Leviticus

Every Sunday, you (as head of the family) feel it's your sacred duty to drag me to church. If I'm forced to sit through mass then maybe, just maybe, this time the holy light of God'll beat me 'round enough that I'll swallow it into my heart. At least that'd give you a reason to explain away the bruises and the limp and I've swallowed a lot of things in my life, haven't I Dad?
I can almost hear the conflict in you, look at the way you're kneeling – back stiff, too much posture, didn't Grandma teach you better that that? Everyone else is bent right, touching pure as snow foreheads to their hands and repeating every word like they're sheep. Following the leader, the leader, the leader, you're following the leader wherever he may go. Maybe if our Father was the kind of sick fuck who liked molesting altar boys, you wouldn't be so pissed / outraged / ashamed / whatever it is fathers feel for the queers they spawn. Hell, you'd probably offer me 'round the diocese, bless their charity; with seven kids we need every cent we can lay your hands on.
Fag?    Yeah, I smoke a lot.            The 'p' word?    No.
You add a 'not yet' to every assurance I give. As far as anyone here's concerned, if I wasn't chained to the pew I'd be down peddling my arse on Karmel St, isn't that what fags do? Isn't that what they like? Don't I just wish I could be there now, eyeing up sad businessmen with the rest of my breed?
Yes.
No.
Even with the crap Father Hopkins spouts from his pedestal about blinding yourself to everything but the light of God in people – (he loves using the light of God) – I still can't believe you didn't work it out. You'd convinced yourself the whole fucking family was as perfect as Christ, wouldn't hear anything else, didn't wanna know your eldest daughter pops E like its candy, your eight-year-old son still can't read, and isn't it kind of rude to walk in on someone without knocking first?
Of course not. The family's perfect. We've got nothing to hide from anyone, not even each other. Right Dad?

I was never in hospital for ten days. I was never in traction for a week. I've never had a cast cracked. I've never had three ribs broken.

Ave Maria gratia plena dominus tecum benidicta tu

Don't bother glaring, I'm not gonna sing. I was the star of the choir for eight years, isn't that enough? Mrs. Elmsford worshiped the ground I walked on, gave me every solo she could find, the woman was heartbroken when you pulled me out. And of course you had to tell her why; the whole congregation knew by Thursday. It might have been some warped kind of confession – I'm your sin, I know that – but the church gossip?! Now every whisper in the pews behind is something about us, something about me, why do you think Mum doesn't come to mass anymore? Last I heard I'm on four CEOs' payrolls, and anyone looking for a good time can call toll-free. Not that it's anything to do with you. It's not your fault the middle boy's gay, you're doing everything to lead him back to the path of righteousness; the son might have chosen the way of the Devil, but the father is God's anointed and he will triumph! When will you get it through your skull, I didn't ask to be this way? For fuck's sake, you think I'm the only one basted in sin here? Take a look with your God-sight and tell me what you see. Under all the bullshit, Father Hopkins' got a wife and two kids tucked away in Oklahoma City; stereotype A – the man with something to hide. There's the chick in the pleated skirt over there, she gets top marks in every class over at St. Brigid's and studies every night on three lines of coke; stereotype B – the girl with everything to lose. And the blond who sits in the family pew with his father, a walking STD, don't talk to him . . . God knows what he's had in his mouth. Stereotype C – the boy who sold his soul.

Who won't kneel. The last thing I'd say to anyone here is 'peace be with you'.

In mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus

The crucifix is sleeping today.
“The presence that rose thus so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years men had come to desire. This is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come!”
With all this droning, I don't blame it. If the good Father'd just stop yelling at the birds in the roof . . . but then that's what you slip fifty bucks in the collection dish for, isn't it Dad? To have some sanctimonious prick scream we're all going to hell and if shit happens, we deserve it. Gotta be one of my favourite parts of mass, watching the sheep cower under a blind shepherd, and bonding with the crucifix. It's about the only thing in this place with a brain of its own; sure Christ is meant to be in eternal agony, (I'll bet you sympathise), but the crucifix has never looked anything but bored out of his loincloth to me. I got a concussion and a broken nose for that, but it was worth the look on your face – proof your thoughts are sicker than mine. Sorry Dad, I don't wanna fuck Jesus. I'm not into older guys.
“Joshua.”
You're talking to me? In church? Someone call the Pope.
“Joshua!”
“What?”
Glare, two, three, four. Is that supposed to scare me?
“Stand up.”
Communion. No fucking way.
“Joshua . . .”
Ooh, a warning tone this time. It all has to be perfect doesn't it, right down to the last stale cracker soaked in vinegar (they've got better alcohol on the streets), with me, the prodigal son, kneeling next to you, the all-forgiving father. Ugh. Everyone's watching, waiting to see if their virtue'll win out this week. They'll be waiting a long time, I'm not gonna give anyone the satisfaction of looking down on me like some lost lamb come back to the fold, least of all you. Writhe in shame all you like Dad, I'm not going up there – if I have to suffer, then so do you.
“Joshua Macken–”
“No, Dad.”
“You get up and take the holy communion or I'll –!”
“You'll what? Brain me? Break a few more ribs? Why not set up the barbecue while you're at it, see if you can feed everyone with me?”
“So help me God boy –!”
Come on, hit me. I dare you.
“. . . .”
You know you want to. If we were at home I'd be on the ground already, why not here? Hn, wouldn't wanna make a mess with the Devil's blood, would you?
“. . . !”
Fury's amusing to watch. The whole church's waiting for me to give in, to take the blood and body of Christ, I'm waiting for the steam to start pouring from your ears. Wouldn't mind a cigarette right now.
Ground, “Get out Joshua.”
Gladly.

Peace be with you, brother
And with you

I'm surprised the uni students haven't come out from the gallery across the road. Isn't some rebellious teenager smoking on the church steps their idea of art? . . . why am I still here? Am I some kind of masochistic freak that gets his kicks from being hit?
Yes.
No.
Why do I keep coming? It's not that big a deal to slip out my window before anyone wakes up. Who knows, maybe God'll grant me the forgiveness Dad won't? Or can't. I wonder sometimes if this isn't all just some big sideshow flick – St. Peter and St. Paul are out selling popcorn to the rest of the angels as they watch us play charades and slip on banana skins. Fun.
Drag.
“Hey kid.”
What?
“You got a light?”
Hand it over to another sad businessman. Three seconds and he'll be sitting next to me, I know the type. He keeps looking at me, thinks he's being discreet. Of course I know what the smile just a bit too deep means, I've seen it a hundred times before. He wants my mouth (no time for anything more). Behind a fence or a one tonne bin in the alley, for fifteen minutes – he can grin and run his fingers through my hair, over my arse. I wore these pants just to tease you, right? To make you hobble from step to step, trying to do your job. While I do mine.
Don't think you're the only one. I won't remember your face tomorrow. Even on my knees, I can still close my eyes . . .

Don't worry Dad, they get it for free.


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