There are cities that seem like they come right out of a noir film, with guys in them who seem perfectly-suited to be the schmuck detective to receive the unusual call from the damsels in distress that turn out to be a big tease into a case that could cost the poor guy his life. You know the cities, with the steam that rises out of every possible crack and crevice, the shadows that mask all of the dark goings-on. They’re the ones that are serenaded by cat screeches and saxophone songs from smoky, crowded jazz halls. The drunks stumble through the lonely streets, tripping on their own feet and falling against the door of an old Cadillac. Sure, there are streetwalkers, but most are classy, if you can say that about those that people call whores. This is my city, that place of the lonely dog barking and the back door to a restaurant slamming after the trash has been tossed in the alley. Sadly, I’m that schmuck who gets tangled in it all. I’m not waiting for the dame, I’m not waiting for the check. The money is regular in my profession, and dependable, for the most part, but hardly rewarding. I’m the schmuck who believes in something a little different than the way the world works, and that way collars me in white under black.
You guessed it; I’m a minister.
Not the usual ones who get a little congregation in a white steepled church in a farm town. Not the ones in suits and ties on television flinging spit and dripping spirit-filled sweat onto the next person needing healed. I’m not even the metropolitan pastor trying to keep up with the sweep of the trends from suburban sprawl to recentering in downtown, otherwise known as regentrification. And yes, I’m a fan of big words for fun. No, the reason the checks are dependable is because they are sent from the central office of my employing denomination, which is unimportant. The reason it’s hardly rewarding is because being the pastor of a ‘mission’ as they call it, isn’t a prized profession. Sure, some launch from this area, but I haven’t had the opportunity, nor do I really want it. The night life is what I see on the way home, as I go to my wife, in our little two bedroom apartment. And the nightlife is what keeps me up with phone-calls of the drugged out, drunk, abused, and abandoned. I get to sleep-in most mornings, because my congregation depends on nightlife and on the morning cup of coffee around noon.
I guess I started rambling without actually introducing myself. I’m Michael. Michael Logan O’Shanisey. Yes, I’m Irish. Catholic or protestant, take your pick, I like them both. I’ve been called Mick, Michael, Mikey, Mike, Logan, Shawn, O’Shan, Shawney, Father, and the rest go downhill, so take your pick, I’m not too concerned. Most of the parishioners either know me as Father, Pops, Pastor, again, take your pick. I’ll go ahead and introduce the Misses: She’s a pretty little girl, with ashy blonde hair, and a pretty medium build. She smiles like the best, and her honesty cuts like a knife. Genevieve Marie, but most call her Gene. Her brown eyes cut like diamond. That’s the gist of my place here.
But why did I even start like this? Well, I’ll tell ya. It’s to get you acquainted with the scenery before you get involved in the story. As I keep talking, you’ll get to know more characters, trust me.
Now, guess I should tell you the way the world works. You see, there’s times I get caught in my office twirling and weaving thoughts about the way the world should work. Yeah, it’s what people in my profession do, getting caught in ideas like peace, love, justice, and righteousness - you know, the way the world should be. Key word there is should. But there is something different about the way the world is. In my thought, the world works out of a kind of wisdom. That’ll be a recurring theme, get used to it.
Definition of wisdom: the way in which the structures of nature, science, and all of life are put together in order for the world to work a certain way. For every way that the world works, there is a different kind of wisdom behind it. The drug addicts, drunks, and nightwalkers all have a wisdom behind construing the world in their addiction. The pushers and peddlers may be close, but trust me, their wisdom is different. Your grandfather or grandmother show you their wisdom in the good old days, and your kids show it in their talk of fairness. Everything has a wisdom. That’s the way the world works. The question is, which is best? Ponder that as I keep going.
So I’m caught in my office, weaving my thoughts and studies when the old speaker on my desk crackles with the voice of Loraine, the receptionist calls me. Yes, we have the cool old speakers seen in the vintage movies with the security door buzz as the call sound. This call was about some stranger coming to see me. His name was Peter. That’s all I knew at the beginning, and all you’ll know about his name for now.
“Father, There’s a man out here to meet with you,” came her coffee-enthused voice through the intercom crackle.
“Not on the schedule. Did you tell him I was in study?”
“He says it’s urgent. Life or death. Should I send him in?”
“Yes,” I heave. “Send him in.”
My door squeaked on the old hinges, painted enough to have a nice, rubber looking coat. The glass on my door leaves the outline and colors of the man fuzzy. Everything is a bit nineteen-forty about my building. So the old hinges squeak, followed by the heavy footsteps of this Peter guy. He steps in, heaving a sigh and dabbing sweat from his brow. His head is bald, his eyes blue and beady, and his face round. He’s the teddy bear guy with the bat in his left hand, hugging and loving the family, but smashing the jaw of the guy who owes the boss some money. That guy. His shirt is wet around the collar and pits, and unbuttoned once to let his neck have some room. This guy comes from a world structured by a wisdom. I’ve got to figure that out. It’s my job.
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