeers, and insults subsided, the on-stage priest continued his joke.

“…Well, he was there having lunch with a priest and a rabbi. The priest ordered first and said that Because it was a Friday and he couldn’t eat meat, he just wanted a tuna sandwich with mayo. The Rabbi – studying the glass display cabinet of food said, I too would like a fish sandwich, but as I am Jewish, the fish must be a fish with easily removable scales. Being a vegetarian, the Tibetan monk took a lengthy look at the heavily-laden meat menu. Getting impatient, the priest and rabbi both chided him to hurry up. For God’s sake, man,”  The priest impudently asked. “What would you like? The Tibetan monk bowed his head for a moment in contemplative thought. Then, raising his eyes, he replied, “I’d like a fuckin’ minute to decide, alright?”

A cacophony of boos and vocal gibes prompted the joke teller to gesture a middle finger towards the crowd. Then turning around to show his backside to the hecklers, he yelled, “KISS MY RING!” Triumphant in generating howls of laughter from a few of the hecklers, he started to wrap up his routine.

“I’m here all night,” announced the papal comic. “You’ll find me over there… next to the whiskey and Sister Agnes – everyone’s favourite. Can anyone tell me what a fine whiskey and Sister Agnes have in common?”

Beaten to the punchline, the hecklers – in unison – yelled, “THEY BOTH GO DOWN WELL!”

“You’ve obviously heard that one before,” stated the priest into the microphone.

“Fuckin’ roight,” yelled a lone voice from the crowd.

“Which one is Sister Agnes?” Hank innocently asked.

“…At the end of the bar,” Frankie pointed out. “The one throwin’ the icy look toward Father Maloney on stage… No doubt, she’ll be spittin’ in his tea, come tomorrow morn. That’s for sure.”

In astonishment, Hank stood completely still, as he surveyed his surroundings. It appeared that almost every reveller in the place was either drunk or falling-down drunk. To see all types of ordained persons of religious calling, laughing, joking, and heavily imbibing in whatever was put in front of them, caused Hank to doubt his decision to accept Father Frankie’s invitation. The stout and whiskey were being consumed at such a higher volume than could be poured, it created a log jam of priests three-deep at the bar – all competing with each other to get the overworked bar staff’s attention.

“Is everyone in here Irish?” Hank asked.

“To be sure, most are,” Frankie responded. “Except for Monsignor Oladapo from Scotland over there in the far corner. He’s the one with the tartan cap on his head… He just happened to be visiting the local archdiocese before jetting off to the Vatican.”

“So, what is all of this?”

“It’s a national holiday for us all, Hank.”

“What… an Irish holiday?”

“No, we wish. Tis for all clergy and nuns. Just happens that most everyone within earshot of the pub is Irish. It’s a kind of day off from God.”

“You get a day off from…!?”

“We do Boyo, it’s called The Day of Canons. However, like all things Catholic, it comes with an act of contrition. A sort of repayment for allowing us to let our hair down - figurately speaking…” Frankie patted his balding head. “You see, our faith does not allow us to absolve our own sins – and by the goings-on in here, it looks like there might be a few committed tonight. So, we must make sure we’ve got something to deliver to the man above to atone for any indecencies perpetrated on our day off…”

“…Before I clear the stage for our next act,” the not-so-funny priest interrupted over the PA system. “I’ll leave yous all wit dis thought… You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t…”

Before he could finish, the whole room in chorus pointed at the nearest nose in proximity to them and yelled, “Pick your friend’s nose!!!”

“Fuckin’ roight, ye bollix!” The same lone voice from earlier yelled above the boisterous crowd as they erupted in juvenile laughter.

The prompted gag line had everyone in stitches. Even Hank let out an amused chuckle.

“Now,” continued the emcee priest. “Our support act is ready and willing to entertain yous all… Put your hands together and give a warm welcome to…” Adopting his best French accent, the priest introduced, “Les Sœurs de la Miséricorde… To those of you uneducated bishop lovers out there… THE SISTERS OF MER-CEE!”

The room erupted with whoops and hollers as the tune most famously associated with the Can Can, bellowed from the speakers mounted above the stage. Through the rear exit door, appeared five nuns dressed in traditional nun’s habits; however, from the waste below, they wore frilly skirts with long bloomers. Emulating the notorious Moulin Rouge dancers, they mounted the stage and began a very tightly choreographed dance – all to the greatest delight of the crowd watching.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Hank tried to shout above the merriment.

“We’ll all pay for it tomorrow, if we don’t offer up atonement.”

“What do you have to do?”

Looking intently into Hank’s eyes, Frankie adopted an embarrassing grimace to his face.

“I… have to get someone to admit that they have chosen the wrong path in life and convert them…”

With the bellowing sound of a penny dropping to the floor, Hank’s mouth sat agape in the realisation that he’d been conned.

“Sure now, wouldn’t you be doing me a great service, Hank.”

“But I’m not religious.”

“That’s the beauty of it, Hank.” Frankie stated in obvious retort. “You don’t have to be!”

“Isn’t that hypocritical?”

“Sure, without hypocrisy, how would we survive at all as a religion? Can you imagine a world without sin and double standards? Sure, we’d all be out of work, now wouldn’t we.”

“…I can’t Frankie. It’s against my moral judgement. I’d just become another hypocrite.”

“Perfect! You’d be in great company!”

Hank shifted uncomfortably at the hard-sell proposition presented to him. Looking around at the melee of priests, bishops, nuns, and choirboys catcalling the Can Can nuns, the drunken men of cloth littering the floors in unconscious stupors, and the sheer delight of people released from their suppressed desires and inhibitions, was all too much for Hank to comprehend.

“I’m sorry, Frankie. I just can’t. Forgive me…”

To Hank’s surprise, Frankie’s hands reached up and cradled Hank’s head between them, followed by a grateful kiss on his lips.

“Yous beauty, Hank! I forgive and absolve you,” Frankie delightfully expressed - as he stepped back and saluted Hank with the sign of the cross.

“I-I don’t understand,” Hank innocently stated.

“You’ve triggered me back-up act of contrition… To forgive someone’s sins.”

“But I haven’t sinned.”

“Maybe not, but say three Hail Mary’s and the Lord’s prayer, or come and see me for confession next week.”

“But, I’m not Catholic!”

“Even better, my son. Ye can’t be tracked…! Are you stayin’ for a drink?”

“No, this is all too much to process. I’m going home.”

“Please yerself,” Frankie gently remarked. “But first, wait for the big man’s speech.”

The dancing nuns – now stretched out in their finale pose of splits on the floor, drew a huge round of cheers and applause.

“The Sisters of Mercy, ladies and gentlemen! Moulin Rouge, eat your heart out!” The emcee proudly announced.

“Fuckin’ Roight!” Came the now familiar shout from the front row.

“..And right on cue, the Big Man needs a word.”

A giant hush came over the crowd, as a white-garbed man wearing a white skull cap ascended the stage, snatching the microphone from the emcees grasp. Making a sign of the cross, he silenced the remnants of drunken discussion, causing everyone to return the sign to him. Commanding the room’s attention, he raised the microphone to his lips - and with one vocal expression, he sent the room back into raptures of debauchery.

“YE BOLLIX!”

Dropping the microphone to the floor, he graciously exited stage left, stepping over the nuns - still holding their split-leg poses.

Nudging Frankie in the ribs, Hank’s astonishment at the stunned recognition of a celebrity in the room, piqued his curiosity.

“Is that…?”

“Yes, tis himself,” Frankie casually responded.

“He’s not Irish, is he?” Hank’s question seemed to be more inwardly than outward; however, Frankie decided it needed a straightforward answer.

“No, my son… But, you know how it is. When you’re around Irish people,” he explained in his thickest Irish country-bog brogue. “…You can’t help yerself talkin’ loike dem… As a joke, someone told him, ye bollix meant something similar to the saying, carry on…”

"…And the swearing?”

“…He must have picked that up himself from somewhere…”

Catching movement from the far corner of the room, Frankie gave a nod to the Scottish priest, hurriedly chasing after the exiting man in the white suit.

“Ah.. there goes Father Oladapo,” Frankie pointed out. “Him and the Big Man are both booked on the Red Eye to Rome, so that would be the reason for the brief cameo on stage… Well, you take care, Hank – and thanks for the penance. As they say in the old Westerns, Vaya Con Dios.”

Exiting the pub, an astounded Hank paused once again to look at the hanging sign above the entrance. Then, with the noise of the partyers in the pub pushing him away in search of some Shangri-La type of peace and quiet, he muttered under his breath.

“…I’m never taking that path home again…”