Ireland Is Full of Priests

As soon as we touched down in Shannon I thought I glimpsed several priests hovering about the terminal, and I was right. A stout monsignor took my passport, another examined my luggage (though both wore official caps and badges in addition to their smocks).

What’s this? I wondered, some kind of cooperative venture between church and state? But I was more surprised when I started out with my luggage.

Take your bags, sir?” another priest accosted me, and whisked them away from the examiner' s table before I could object.

Following him through the door with difficulty--he had quite a lead-­I spied him relaying my bags quickly to another father, who threw them into his taxi, slapped his hands together, and whisked open the door for my entry.

“This way, please,” he smiled, a burly father even bigger than the monsignor examiner, I thought it best to simply cooperate. One thing that puzzled me was that when I tried to tip the priestly porter, he immediately shunned it, backed away, and seemed rather offended. It’s not money then? I asked myself. Then what in heaven’s name is it, this masquerade? I had read of the strong role the priesthood played in the lives of the Irish, but no mention was made of this kind of infiltration into the daily trades. Ah well, I considered, I’ll ask in Limerick.

We lurched pell-mell for the city as I enjoyed my baptism into left-lane driving, till suddenly a huge haywagon bore down on us and we veered by just to the left. The rickety, overloaded wagon and shag horses were terrible enough, but I was even more struck by ~ brief look at the driver, garbed in a priestly smock and a straw hat! We passed a road crew working in a wide ditch to our side of the road. They were bent with their shovels and picks, and, somewhat to my relief, I noted that they wore heavy woolen waistcoats and flat caps. But as we passed, one looked up absently and turned to watch us go by. I spied under his parted front the ubiquitous priestly collar, and couldn’t doubt the others were brothers of the same order.

But perhaps that’s it! I considered. This is all some kind of social gospel order of the priesthood, perhaps working without pay, maybe filling in for some severe labor shortage, though I can’t say I was very satisfied with my hypothesis.

Buildings of the town began to line the road, which soon became the main street. Now it was unquestionable; everyone on the sidewalks wherever one turned was a priest--everyone! Oh, some wore other habits as well, in keeping with their particular trades or stations, but I was by now totally baffled.

We pulled up to my hotel--I hadn’t said a word to the burly driver the entire trip--and he hastily placed my luggage on the walk. I was about to say something about the whole business, when suddenly two urchins, dressed, of all things, in monks’ habit, dashed from the doorway and snatched my suitcases, scurrying up into the hotel again before I could invent a suitable protest

My driver chuckled, “Heh-heh, they're quick, they are.”

“Yes, indeed,” I laughed. “Now, how much is my fare?”

“Oh no, no, please not,” he objected.

“No fare?” I confirmed, but simply could not stand the mystery any longer. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but I’ve seen no one since touching down except--well--priests, nuns, and others of your faith.”

“Yes, of course,” the driver looked puzzled.

“Well, that is, where are the others, the laity, the parishioners?” I was afraid of sounding offensive.

“There are few damned here,” my man scowled. His manner intimidated further discussion.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I stammered, and traipsed in after my luggage, past a lobby fountain with a sign: “Help the poor of Ireland,” in which scattered coins lay against a lighted greenish glass bottom, and approached the main desk where I was not surprised to find another father tending business.

“Good morning,” he beamed. “Will you be staying long?”

His lesser size restored my courage and I plunged right to the heart of the matter. “Father, what’s going on around here? Why is everyone I see in some holy order?”

I watched a nun hurry by with a tray of tea for someone in an adjoining sitting room, wearing a white apron and small lace headpiece.

“You mean you don’t know our traditions?”

“Certainly not.”

“Oh dear, are you not among the saved?” he quivered.

“Well, I’m a Methodist, from America, if that’s what you mean,” I semi-apologized.

“My goodness!” the priestly manager flew into a frenzy, flinging his hands here and there, scurrying to and fro behind the desk, grabbing his cheeks and gasping. “Sister, Sister, get the Bishop here right away!” he cried.

A wiry old mitered head soon materialized before me. “You’re not one of us, my son?” he rasped.
“No,” I held firm.

“I see,” he worried. “How very unfortunate. I’m sorry that I must beg you to leave at once.”

“Leave? But I only just arrived,” I objected.

“No, it would not be proper--you see how things are,” he insisted. “There will be another plane leaving Shannon in--let’s see--in about a half-hour. That should give you just the right time to get there. Brother Flanagan, would you please have this man’s things brought to the door and summon a car right away.”

“But, your Grace,” I pleaded. “I simply don’t understand any of this. Why must everyone here be in the church in some official way?”

“Official way? No, my son--God’s way,” the old mitred head corrected with a smile and a wave of his ringed finger.

“But must every Irishman work for the church? every man, woman, and child——?”

“No one works for the church, my son,” he corrected again with a condescending smile. “All are the holy church.”

My flight rose as predicted, and my relief was indescribable to see a stewardess with no ecclesiastical garb whatever ask the passengers for their luncheon selection, shortly to be served.

When she reached me I saw my opportunity. “Miss?” I nearly whis­pered, though I saw no reason for subdued voice since among the other passengers I found not one hint of churchhood.

She listened politely, regarded me for a time, then simply laughed,

“Yes, Ireland is simply full of priests——everyone comments on it. Now, would you like sandwiches or a meal?”

As she took my order I thought I saw a small silver chain glint from under her uniform collar--a finely wrought, delicate one of the kind used to depend a crucifix.

What's a Door For?

What is a door, anyhow? An opening in the wall? No, that’s a doorway. The door is the thing that closes up the doorway. Or opens it up so that things can go through the wall.

That brings us to windows. What are they for? So you can look out, right? And look in. and so the light can shine in today. And shine out tonight.

Which gets us back to walls. They’re supposed to make it so you can’t see or hear people on the other side, and they can’t see or hear you.

Which gets us back to doors: you can’t see and hear each other through them very well, either. Which means a door is really kind of a wall, but with the added advantage that it’s easy to open when you want to go through or let someone else in. and the best part of all, it can be just another part of the wall if you lock it.

Unwise to Interrupt Coffee Hour

One fine midmorning in May when our coffee klatch was settled into one of its usual heated discussions of academic policies over a draught of that brew which won the Golden Cup Award, and from which our dining club takes its illustrious name, Dr. Bjorn Berg-Bjorn, our distinguished philosophy chairman, was reclining his six-foot-seven frame against his chair as was his wont, so that the provincial French piece supported the weight upon its rear cabriole legs alone. He clasped his large hands atop his long head as if to stretch his thoughts as well as his body to their fullest capacities.

“It’s clear enough,” Dr. Berg-Bjorn proposed, “that the good Dean means to further his proposed curriculum changes by one means or another at any cost.”

A man approached swiftly from Berg-Bjorn’s blind side and accosted
the latter in an aggressive, husky voice.

“See here, sir, sit up straight or get out at once!” he barked.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Berg-Bjorn flushed. “I must have forgotten myself.”

“Forgot yourself? Indeed!” the manager’s voice took a sinister tone.

“I made my apologies, now be gone, knave!” Berg-Bjorn exploded.

“What? Knave, you say? We’ll see about that, you educator!” blustered the man, and with uncontrolled force slapped Berg—Bjorn on the latter’s right ear. “Get out, all of you!”

Our philosopher, never known for violence, detonated to his full height and with blinding speed unleashed a most unacademic right fist squarely into the manager’s left eye, knocking the man to the floor like a brick. “Let us adjourn to a more hospitable hall, gentlemen, and leave this disagreeable man to his rudeness,” he said turning away.

We all rose, stunned, to leave forthwith, but the manager, though badly shaken, picked up Berg-Bjorn’s French Provincial chair and brought it down crashing upon the latter’s head and shoulders, sending our chairman staggering against the wall with a thud.

“Now you’ve played me foul indeed,” Berg—Bjorn recovered. “I wasn’t even looking, varlet!”

Whereupon, it is sad to record, our chairman went in a fair way berserk, splitting chairs like matchsticks, upsetting tables, tearing down chandeliers, ripping out sconces and trappings, smashing statuary and dislodging pilasters till we feared to a man the seething Samson would
raze the entire building to rubble around us.

In the space of moments he decimated the main dining room. Not a table or chair, fixture or lamp remained intact, and the righteous, three hundred pound juggernaut wheeled around with bloody eyes and flashing teeth for something further upon which to expend his insatiable wrath.

‘Aha!” he shouted, spying the serving line and kitchen beyond.

With a hideous laugh he bore down upon the seventy-foot gleaming steam table and applied his mighty shoulders. The metal and glass monolith groaned heavily under the force, and at length with a deafening roar overturned and smashed to ruin.

“Haha!” the giant roared. Then he rushed toward the kitchen, tore the door from its moorings and sent it whirling like a boomerang through a partition wall. We could only tremble in wonder at our colleague s inexhaustible fervor and incredible strength as he methodically went about destroying every article of value in the kitchen and returned with a hunk of meat in one hand, evidently torn from a beef in the larder. He stood tall, tearing the morsel savagely with his fangs till it was gone.

“Ahhaayaheeyah!” he bellowed, beating his chest furiously, the cry reverberating through the great space. “Hear me, ye Pharisees. I am the wise Fisher King of the Phoenicians, the courageous Khan, the invincible Constantine and the great Alexander rolled into one! Omnipotent is my wrath! Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

“Bravo!” we hailed. “Magnificent!”

Whereupon, to entertain us, our hero plucked up overhead the jellied manager like a weightless toy, and drawing far back his elastic arms, flung the wretch with ferocious velocity the entire length of the hail, striking down four officers of the law like ninepins in a heap.

“What ho! Well wrought!” we applauded.

Our champion now looked about for something left to rend, but finding nothing, at last dashed his swollen hands together, his wrath visibly diminishing at the terrible and utter deve station about us.
“There!” he shouted toward the manager. ‘That will instruct you in the virtue of philosophy! Now hie thee hence, Pharisee, and take your lackeys withal!”

The manager and the officers scrambled out the door as our liberator returned triumphant, adjusted his coat and tie, and resumed his seat, carefully balancing himself on its two remaining rear legs as was his wont.

“Well, my friends, I regret this inconvenience,” he said.

No one spoke for some time. Finally Smythe-Jones, the chemistry scholar, ventured a quiet opinion: “That was very embarrassing, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, I’ll have to be more careful,” Dr. Berg—Bjorn agreed. “We wouldn’t wish to cause any iii feelings here.” He hemmed to clear his throat. “Now, as we were discussing, how would you gentlemen react to the Dean’s proposed reduction of the general education requirements?”

The Slot Machine

I saw Mac the second I pushed through the post office door. He was hard to miss; his great hulk nearly filled the narrow aisle before the rows of rent boxes, and his heavy cigar smoke filled whatever space he didn’t.

“Hi Miller,” he said around the cigar.

“Hello Mac. Mail up ret?” I asked.

“Naw, these guys are always late. I spend half my day down here just waiting for the mail.”

Something flicked nearby.

“There’s one now,” he said, shuffling to his box. The key was already in the glass and metal door.
“Unh, a bill,” he said, jamming it into his pocket and shuffling back to his strategic watch by the high counter near the outer door.

Another man entered and opened a bigger lower drawer--the kind the big companies in town rented, like Caswells, Schact Rubber, and the First National Bank.

“Hey there, Joe, what’s new?” Mac said. He knew everybody in town; it was his business to.

“Howdy, Mac,” the man replied, routinely snatching up several parcels and tied bundles of letters and stuffing them into a big company bag with a key lock on top. “Had another kid last Monday, you know.”

“Eh? How’s that?” Mac perked up, like a buzzer went off at a switchboard in his head. “Another one, eh? Hey, hey! What’d you call it?”

“Alfred Morris, “ Joe answered proudly. “Seven pounds four ounces.

“Hey, how about that! Why, he’s half-grown already,” Mac joked.

“Yeah, but I still got a ways to go to catch up with you,” Joe countered.

“Eh? Oh, heh-heh, you’ll make it alright.” Ma.c pulled out a note pad and pen. “Al—vin-Mor-ris.”

Joe had gone down to the stamp machine, but he heard Mac’s loud voice like everyone else. Many had now gathered to wait and watch the boxes as shutters of light opened and closed through the small windows. Behind the partition the clerks moved to and fro mechanically, flicking letters which ticked as they struck the front plates.

“You got to put everything down right away in this business,” Mac said, putting his notepad back into his vest pocket. “Trust to memory and you’ll go broke in a month. A million details.”
“I guess that’s right,” I agreed. “Yeah. You know, this mail is really something else. I spend
more time down here than I do at the office as it is.”

“They route everything through Indianapolis now,” I said. “Takes longer if you ask me.”

“You can say that again--say, I had a gal to put a check in that box around the corner there last Thursday, addressed to me, and I didn’t get it for four days!”

“Went to Indianapolis,” I said.

“Can you believe it? Fifteen feet, that box right over there to mine right here, and it took four whole days!”

Mac shifted his weight and fingered his cigar affectionately. Sud­denly he turned. “Hey there, Joe--.” Mac caught the man by the arm, near the outside door. “I put little Alfred on that family plan of yours; he’s covered already.”

“Oh, you’ll take care of it?” Joe said.

“Yeah, it’s all set, no problem. Cost you about three bucks-fifty or four more a month, and give him a little something to start college with. They grow faster’n you can bat your eye, you know.”
“Hey, that’s for sure,” Joe laughed on his way out.

There was another letter in his box by the time Mac shuffled back. “Looks like a bill,” he muttered, turning the key. “That’s about all it is these days, calendars and bills and lapses.”

Tearing off the end, he puffed a quick breath into the edge and squinted into the envelope.

“Eh? What’s this?” he said. He jerked out a single page of coarse yellow notebook paper and unfolded it by the window light. “Oh no,” he groaned softly.

“Not a bill?” I said.

Mac read the letter with his lips. I could only see that it was handwritten, with rude lettering, and brief. When he finished, his hand dropped slowly to his side. He looked confused, like someone had asked a simple question that he couldn’t quite answer. He read it again.

“Accident claim?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“That an accident claim?” I repeated.

“Oh, no, no-—just a fellow I knew over in Bonner Corners a while back, went to school together. His little girl died.”

Mac carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, then gently placed it in his inside coat pocket. For a long time he just looked at the floor. Then he walked over to the counter and deliberately ground out his cigar in an ashtray, then returned and pulled his key from the rental box door and pushed it hard shut.

“I can’t wait on these guys forever,” he said loudly. “I got a business to run. Spend half the day down here as it is.”

Mac pushed through the outer door and held it open as another man brushed by. “Hey there, Freddie!” he shouted. “What’s new?”

Sheila and Herm

This is the story of Sheila and Herm.

Sheila was bald; Herm was good-looking with a full head of hair, So he wanted to give the world his good looks. So they got married, and Sheila loved him very much.

Herm played the piano, but then he went deaf, so he quit the Musicians’ Union and became an artist, because you didn’t have to hear to paint great pictures. He wanted to give the world great art. But then he went blind, and he couldn’t tell blue from pink then from any other color, then from dark, so he quit painting and became a sculptor. You didn’t have to hear or see to sculpt great statues.

He wanted to give the world his art, but he lost his sense of touch and had to quit, not being able to hit the right places on the rocks, and finally not being able to find the hammer or chisel, then his hands. So he became a wine connoisseur. At least he had the leisure to notify the world which wines were the best vintages by nodding his head.

But when Herm’s taste went, he couldn’t tell champagne from seltzer water, so he had to give that up, and he became a perfume matcher, but the smell gave out after only a few more days, and Herm began to worry.

They decided to get Sheila a job modeling wigs.

Mother's Rumor Mill

I was in the printing office when I got a phone call from home. My wife was desperately trying to reach me. “You’d better come home right away,” she said. “Your mother’s died. They found her lying in her bed.”

One day when I was in the middle of a lecture, Marie, the secretary in the Registrar’s office, called me out of the classroom. “You’d better come downstairs right away,” she said.

Dr. Custer was waiting for me at the foot of the long staircase, a worried look on his face. I knew what was coming. “Blaine, I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this. We got word a few minutes ago that—your mother has—passed on.”

I was taking a shower last Wednesday when the phone rang. It was Lottie, our cleaning lady at Mother’s house. I thought for a time she was laughing; her voice sounded like that. “Oh dear, Blaine, Mother’s gone. Come quick. She’s lying here by her chair. Come quick--!”

Mother has died so many times, I’ve lost count. She keeps dying almost every day. Whenever I’m busy doing anything at all, wherever I go, she up and dies again. If she keeps it up, I’m afraid it’s going to endanger her health. I’ve told her about it several times, but to no avail. “Mother,” I’ve said, “you’ve just got to stop killing yourself.”

The Smartest Man in the World

Jake Barnes had been in school about fifty years when it happened, they say. He was always an excellent student, serious—you know the type—a real scholar.
He listened to I don’t know how many thousand lectures on every field of human knowledge, from the world
S foremost authorities, and understood them all.
He read I don’t know how many hundred thousand books from the world’s most magnificent and venerable libraries. He spoke with I don’t know how many hundreds of fellow scholars for—well, that was just it: it was his life.

Into Jake Barnes had flowed the input of the entire sum of human experience. He had so listened, studied, watched, absorbed, questioned--.

Then one day it happened.

Jake started to smile. He began in the middle of a seminar to speak, and all his fellows began to listen.

He spoke of things old and things new, things changing and things unchanging; things foreign and things remote. Jake Barnes spoke with the tongues of men and angels, and continued to speak.

More came to listen. Then more, then the foremost authorities in every field, as Jake continued to speak and speak, and they took notes, all of them, because Jake spoke faster and faster, as if the pressure to say all he knew was so welling in him—as if his mind was connecting complexities and relationships almost faster than he could communicate them.

Faster and faster spoke Jake Barnes. Faster and faster did they all try to record his wisdom, until it became a physical impossibility to keep up. His words turned to sounds incomprehensible, frenzied, hysterical to those present.

And finally the end came. Jake giggled, then smiled and simply said, “Goo-goo-Ma-ma-da-da-want-play?” He never said another word and died several years later.