In the Wrong Hands
Porter Eidam
© Copyright 2020 by Porter Eidam
To my mother, whose faith was unwavering. To my father, who taught me the importance of language. To my wife, who inspires me twenty-four-seven. To my stepkids, their partners, and their children, who stand as assurance that all will be well.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
A BRAIN EXERCISE
THE BASTARD WITH THE TAMBOURINE
HE JUST WANTED TO PAINT SOME BOOBIES
BATTLE OF THE BANDS
THE PAINTING PARTY
THE BIG RED ONE
THE CARTOON TEETH, THE GRUMPY SNAKE, THE EIGHT-POINT BUCK, AND THE UPROOTED TREE
5 EPILOGUES
A BRAIN EXERCISE
Saturday
1. Cardinal Romero Catholic High School
Potterford, Pennsylvania
“Wrath,” said the bishop.
Philip’s sides still hurt from 20 minutes of suppressing an overwhelming urge to giggle. Drawing unwanted attention to himself was not part of the plan, such as it was. Regardless, laughing at children … never good form. He couldn’t even pinpoint what was giggle-worthy. It wasn’t the white robes. The “hands in prayer” thing was a little hokey, but it showed conviction. He was a huge, dedicated fan of conviction. Perhaps it was the variety of casual footwear, frayed jeans and tie-dyed leggings peeking from beneath the robes. Or rather, the juxtaposition of the hands and the feet … the conviction and the lack of effort. He wished for someone to fart.
Please, someone, anyone! I can laugh at a fart. Everyone laughs at farts.
The term for what he’d witnessed eluded him. He could remember “Confirmation.” That’s what the children had walked to. But what was the walking part called? Philip was not Catholic.
“Greed,” the bishop continued.
Asshole.
To the congregation’s right was a massive mural of Cardinal Romero. St. Aloysius RCC hadn’t yet broken ground on the new church, so Mass was held in the Cardinal Romero High School gymnasium. At least Philip thought it was a gymnasium. It could have been one of those all-purpose rooms he had lunch in as a kid.
What do they call them nowadays? Gymacafetoriums or some dumb-ass thing?
“Be very careful of these two Deadly Sins, children.”
Two Deadly Sins? What happened to the other five?!
“One sin begets another.”
Come on! These kids have sacrificed their dignity and a perfectly good Saturday evening just to make their parents happy. Give them their money’s worth for fuck’s sake!
“They work in tandem. That means they kind of piggy-back.”
Condescending prick. Whatever. If I was caught serving booze to a bunch of 14-year-old girls, they’d send me to jail!
Another giggle crept into his throat. He squashed it quickly with a quiet, phlegm-laced cough (a side-effect of his smoking).
“That’s a pretty cool back pack; I wish I had that back pack.”
That’s envy, not greed you idiot.
“We all have these thoughts.”
What’s interesting is I’m probably going to remember more of this sermon than anyone else in here. Wait, is it a sermon or a homily? Oh … that’s right … I don’t care.
The part of Mass that irritated Philip the most was the taking of Communion. He wasn’t one to be self-conscious, but watching everyone else get in line and do their thing while he remained sitting in the congregation like a leper gave him the willies. In truth, he probably could have gotten away with joining in. It was a fairly simple process. Walk up to the guy with the wafers. Look at him placidly as he says, “the body of Christ.” Say “amen.” Receive the wafer orally. Cross yourself as you walk away. Piece of cake. Sure, he could have done it, but no one in the room wanted him to, so he didn’t.
He respected their religion just enough to not participate.
Fucking Communion.
It was maybe 20 minutes off.
He fished about the room going from face to face giving everyone a back-story. One guy bred ferrets. Another had herpes. A girl across the aisle saw every Twilight film 12 times. When he got sick of that, he started imagining people naked. Then he glazed over and lost a couple of minutes.
“Everyone, please stand and let us all accept these young people into our congregation.”
Whoah! That’s it? Did I fall asleep? Did I sleep through Communion?
He checked his own face for drool. No, to his dismay, he had not missed Communion, although he had no idea what or whom he’d been looking at for the past however long it was. He hoped he hadn’t been staring. He knew it was unreasonable to believe no one would remember him once the investigation started. Still, he didn’t want to do anything overly memorable, like get into a subconscious staring contest with one of the altar boys.
After a few hymns, some readings, some prayers, a collection, a round of “Peace Be With You,” and one taking of Communion, the Mass ended.
Philip stood and stretched.
Whoops!
Another half an inch and his jacket might have come up over his belt. That wouldn’t have been good.
He yawned and looked around. Everyone was so shitting happy. Why was everyone so shitting happy? A 13-year-old boy, who had to be 6-foot-3, got a strangling hug from (presumably) his grandmother who looked as if she had already gone through a box and a half of tissues. Of all the things this boy would do in his life…high school, college, medical school…even if he found a cure for cancer…this would be the moment that made his grandmother the happiest. He was on the fast-track to heaven now.
Maybe, dream of dreams, he will become a priest. Doesn’t that absolve every one of his blood-relations of all sin? Maybe not. Whatever. The question is moot. He’s going to play for the NBA and contract a disfiguring STD.
He continued to distract and amuse himself with inner-monologue all the while remaining conscious of the 9-millimeter pistol stuck down the back of his jeans.
He eyeballed his target. Maybe this wasn’t the day.
Ah well.
Bishop What’s-his-face was surrounded by parents looking for photo ops for their children. Philip wasn’t into the idea of collateral damage, and he certainly wasn’t going to run the risk of hurting any kids. It was time
