Archive for the ‘Dialogues’ Category

Phil’s Funeral: A Short Story Set in South Portland, Maine

July 6, 2018

 

I asked for yesterday off at the grocery here in South Portland, Maine. I wanted to drive a small troupe of our associates up to a mid-morning funeral in a little community north of Portland. The deceased was one of our long-time grocery clerks, so the store was supportive. We took Methuselah, the Shoestring Chapel’s van. Some of our associates show up at the Chapel off and on, and I volunteer there, as sort of the lay minister and custodian. It’s a pretty informal place. You don’t have to believe anything in particular to come. You don’t have to believe anything to come.

Phil was only in his late fifties. He was a reliable worker, but tight assed and tight lipped. When he did say something, it wasn’t pretty. He’d tell you loud and clear if you screwed up or you were in his way.

“Movvve it!”

I only saw Phil smile once. Some new kid was standing on the end of an empty U-boat yacking. Phil pushed the boat from behind because it was in his way. The kid fell backwards onto the boat with a huge bang. He didn’t get hurt much and his friends had a big laugh.

We all knew Phil was in constant pain from his swollen legs. Suffering makes most people self-centered and angry. You have to cut them slack. A couple months ago his congestive heart disease turned really ugly, and so did his temper. It got harder to forgive Phil. God knows, he never said he was sorry. Phil took a medical leave from work. No one thought he would come back. No one wanted him back.

Seven of us associates made the trip to Phil’s funeral. Trudy, Wes, and me from center store. Three girls from the front end. And Bob from the deli. Bob had gone to high school with Phil. The girls didn’t know Phil well but wanted to escape the front end for a day. I was surprised Trudy wanted to go. Phil was especially caustic towards her. And she gave it right back.

“Trudy, this will be a good chance to make peace with Phil,” I told her.

“Peace hell! I just want to see the S.O.B. flat on his back with his lips sewn shut.”

“Trudy!”

“OK, Mike. I didn’t like him. I never liked him. But I’ll be polite and see him off on his way to wherever. God knows he’s been a presence in our lives.”

“Don’t kick his coffin, Trudy,” laughed Wes, “Sewn lips or not, he might sit up and rip you a new one.”

It seemed like a good time to shift topics. “OK, Phil wasn’t friendly at work,” I offered, “but he was human. Everyone has good points. Phil must have cared about someone. Bob, you knew Phil growing up. What do you remember good about him?”

Bob thought for a while. “Well, I was in classes with Phil, but I never met his family. He told me he had a dog he took care of, but it ran off to the neighbors.”

The front end girls were texting and giggling about their friends’ messages. I interrupted them. “What do you girls remember about Phil?”

One of the girls looked up. “I remember Phil only had two pairs of pants.”

Wes spoke up. “I remember Phil liked cretons spread on biscuits.”

“Was Phil French?” I asked.

“No. Don’t think so,” said Wes.

I couldn’t think of anything winning about Phil either. He did his work but he didn’t give anything extra. He never seemed to take any pleasure in what he accomplished. I’d tried to chat with Phil a few times to loosen him up and maybe lead him to have a little fellowship with the other associates at work, but all I got were one-word answers, or sometimes just a grunt.

Phil had gotten mean after he got sick, but he had never been friendly. I figured when we arrived at the viewing we could talk with Phil’s family and friends. They could tell us something about what he was really like. Away from work. Maybe his family would talk about things they remembered. Phil’s warmer moments and what he was like as a boy. I wanted to meet Phil’s old friends.

We had read online that there would be an hour visitation ahead of the funeral service, followed by the burial at a nearby cemetery. I drove up and parked Methuselah on the street in front of the funeral home.

“Hey!” said a funeral assistant. “Can you park that thing farther down the street?” I let the others out and moved the van onto the next block. The guy was still gesturing to go farther, so I parked all the way at the end of that block. The guy stared at me walking back. Well, I see his point. We custom painted Methuselah ourselves, and it does have a lot of upbeat messages and colorful artwork. Looks a little off next to a black limo. And Methuselah smokes quite a bit from a bad gasket. Smokes under the hood even after the engine is off.

The funeral parlor was a grand old building on Main Street. Pretty nicely kept up. Phil’s brother and sister were there along with Phil’s nieces and nephews and a bunch of their kids. I didn’t see any friends. Just Phil’s family and a few of those old ladies who go to all the funerals. The kids were either laughing together or busy on their phones. A few of the real little kids were running around and hiding behind the shrubbery.

The seven of us came up to Phil’s brother while he was checking out the tag on a newly delivered vase of flowers. I told him how sorry we were for his loss. “We all worked with your brother at the grocery store.”

“I am happy for you,” Phil’s brother said, and he turned away to check more tags.

Phil was lying there in the box. I expected him to look relaxed and peaceful, but he still looked pissed. His hands were folded over and the middle finger of his right hand was curled up a bit. Not exactly how I’d like to greet St. Peter.

The service was short. The family’s preacher had never actually met Phil, so he gave a standard spiel about God’s forgiveness and love. He worked in that Phil had always been hard working and responsible and how he had never done anything really wrong. He also mentioned what faithful church members Phil’s brother and sister were. A hint of salvation by association, I guess. He left Phil’s final judgment up to God, but I noticed his tone wasn’t hopeful.

None of the family spoke. From where we sat at the back, we could see that everyone ahead of us was working a mobile device, mostly cell phones but also notebooks, tablets, and even a couple laptops, even Phil’s sister in the front row was on a phone. All those thumbs going up and down in silent devotion was oddly like a congregation of contemplatives counting their beads. The only exception was Phil’s brother. He spent the time scowling out a window.  The three front-end girls who came with us had been the only ones there to shed any tears at the viewing, but they now had their phones out too.

After the memorial service Phil’s brother stood up. He announced that there would be a reception after the burial “for the family” in the basement of their church. He gave us a cold eye.

Once we left the service we had a huddle.

“It’s pretty obvious Phil’s family doesn’t need our emotional support,” said Wes.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “They seem to have already arrived at the stage of healing and acceptance.”

“OK,” said Trudy, “we’ve seen the last of Phil. I don’t need to see them plant his box to know he’s not coming back.”

“And you don’t want to see where he’s buried,” Wes smirked, “in case you want to come visit him?”

“Visit him! Not unless I spit on his grave.”

“Trudy!” I interrupted, “Phil is on his way to God. He wasn’t outgoing but he wasn’t evil. He just became angry because he was sick. We have to forgive that anger and try to remember Phil with love.”

“Phil’s family grew up with him. You can sure see how much they miss him. If you want to believe Phil is on his way to God, Brother Mike, that’s good of you. But I think when they put Phil six feet down that will just be the first step before a much deeper descent.”

“Well,” said Bob, “I really wanted to meet his family. None of them ever came to our events at the school. His brother and sister graduated before we came in as freshmen. But none of his family will even look at me.”

“I think I want to go home,” wailed one of the girls, waving her phone.

“I hope this hasn’t upset you,” I said.

“No, Evan wants me to send him pics of me in my new bikini, and I don’t have it with me!”

So we skipped the burial. I put another quart of oil in Methuselah and we left for home.

I dropped my co-workers off and parked the van outside the Shoestring Chapel in Knightville. I felt pretty depressed. What kind of life had Phil lived that his death seemed to matter so little to his family? And what kind of judgment could he expect from God, if the judgment of those who knew him on earth was so cold?

It was a warm day for April in Maine and still early in the afternoon, so I decided to walk down Waterman Drive to Thomas Knight Park in order to clear my mind. Knight Park is a wedge of parkland jutting out into the Fore River, where the South Portland end of the old Million Dollar Bridge once stood. It now sits in the shadow of the Casco Bay Bridge. The park still has a bit of the old brick street with its trolley rails from the early 20th century, when the trolley cars ran over the old bridge between the lanes for autos. I like the feel of history there, plus the view of the harbor.

As I reached the park, I met Bernie Bastardo on his three-wheel bike. Bernie was out collecting cans for redemption and he had a huge bag of them strapped to the little cart he pulls behind his bike. Bernie has worked maintenance at our store off and on for years. He’s also a semi-regular at the Shoestring Chapel. Mostly he hangs out on the streets and in the city parks.

“That’s a good haul of cans you’ve got there, Bernie.”

“You haven’t seen the best part, Brother Mike.” Bernie dug out a fifth of watermelon flavored vodka, about a third full, from a side pouch on his bike. “Look, Mike, this was almost full when I found it!”

“Is that stuff really fit to drink?” I asked. “And, Bernie, the bottle’s been opened and left lying along the street.”

“Well, it’s nothing I’d ever buy. But it’s free! Some kids probably panicked and threw it out a car window last night. When they saw a cop car coming up behind.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“The vodka part is for real! The watermelon flavor tastes fake. Still it’s a blessing on my day.” Bernie did a little happy dance around his bike until he tripped over a loose piece of pavement. I helped him up and suggested we sit down on a bench nearby.

“I don’t think it’s a blessing from God, Bernie. More like a temptation from Satan.”

“But, Mike, it is a blessing! I don’t have to buy any hooch today, so now I can use my can money to buy food at McDonald’s.”

“Bernie, maybe you should come back to work at the store and see if you can live a regular life for a while.”

“No thanks, Brother Mike, I’m doing fine right now.”

We watched the traffic on the bridge for a while and caught glimpses of boats through the bushes as they moved along the river.

“Bernie, I went to Phil’s funeral this morning.”

“I heard he died.”

“None of Phil’s family seemed to care. It was like they had had been dragged into some pointless motivational meeting at the store and they were just waiting for it to be over so they move on to something important.”

“Well, Phil was OK to work next to, before he got sick, but he never was friendly or interested in anyone else.”

“But if you grew up with someone, wouldn’t you remember them with some warmth? Especially when they died. They must have shared some good times.”

“I never saw any warmth in Phil. Never knew him to have any good times, either.”

“No, neither did I, Bernie. And that’s what worries me. How can anyone never do anything at least a little endearing?”

“I don’t know if everyone has a likeable side, Brother Mike.”

“Trudy insists Phil is headed for hell.”

“She would! I’ve heard them fight.”

“I can’t believe that Phil is condemned to hell, Bernie, but Jesus does say that we must love one another.”

“I don’t know that people always show love by being nice.”

“True. Some people feel love but hide it to protect themselves. Maybe Phil’s meanness wasn’t what he felt in his heart. Maybe he just hid himself behind a lot of attitude.”

“Never saw him give anyone a kind look.”

“I don’t know that you can be saved by a love that doesn’t show itself in kindly acts. If love really exists it must show itself in good works.”

“What if a man verbally abuses his family, Brother Mike, maybe even beats them at times, but he gives up his life trying to save them from a fire? Because he loves them.”

“Wow, Bernie! I guess his sacrifice might show the kind of love that could save him.”

“So what if the fire never happens? He still loves them inside.”

“Yes.”

“When Trudy looks at me she sees a useless drunk. I’m sure she thinks I’m going to hell. Well, Mike, Trudy doesn’t know me! She has no idea who I am inside. And you, Brother Mike, I bet you’re different inside from how people see you. You talk a lot about your life, but you’ve got feelings you’re protecting. You’re not comfortable showing people every thing that’s inside you.”

“Yes.… I failed someone in my life, Bernie.… She was a close friend, intelligent, energetic. She would do anything she could for those close to her. But she had used heroin earlier in her life. And it came back. I could have intervened. I could have taken the chance of putting myself between her and her returning addiction. But instead I distanced myself, Bernie. I didn’t make the effort that she needed.”

“But she didn’t want you to intervene.”

“I think she did, Bernie. Of course, she would have resisted an intervention. I would have had a real struggle with her. But I think she wanted someone to care enough to make that struggle. There was still time when I found out. Then she was dead.”

“You couldn’t change her if she didn’t want to change.”

“I should have tried, Bernie. We need to keep trying to help because at some moment, at some just-the-right moment people may want to change. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life, but my deepest regrets are all failures of omission.”

We watched five bicyclists come down Ocean Ave., round the curve by the park and shoot off up Waterman toward the Greenbelt Pathway.

“I wouldn’t have guessed this, Brother Mike.”

“No one here knew her and I don’t talk about it. But I live with it inside every day”

“No one knows who we are inside.”

“It could be Phil really was just the self-centered and short-tempered person he seemed to be. Or he could have been someone very different in his heart.”

“Phil might find a home in heaven, Brother Mike.”

“And Trudy just might meet him again when she gets up there. You know, Bernie, I think God may have room in heaven for grumpy angels.”

“Yes, so do I. But if God wants peace in paradise, I bet he’ll send those two to opposite corners.”

 

 
Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

St Thérèse of Lisieux statue at Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

St Thérèse of Lisieux statue at Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

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In the Eyes of God: A Short Story Set in South Portland, Maine

June 29, 2018

 

Traffic was heavy as I walked back across the Fore River on the Casco Bay Bridge. I had been to visit Steve in the cardiac unit at Mercy Hospital in Portland. I’ve known Steve ever since I started working in the grocery. Steve is Roman Catholic, so he’s afraid to join us Christians without pedigree at the Shoestring Chapel. He doesn’t want his priest giving him a cold eye. But we are friends at work and he knows that I am a lay minister, so sometimes we talk about God.

This is Steve’s third heart attack and he’s more worried about where he’s going after death than he is about dying. He has a point. Steve’s a good guy when he’s sober at work, but he just can’t pass by a bar at happy hour going home. The first couple of drinks relax him, but he can’t stop. And after a few more, well . . . Steve becomes a mean drunk. Some of the guys tried to go with him to help him leave and keep him out of fights. But if you try to cut him off, you’re in a fight with Steve. And if you just keep him company, you’re drawn into Steve’s fights with strangers. Steve’s been married, although she had that annulled, and he’s had a long list of girlfriends, but these R&Rs never bring him any rest & relaxation. What Steve ends up with is romance & restraining order.

Everything went quiet around me as I turned left and walked into the old business district of Knightville in the city of South Portland. Most of the out-of-towners left these shops years ago for the big box stores around the Maine Mall. Now downtown Knightville is a quiet center for residents from the local community.

I walked in past the auto parts stores, the used-book-and-video store, the branch banks, the fast food stops, the old True Value hardware, the Goodwill, and the Chinese buffet. All these places had customers, just no rush, no crowds. It felt good getting back to village life after walking through city traffic. I headed on into Knightville’s Mill Creek Park. As I walked along the duck pond, I saw Bernie Bastardo sitting on a bench watching a mixed flock of birds.

I often run into Bernie at the park. Bernie says he lives there. Really it’s just his living room. He has a room where he sleeps in an old house close by. Bernie works off and on at the grocery where I clerk, but most of his support comes from Human Services and bottle redemption. The soup kitchen helps.

Bernie moved over and nodded for me to sit down. He looked tired.

“Bernie, I’ve just come from visiting Steve. He’s had another heart attack.”

Bernie frowned and shook his head. “Still worried about going to hell?”

“Yes. I told him if he repented and confessed, God would forgive his sins. He’s talked to every priest in southern Maine, but he’s still afraid.”

Bernie opened his pack and started throwing hunks of bread to the ducks and geese. I’ve seen him dig bread out of the compost barrels behind the grocery. He says it’s good food for birds, and sometimes he finds something he likes.

Bernie frowned again. “Steve repents and confesses, but he can’t change.” Bernie sounded agitated.

The geese were bunching up on us and driving the ducks out, so Bernie gave me a loaf of gluten free to tear up and throw on the other side.

“But if we seek God’s love, Bernie, God will accept us for the weak vessels we are and forgive our failings.”

The bread was gone so the birds drifted back to foraging.

Bernie fished a couple Danish out of his pack and offered me one. “Thank you, Bernie. But I ate at Becky’s before I came back.”

Bernie looked more than hungry, actually angry, as he bit a hunk out of the pastry.

“How do you know God will forgive our failings, Brother Mike? I have a brother and a sister. Neither one has forgiven me for who I am.”

“I’m sorry, Bernie. Our families are just people like us. They have their own failings, and sometimes they fail at forgiveness and love. God is different. God’s love is unfailing.”

Bernie chewed on his Danish awhile before looking up.

“God loves those who do what the church says! God doesn’t love those of us who can’t change. The priests don’t cut us no slack. Do what they say or we’re out the door! They recite and the saved respond, in chorus.”

The birds were watching Bernie eating but the tone of his voice kept them back.

I know, Bernie. When I was growing up, our fundamentalist preachers had that view of God. God was this obsessed overseer constantly watching you. Commit a sin and he would write you up. Do it twice and he would fire you like a cannon ball out of the Army of the Saved. But, Bernie, we Christians have Jesus. Jesus is the good cop at God’s throne. Jesus is the fuckup’s advocate who sacrificed his life to get us reenlisted. Jesus loves us for who we are.”

“Providing we grovel on our knees, confess to the priest, and do our penance.”

Bernie threw the last of his Danish at a little duck on the far edge of the flock, but a big goose charged in and took it.

“Well, yes, Bernie, I suppose…Actually it was different in my church. If we did something really bad, we had to confess to the whole congregation, and then they prayed for us.”

“Shit! Bad enough to confess to a voice in a closet.”

“Yes, but for the little stuff we confessed directly to God in prayer.”

Bernie took a Pepsi bottle out of his pack and began drinking some clear liquid inside. His refreshment seemed to calm him down.

“Mike, I’d rather face a droning priest than an angry God. I know in this town you want an attorney beside you when you stand up before a judge.”

“Well, we had to plead our own case.”

Bernie took a little more from the Pepsi bottle and relaxed into a smile.

“Actually, Mike, I don’t think God is as angry as Steve and those church people think. Maybe he’s like my brother and sister. If they don’t see me or hear about me, it’s like I don’t exist. Maybe God’s not even interested in us. I mean people pull the same stupid crap over and over. And we have been doing dumb shit for thousands of years. God must have gotten bored after Adam and Eve. He knows we’ll never wise up. It’s not in our nature. We’re a done deal.”

“Hm. Individual people can change, though. You and I don’t have to repeat our sins.”

“I seem to.”

Some of birds had come back and Bernie smiled at the little duck poking his head around inside his pack.

“God’s bored, Bro.”

Bernie finished his Pepsi bottle and closed it up inside his pack. “God’s not going to notice me pocketing a little food. You could whack a whole family and just get a yawn. And if you want help, better dial 911. Saying a prayer for help is like sending snail mail without a stamp. It might bounce back but it won’t be delivered.”

“I still feel like someone is listening when I pray.”

Bernie laughed.

“Well, Mike, since you brought that mullah into the Shoestring Chapel to explain jihads, it’s probably Homeland Security.”

“But you do think God exists?”

“Yes, but the Big Guy’s busy. He’s probably working on some other galaxy right now. Just because we’re important to us, doesn’t mean we’re important to Him.” Bernie and the little duck were eyeing each other. Almost like he was talking to the duck. “We’re the ones listening to our own prayers. And we’re the ones who have to help ourselves.”

“And you don’t pray, Bernie?”

Bernie looked over at me and smiled.

“Yeah, sometimes I do pray, God help me. I’m only human.”

 

Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

Prayer, a Statue in Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Prayer, a Statue in Calvary Cemetery in S. Portland, Maine. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

The Angry Librarian: A Short Story Set in South Portland, Maine

June 22, 2018

 

The last few days have been wet here in southern Maine. So Monday afternoon I skipped my usual puttering in the garden after work. Instead I walked over to the town library between showers for a little reading before going on to our church in the shoe store. I needed to check some references for next Sunday’s sermon on the transformation of Saul into Paul the Apostle.

On the way I joined up with Bernie Bastardo. We both work at the supermarket. I clerk for center store and he humps trash to the back and cleans for maintenance. I’ve been full time there for ten years now, since I came east from Kansas. Bernie works part time, off and on, pretty much when they need someone in a hurry.

When I met him, Bernie was dripping wet.

“What happened, Bernie?”

“Hi, Bro. I had some wine to warm up and fell asleep on my bench by the duck pond. That last squall caught me napping. I’m heading to the library to dry out.”

“You know, Bernie, drying out might be a good idea. I’ve been meaning to tell you, the store needs help and they will take you back on maintenance for the summer.”

“I’m good for now, Mike.”

Our town has a newish library they built when the economy was good. That’s been a while. The library’s nice. It has a lot of windows to let in the sun. The inside is all one open space like the main hall of a church.

Once we got inside we saw Rufus and Chip at the computers. They also work at the store.

Chip clerks natural foods. He’s skinny and smooth talking, so the health-conscious ladies think he is healthy in mind and body. Actually he loves over-priced gourmet cheeseburgers and the women who serve them.

Rufus is a big good-natured guy. He stocks several stores for the beer distributor. Ours is usually his last stop. If a guy lends Rufus $100, he’ll get it back. If a gal makes a date with Rufus, he might go off drinking after work and forget to pick her up. The young ladies at the store don’t want their divorced moms dating Rufus, but when they are out for fun, they like to party with him.

They both show up sometimes at our ministry in the old shoe store downtown. We call it The Shoestring Chapel. It’s interdenominational, of course, and no one gets paid, but it has helped some of us change our lives. We put together a pretty spirited band with an old drum kit, two or three electric guitars and a whole lot of plastic recorders.

“Chip. Rufus. I knew you guys got off work, but I didn’t expect to see you at the library!”

“Brother Mike. We lost our smartphones. So we’re here to check FB before happy hour.”

“You both lost your phones?”

“Yeah, we were doing the bars Saturday night with two girls we met in the Old Port. Sunday morning we realized our phones were gone.”

A red-haired librarian in her thirties was hovering nearby watching us. I’ve talked to her a few times. Her name’s Katie. She’s Episcopalian.

The guys checked their messages and posts.

“Nothing from those girls,” said Chip, “and nothing about our phones.”

“Well, happy hour starts in thirty minutes,” said Rufus. “So at least we can relax and have some fun.”

“Yes,” I said, “or maybe, in view of what happened Saturday night, you might want to make a change and stop by the chapel for a while.”

Rufus put up his hands. “Whoa, Mike! It’s not like we passed out and the girls took our phones. We just lost them. And we did have a lot of fun!”

That was when the librarian came over. Katie is a well-built lady, but packaged not to show it.

“We are discussing the wisdom of drinking,” I told her.

“I think you gentlemen might be more comfortable in the group study area in back. This way, please.”

There is just one long table in that area and a dweeby guy was working on his laptop at one end.

“You can talk to each other in here, but, please, use your inside voices. This area has only a partial wall and we have other patrons.”

“Thank you,” I told her. “We appreciate your suggestion.”

Chip caught the librarian’s attention with a sweet smile. “I can’t help but notice,” he confided, “that sweater really goes well with your blue eyes.”

Katie squinted hard at Chip and left.

“Well, Brother Mike,” Rufus observed, “if we hadn’t gone drinking, I guess we’d still have our cells.”

“The Bible doesn’t say don’t drink, Rufus, but Proverbs does say, ‘Look not on the wine when it is red.’”

Rufus reflected. “Probably means drink white wine. You get less of a headache.”

“It could mean drink a white Zinfandel or a rosé,” suggested Chip. “If you remove the skins from red grapes, the wine doesn’t become red.”

I cleared my throat. “I think the wine they were supposed to drink wasn’t red because they added water. They needed some alcohol in their water to kill germs and stay healthy, but they didn’t need full-strength wine. They didn’t need to get drunk.”

Bernie had looked puzzled listening to Rufus and Chip. “Most of the wines I drink have grain alcohol added, which is clear, but they are still red.”

Chip smirked. “That red must be coloring, Bernie. I don’t think your wines ever saw a grape. Probably raw ethanol and water.”

“Maybe a little diesel for flavor” added Rufus.

The guys had a big laugh.

“Hey!” Bernie protested, “Wild Irish Rose is not that bad.”

The librarian’s face reappeared in the doorway, scowling. “I’m not sure this conversation about drinking is appropriate around young people. And a PUBLIC library is not an appropriate place to discuss religious morality. Or lack of it.  Please keep it down!”

“Sorry, Katie,” I said. She left abruptly.

Chip’s gaze followed her. “Not a bad looking woman. Love those flashing eyes. Wonder what her sign is.”

“Skull ‘n crossbones,” offered Rufus.

The guys all laughed.

“Hey, bros,” I said, “Katie’s just doing her job.

“Oh-oh,” said Rufus, “she’s back.”

“I told you to keep it down!  I’m sure you are bothering this gentleman on his laptop.”

“But,” said Rufus, “he’s only looking up Casual Encounters on Craig’s List.”

The dweeb looked up and smiled, “w4w.”

“We are considering how much Christians should drink,” I explained. “It’s a delicate question and people need to joke to relieve their tension.”

Katie was not appeased. “I’m afraid this study room is not an appropriate place for an AA meeting.”

“But, Sunshine,” Chip objected, “we’re not alcoholics!”

“At least not reformed alcoholics,” laughed Rufus.

Katie looked at me. “I guess you haven’t gotten them to take the first step, Brother Mike.”

“They aren’t actually alcoholics, Katie. And AA meets in the old church on the ridge. You know, the one that lost its bell tower and has the bell sitting on the grass.”

“Now wouldn’t that church be a lovely place for THIS meeting.”

“Oh,” I said.

NOW, please!” commanded the librarian.

Rufus laughed. “We’ll go quietly.”

“That would be the first quiet thing you have done.”

As Katie escorted us down the poorly lit stairs and out the door, we noticed that the last showers had stopped. The sky had lightened and there were blue patches among the clouds. Rufus and Chip took off for happy hour. 

Chip smiled back at me. “See you at the market, Brother Mike, but let’s not talk any more this week about whether Christians should drink.”

“Right men!” said Rufus. “Time for action.”

Bernie and I looked back and saw that Katie had withdrawn into the dark stairway.  You could still see her shadow watching. She looked delicate. Like a deer hiding.

Bernie smiled. “I bet Katie would like to go for a walk with us.”

“She can’t do that, Bernie. She has to stay at her job.”

“No, she doesn’t have to stay. And she doesn’t want to.”

“But she will stay, Bernie.”

“Yes, I guess you are right. But I’d hate to see her stay here for her whole life.”

“A librarian could be exactly what Katie wants to be. She could be happy among her books, and she may not want to change.”

Bernie shook his head. “She wants more from her life.”

We walked past Holy Cross, the tank farm, and the marina, all the way to the harbor lighthouses. We watched a tanker leave and an island ferry come in and dock across the river.

Bernie became reflective. “People need to feel free to live the life they want.”

I thought about my life. “When I lived out in Kansas, I had a different life. I was a night clerk at a Best Western and sat around all night alone.”

“So you quit!”

“Well, it wasn’t that abrupt. But you are right, Bernie. I had to find something I wanted to do. I had to find a way of life I wanted to live. My loneliness led me to change my life.”

I glanced over at Bernie. “Are you comfortable living the life you live?”

“Yes, for now.”

“And so, I think, are Chip and Rufus. But we can all create a new life for ourselves. Live and act like someone we’ve never been. Someone we didn’t know we could become.”

“I don’t want to lose who I am, Brother Mike. People think I’m just a bum, but I don’t want to lose the way I think and feel. I am who I am.”

“I think I am still who I was back in Kansas. If I had to become a night clerk again, I would be lonely again. But I’ve changed the habits of my life and how I interact with people, and now I am happier. My life feels different but I still feel like me inside.”

Several fishing boats were coming in for the day. Watching them took me back to the cattle I would watch moving leisurely along the fence lines in Kansas. There was something quiet and purposeful, something eternal about the boats and the cattle as they followed their familiar course into evening.

And I realized how the waves of water that had grown into swells reminded me of the waves of the land across the plains. I missed looking up at night into the bright, starry heavens from those dark, thinly populated plains. I loved the expansiveness of the hills in Kansas and of the ocean, and I loved that huge sky above them both.

“Hey, Mike! Look over by the lighthouse.” Bernie pointed toward the jetty going out to Spring Point Light. “That librarian must have gotten off work.”

I saw a slender, red-haired figure walking serenely across the granite slabs out among the waves.

 

Copyright © 2018 by Michael B. Smetzer

 

Maine Coast. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.

Maine Coast. Photo by Vera Lisa Smetzer.