Inoperable, Nobody liked the word, but
father O'Reilly might like it less than any of them. It was a drawback of being
a priest. When the doctor in the Catholic hospital told him there was no hope,
what was he to do? It wasn't like he had real insurance, he just didn't have to
pay. So long as he went to that clinic. What was he doing in the bank anyway?
Nobody in their right mind would give him a loan.
What did he have for collateral? What
was he going to put down as the reason for requesting it? Fighting a war
against shadowy evil that may or may not have corrupted my only ally? That
would go over like, well, a fart in church, he thought. Who knew a brain tumor
would give him an appreciation for toilet humor?
He stood in a line filled with the
shambling living and the nearly dead. In the middle of the day in a bank
downtown, what else would he expect? Geriatric ladies bent over from canes just
inches two short. Their male counterparts, twisted at every joint by advance
stage arthritis. Mixed in were the working homeless and unwashed unemployed
standing one government check from the streets themselves. In the middle of
this flock of the faceless lost? One lone priest, marching towards his reward.
Those vacant faces did not stare. They
were not too polite, but rather, just the type of skittish sheep, not his kind
but the insulting one, who could not meet a man's eyes. They did not want to be
seen noticing anyone for too long. They looked though, every one of them
probably thinking the father's thin coat was almost warm enough to steal. First
Cancer, now this. Father O'Reilly wondered if this was a punishment.
When he reached the front of the line a
big chested teenager smiled and popped her gum at him. She was probably
fourteen, but if they made fourteen year olds like that when he was young he
might have skipped the seminary. Why was he thinking things like this? She
asked him to wait while she got a trainee to deal with his application.
Then a clown appeared. Not one of the
fun ones from the circus. No, this was a wicked looking clown like only Stephen
King or Jay Wilson could come up with. The devil in disguise spoke to the
priest.
"Hello," it whispered in tones
for conspiracy and corruption, "I'm Captain Jiggles, the new loan officer,
and I would be happy to help you."
"I need a loan."
"Not much profit in loaning to
priests. What do you need the money for?"
"I... I have cancer and work to do
before I die."
"Cancer? Probably a punishment from
God for being friends with sodomites. A priest should know that."
O'Reilly blinked, "You're behind
the times. Not even the pope believes that anymore. I just got there a few days
before him."
The clown laughed from the belly,
without increasing his volume. "The pope? We don't care what beaners
think. Not around these parts. Now, what do you have for collateral?"
"Nothing." The priest stepped
back. "Never mind the loan. I'll figure out something else."
O'Reilly turned and shuffled away from
the counter, looking at the forlorn faces around him. Wondering as he did if
the clown was really here. Wondering if he was really here. He dropped his
jacket at the feet of one particularly homeless looking teen on the way out. As
he reached the door the clown called out to him.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writers #writing
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