Not a Party Person

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Technically”, I corrected – I was an honest sinner at least, “I am going to sin. Future tense.”

I added a pause.

“I am going to commit a theft if you want to know it precisely, Priest.” Another pause.

“Does God need to know exactly what I am going to do for this to work?”

The Priest’s voice was laced with this special something, this tone of religious revelation that went beyond the mundane good and bad, black and white, right or wrong.

“God doesn’t demand. He is no judge, no court, nor punisher. Forgiveness is up to you, my son. Do you feel you deserve forgiveness?”

I wasn’t his son, just to make that clear, but I was sure we had something going on between the two of us.

He was my favourite Priest, far superior to the one from the Catholic Church two streets away who would always stare at me intensely, but never into my eyes. And I was his…well who exactly was I to him? Annoying, for sure. Unique, I hoped so.

He always wore the same emotionless expression, the same I-am-simply-a-vessel-for-God’s-messages type of face.

In those fourteen times I had visited him in the last two weeks, since the cold fingers of the Catholic Priest had touched me and I had decided to try being a Protestant, he had only broken his stony façade once.

I had confessed as usual. And only when I had told him about the time my English literature teacher had told us with a straight face that the Bible was the single best written book of all time, his mouth had twitched upward.

So, I was convinced of something special between us. He might not believe it yet, but I had enough faith for the both of us. Weird given that he was the one to cherish God and stuff.

Did I feel like I deserved forgiveness, he had asked. The better question should have been do you even feel like there is something to forgive.

Remorse was a foreign word to me. It held one back. It made one sad.

I didn’t like being sad. So, my answer to remorse was accordingly.

 Religion was a peculiar thing. I couldn’t stand the presence of God too long. It made me thoughtful, overly soft.

God’s presence had to be enough for today. I jumped up from the chair.

“You ask the wrong questions, Priest. Ask better ones tomorrow.”

I gave the man a friendly pat on the back as I strode to the exit. He didn’t touch me back. A plus for the Protestants.

As I passed the doors, I grabbed a good handful of coins from the donation basket.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

I broke Big B’s nose today. The big in Big B stands for his mass, so I figured he didn’t need the lunch my sister packed for us, since my father’s lacking interest in us wouldn’t prepare it. Big B had tried grabbing it, his stubby fingers coming dangerously close to the hot pink lunch bag. Again, I had figured. Figured that words wouldn’t do it.

Now I ate in silence. The school yard was as empty as one might imagine living in a suburban town that could have been cast in Twilight.

I didn’t mind the rain. It washed away glamour, fakes, delusion. It brought forth ugliness, truths, rawness.

Life was ugly sometimes. I didn’t mind. It was moments like these that made it worth living.

Me, a lanky teenage boy, accompanied by the red heat of my knuckles, sitting alone in the rain, but with a revelation far greater than the Priest’s path to God.

Life was about the actions, the movement forward. Talking and remorse were only reading the book backwards. However, I didn’t read at all.

I wondered what the Priest would have to say to that.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

My confession was short today. My time limited due to the bus drivers’ strike that forced me to take the bike. I couldn’t visit the Priest in the afternoon. Not today, at least.

This afternoon I was hiding, running, forgetting. It would have been Mum’s birthday. My sister and I didn’t celebrate. My father preferred a party for himself. A party that started way before five o’clock.

So, I had to come by before school today. An early surprise, one might say. Although, it shouldn’t be surprising for the Priest to see me. He had God’s vision for a reason.

I am a sinner for being an atheist. It was a short and sweet confession. One of my brighter thoughts I came up with on the bike ride to church. Funny how much time one could gain changing just a single variable, even though everyone’s day was still 24 hours. Highly peculiar.

I was an atheist now. Protestants, I concluded, were just too good for me. No sexual scandals, too many women, but don’t worry, I told the Priest, we will still see each other every day.

It was afternoon. The screams and roars from the football field had just started to form a melody in my head. I tapped out a makeshift beat on the metal bench I typically occupied. It was situated at the far back of the school yard, where only one lonely security camera found its way to my corner. It was perfect for the all-nighter ahead.

My sister had packed enough lunch that it would suffice for dinner and perhaps breakfast tomorrow even.

With enough food and time on my hands, I found myself wondering about the absurdity of life.

Take the ‘Caution, Wild animals’-sign for example, whose yellow backdrop contrasted the grey marble sky so beautifully my art teacher would beam with joy.

Someone anonymous must have concluded from the reports about attacks in the weekly paper that warning the students would be an appropriate measure of security. Life’s absurdity had then assigned an underpaid security guard at the school grounds to place an order at a local sign shop. This guy then had spent his efforts on the sign, joyful to be of use to society.

The yellow piece of metal had given just another person, the craftsman that set up the pole, a job and sense in life, just so I could now marvel at the insufficiency to use said metal as a weapon against wild animal attacks.

In the sign’s defence, it definitely sufficed to warn me about the wild animals called football players who now announced their end of practice. Their tramping a carbon copy of a buffalo herd running towards you.

Silence always took hold eventually. It was simply a matter of patience.

Patience that came easily with a hot pink lunch bag and the absence of alternative actions. I simply wasn’t a party person. I wouldn’t join my father’s party for one.

While the sky acquainted itself with all the shades of grey, I got to know that sandwiches only had a half-life of approximately four hours.

As day turned to late afternoon, turned evening, even my only half-delicious sandwiches must have smelled heavenly to the stray dog. It had appeared, approached and now stood awaiting before me with its dirty blonde coat and misunderstood rock star attitude. Little did it know, I didn’t share.

I tried chasing it off, but I never had a knack for dogs. So, Stray took it as a sign to jump up and down awaiting the food with an already drooling mouth.

It also seemed like I didn’t have a knack for luck, not even today, not even in need of it. The turmoil alerted a sleepy security guard as well as the lonely camera pointing into my dark, dry, just perfect corner.

I was asked to leave the school ground through the noise coming from the outside microphone. The voice wouldn’t budge.

I left. The hot pink lunch bag stuffed at an awkward angle into the nearest bin.

I still wasn’t a party person. Life was absurd.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

I went to school this morning. On a Saturday mind you. I cut the wires of the security camera. No one will ever disturb my corner again.

I had to party yesterday. I guess I am still hungover.

“I want you to tell me of the good. The good you see in the world. The good you give back to it.”

The Priest must have inhaled too much incense during the afternoon service. Or was this a Catholic thing? His questions were too spirited, nevertheless.

 I watched the playful game between shadow and light, the chase of the sun to cast the last glow through the coloured glass at the heads of the church. Avoidance was a speciality of mine.

“The good? Do I look like a Samaritan sitting on a white horse?” My eyes travelled through the room, halting briefly at poor Jesus on the cross. “Just for the record, I cannot ride.”

It was impossible to escape the beam of the Priest’s gaze, the holy eyes that seemed to cast their own light. We always sat across from another, no veil, no visual cover.

Wasn’t a confession supposed to be anonymous? Did the Church know about my Priest’s techniques? No worries, his secret was safe with me.

“The good is not defined by its size or quantity.” Where did he pull those motivational quotes from? A tear-off calendar?

“It is the intention, the notion, that defines the worth.”

It was almost dark now. The sun had hurried to hand over the shift to its distant lover, the Moon, and only the candles’ flickers, the prayers of the mass’s visitors, offered light.

I shifted on the wooden bench. It all seemed cold in here, but perhaps it wasn’t the room’s temperature, perhaps it was me.

“The intention, I see.” I saw nothing. It constricted something inside of me. “Well then, I guess there is yet another thing to confess.”

“I gave the dog my leftover food on the school yard today. The dog had stayed out all night trying to fetch the lunch bag from the rubbish.”

“Why would you say that wasn’t a good action, my son?” I wasn’t his son. His son would be better than I. The thought felt like acid in my veins.

I stood up abruptly.

“I had intended for Stray to choke on it.” The candles had burned out. Time was over. My insides were feeling funny.

“It was enlightening as always.” I gestured around me on the way out.

The Priest couldn’t hold back to give me yet another call of guidance. His motivational quote for the day.

“Do something good tomorrow. Intend to do it.”

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

I stole my father’s car today, but I learned that it is sometimes just to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.

I drove to the hardware store, shopped at the nearby pet store after. It was clean money, I swear. The Church is holy for a reason.

Stray has a shelter now and enough food, so we won’t ever have to share again. He’ll sit in the shelter. I’ll sit on the bench.

Our parties will be epic. I don’t ever have to go to my father’s.

Stray and I, the misunderstood rock star with the dirty blonde coat and me.

I liked that. I liked that a lot.

The Priest was a wise man. God really chose well. A smile danced across my face.

I intended to do good today.

It felt … good.

Dog killed by wild animals. No people were harmed.

Wild animals, supposedly a she-bear and her cubs, were decoyed by fresh dog food laid out on school grounds.

The area is known for its wildlife sightings with numerous attacks in the past.

Signs on the school ground warn of the danger. Yet, ignorance struck, and substantial quantities of food were laid out for a stray dog on the school yard.

Attracted by the scent, the mama bear didn’t hold back to feed her young. The result, a dead dog and a shocked neighbourhood.

Only little video footage is accessible to the police, as a prior act of vandalism has caused a failure of one of the security cameras.

For more information, see our town’s news website.

Nothing has changed. The globe still spun. The sun still rose.

Foreign people went to work. Little ants living and dying for a purpose they would never know, feeling emotions no one cared about. They fit the system and when a new yellow sign was made, they felt needed.

In general, nothing had changed. In particular, I had changed. And with that, everything had.

My feet felt heavy. The stairs felt endless.

The sky was crying. I was shedding tears too.

God had a weird sense of humour.

Then I stood before the Priest and for the first time, the words I said carried the truth.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.