The kid looked embarrassed. “No
disrespect fadda.”
“None taken. I wasn’t born a priest kid. I
did my share of knockin’ boots before I put on the collar. You get
me?”
“Got you father.”
“How old are you guys?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen. Jesus Christ. At your age you
guys should be chasing as much tail as you can. Don’t even think
about taking steroids you knuckleheads. You know what’s the first
thing happens when you take steroids?”
“Your balls shrink, right father?” the one
kid looked at the other kid like Mark’s answer would validate some
discussion they’d had earlier.
“No, that’s bullshit. What happens is your
balls shut down. You’re getting testosterone from outside, why does
your body need to make it on the inside, right? But that’s not the
problem. The problem’s when you come off and your nuts take two or
three months to kick in and start making the baby batter again,
okay? You’re seventeen, you even want to imagine life without a sex
drive?”
“No,” said the one kid and the other shook
his head.
“And neither could your girlfriends. So stay
off the sauce, got me?”
“Well, thanks father. I mean, that’s the
weirdest advice I ever got from a priest, but—”
“Don’t mention it. Now give me three Hail
Marys and get some food in your fuckin’ stomachs. Your age, that’s
what’ll make you grow. Train hard and eat. Now get outta here.”
“Thanks father.”
“Yeah, fadda.”
20.
3:07 P.M.
The priest met Boone on the street. The
clouds had given way to a clear sky and the sun blazed down on the
people below.
Boone stood among the hustle and bustle on
Myrtle Avenue, stuffing the remains of a hot dog in his mouth. He
held a second frankfurter in the same hand he ate with and in his
other fist he gripped a Kit Kat and a Coke. His calves were bulging
between his cut off shorts and work boots, and the veins were
popping out all over his arms.
“That’s what you eat after working out like
that?” Mark shook his head. Some people stared at them as they
walked past, the monstrous priest in his boat top with an eight
inch powerlifting belt looped over the strap of his gym bag that
hung from his shoulder, and his two-hundred sixty pound flannel
shirted companion.
Boone shrugged and held up both hands. “I got
my protein and my carbs,” he said, referring to the hot dog and the
candy bar. “You want one?” he proffered the second hot dog.
“No. Don’t you know your body’s a
temple?”
“Yeah, whatever. Shit, hold on.” Boone
reached down and unclipped his pager, looking at the screen. “I
gotta call this guy.”
“Look, legs tomorrow night?”
“If you think you can keep up with me, holy
man.”
“Keep up with you? It’s squat day, son. I’mma
bury you.”
“Well, at least you’ll be able to do the last
rights too if that happens, right?”
“For your ass? St. Peter ain’t going to let
you past the Pearly Gates.”
“Fuck him then.” Boone shoved what was left
of the second hot dog in his mouth and held out a clenched fist.
Around a mouthful of mustard, bun and questionable pork product he
mumbled something that might have been peace out .
“Yeah, B, you too.” Father Mark gave him the
pound. “Hey, you ever wonder where those guy’s who sell you those
dirty water dogs take a piss?”
Boone shook his head and waved, turning and
walking up the block towards a pay phone.
He dropped coins in the slot and dialed the
number. The phone rang a few times and while it rang he popped the
top off his Coke and swallowed half of it.
“Kid.” Gossitch answered.
“Yeah.”
“You coming out tonight, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, listen, I’m going to swing by the
usual spot, pick you up in an hour, okay?”
“Why, what’s up?” Boone asked, knowing
Gossitch wouldn’t tell him on an open line.
“Something you’ll dig,” Gossitch
promised.
“Yeah, okay. I gotta run home, shit, and
shower. Give me an hour
disrespect fadda.”
“None taken. I wasn’t born a priest kid. I
did my share of knockin’ boots before I put on the collar. You get
me?”
“Got you father.”
“How old are you guys?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen. Jesus Christ. At your age you
guys should be chasing as much tail as you can. Don’t even think
about taking steroids you knuckleheads. You know what’s the first
thing happens when you take steroids?”
“Your balls shrink, right father?” the one
kid looked at the other kid like Mark’s answer would validate some
discussion they’d had earlier.
“No, that’s bullshit. What happens is your
balls shut down. You’re getting testosterone from outside, why does
your body need to make it on the inside, right? But that’s not the
problem. The problem’s when you come off and your nuts take two or
three months to kick in and start making the baby batter again,
okay? You’re seventeen, you even want to imagine life without a sex
drive?”
“No,” said the one kid and the other shook
his head.
“And neither could your girlfriends. So stay
off the sauce, got me?”
“Well, thanks father. I mean, that’s the
weirdest advice I ever got from a priest, but—”
“Don’t mention it. Now give me three Hail
Marys and get some food in your fuckin’ stomachs. Your age, that’s
what’ll make you grow. Train hard and eat. Now get outta here.”
“Thanks father.”
“Yeah, fadda.”
20.
3:07 P.M.
The priest met Boone on the street. The
clouds had given way to a clear sky and the sun blazed down on the
people below.
Boone stood among the hustle and bustle on
Myrtle Avenue, stuffing the remains of a hot dog in his mouth. He
held a second frankfurter in the same hand he ate with and in his
other fist he gripped a Kit Kat and a Coke. His calves were bulging
between his cut off shorts and work boots, and the veins were
popping out all over his arms.
“That’s what you eat after working out like
that?” Mark shook his head. Some people stared at them as they
walked past, the monstrous priest in his boat top with an eight
inch powerlifting belt looped over the strap of his gym bag that
hung from his shoulder, and his two-hundred sixty pound flannel
shirted companion.
Boone shrugged and held up both hands. “I got
my protein and my carbs,” he said, referring to the hot dog and the
candy bar. “You want one?” he proffered the second hot dog.
“No. Don’t you know your body’s a
temple?”
“Yeah, whatever. Shit, hold on.” Boone
reached down and unclipped his pager, looking at the screen. “I
gotta call this guy.”
“Look, legs tomorrow night?”
“If you think you can keep up with me, holy
man.”
“Keep up with you? It’s squat day, son. I’mma
bury you.”
“Well, at least you’ll be able to do the last
rights too if that happens, right?”
“For your ass? St. Peter ain’t going to let
you past the Pearly Gates.”
“Fuck him then.” Boone shoved what was left
of the second hot dog in his mouth and held out a clenched fist.
Around a mouthful of mustard, bun and questionable pork product he
mumbled something that might have been peace out .
“Yeah, B, you too.” Father Mark gave him the
pound. “Hey, you ever wonder where those guy’s who sell you those
dirty water dogs take a piss?”
Boone shook his head and waved, turning and
walking up the block towards a pay phone.
He dropped coins in the slot and dialed the
number. The phone rang a few times and while it rang he popped the
top off his Coke and swallowed half of it.
“Kid.” Gossitch answered.
“Yeah.”
“You coming out tonight, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, listen, I’m going to swing by the
usual spot, pick you up in an hour, okay?”
“Why, what’s up?” Boone asked, knowing
Gossitch wouldn’t tell him on an open line.
“Something you’ll dig,” Gossitch
promised.
“Yeah, okay. I gotta run home, shit, and
shower. Give me an hour
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