A short story, set in the Year of Our Lord, 2015:
A Mexican in a 2015 Tahoe just rolled into the parking lot, and the retired Motel 6 housekeeper Megan or Maddie or something steps out. The sun sparks off the glossy paint when she shuts the door. I’ve got to assume she stole it. If she didn’t do it, then one of her nineteen kids did.
The diocese gave me a stickshift ’93 Hyundai with no AC and two different paintjobs, and this lady shows up with a 2015 Tahoe. She probably can’t even vote but she’s got a brand-new truck. It’s bullshit.
Third time she’s been here this week; it’s always something.
“Padre, ¿podría bendecir este carro?”
I don’t know what the hell she just said to me.
“No hablo.” That’s Mexican for “I don’t know Mexican.”
I call up the bilingual Parish secretary Nancy in the office for translation. It’s a big black hunk of shit I’ve got pressed to my ear, just a brick with a few buttons. I told Randy when I got here that I had a Galaxy back in Milwaukee, that I needed one for business. No, this is the best they could do, he said. Something about budgets and line items. It’s bullshit.
I just smile at her, the lady with the Tahoe. She doesn’t smile back.
Nancy steps outside.
“Hola, señora. Como podemos ayudar?”
“Me gustaría Padre que bendiga este Tahoe.”
“She wants you to bless her Tahoe, Father.”
“What for? Doesn’t it have airbags and seatbelts?”
“¿Tiene bolsas de aire y cinturones de seguridad, señora?”
“Si.”
“She said yes.”
“Then ask her, what the hell do I need to bless it for? I’ve got 5:30 confession.”
“Padre García bendecia a todos mis carros. Nada malo nunca ha sucedido, ni siquiera un hueco.”
“She says Father Garcia used to bless all her vehicles.”
“Fine, Jesus. Go get the Holy Water.”
“We’re out, Father.”
“Just get it from the tap then. It’ll be alright.”
“Un momento, señora.”
Mindy and I look at each other awkwardly while Nancy is fetching the water. I wonder how I got here, what the hell I was thinking fucking up the way I did back in Wisconsin. Now I’m down here in the El Paso sun, blessing SUVs for Mexicans that hate me. Couldn’t they find a Mexican priest to import or something? Miranda is probably thinking the same thing.
“Holy Water, Father.” Nancy hands me a cup.
I’m pretty sure there’s a book somewhere with instructions about how to bless cars for Mexicans, but I don’t feel like looking. So I just wing it. Hell, I’m a priest.
“Father in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, protect this vehicle for… What’s her name?”
“Margarita, Father.”
“Yeah, Margarita. Protect this vehicle for Margarita and her family. Keep them safe, no accidents or driving off cliffs or anything like that. Amen.”
I’m not really sure what’s supposed to happen next, so I walk around the car and sort of flick water here and there on the doors, tires, windows.
“Are we done here?”
“Está satisfecha, señora?”
Mona points inside the car. “Padre García bendecia el volante y los pedales también.”
“She says Father Garcia used to bless the steering wheel and pedals also.”
The woman leans on her left hip, arms crossed and staring at me. This lady is really starting to piss me off.
“Get some more Holy Water, Nancy.”
—————————————————————————————-
Confessionals are going about like they always do, except with Nancy by my side to translate. It’s mostly the same stories over and over. Someone over-indulged in their birthday cake, someone kicked the neighbor’s dog, someone fucked their Dad’s wife or girlfriend or something. I don’t know, I’m really listening.
The Brewers game is streaming from ESPN radio through a bud in my left ear. Bottom of the 7th, two out and one on. 3-1, we’re up on the Dodgers.
Another Mexican jacked off three times yesterday and twice already today and doesn’t have the willpower to stop. Pretty common. Needs God’s help to calm urges, etc.
“You’re forgiven, my child. Bring the next one in.”
The airwaves announce Jimmy Rollins just knocked a 450-footer out of the park. 3-3. That son of a bitch, Rollins.
“How many we got left, Nancy?”
“Four or five.”
Next is a binge drinker, the one after that pissed in his neighbor’s flower pot. Bottom of the 9th in LA, tied up 3-3. I’m praying for extra innings, to just get out into extras. We’re alright in extras, got a decent bullpen.
“You’re forgiven, my child. Next.”
This one’s wife caught him cross-dressing, so I don’t even know if it counts as a confession when it comes after he already got caught. But whatever.
“You’re forgiven, my child.”
Grounder into the outfield, Howie Kendrick beats the play at the plate. Game over. Goddamnit. Fuck. Fuck these fucking relievers. Piece of shit bullpen. Bunch of pussies.
This like the tenth blown save of the year, and it’s only May. I can’t even pretend to listen anymore. My bookie’s liable to call any minute to collect.
“We’re done here, Nancy.”
“You’ve got one more, Father. She’s been waiting for two hours.”
“Just tell her it’s alright and sprinkle her with some Holy Water or something.”
“But we don’t have any Holy Water.”
“Just get some out of the tap, I don’t give a shit. How hard is it to figure this stuff out? Do I have to hold your hand?”
Fucking Brewers.
———————————————————————————-
Whoever thought it was a good idea to dress church officials up in black never lived in El Paso. It was fine back home, where there’s actual grass and flowers and weather instead of a sandlot of hot air and Mexicans. Miles of sand and hot air and Mexicans. The desert sun sucks my pit sweat straight out of me, evaporates it through two layers of clothing into the dryness. And then I sweat more.
It’s been a hell of a day, and all I want is a Tall Boy and some AC. There’s neither in this Hyundai, though, so I stay miserable speeding down the freeway to my exit.
My phone rings. It’s Nancy.
“What?”
“It’s Margarita, Father. There’s been an accident. It doesn’t sound good.”
“Who’s Margarita?”
“The retiree. You blessed her new car earlier.”
“Right, Margarita. That’s really, really sad. Why are you calling me? Call an ambulance or something.”
“It’s the family. They want to know what you did to her Tahoe.”
“Well, fuck, Nancy. You saw what I did. Tell them I blessed it like the lady asked me to.”
“I did, Father. They don’t believe me. Margarita told them after she left the parish that she thought you had a demon in you. She said you couldn’t be trusted. Then she careened off an embankment into the river. They blame you.”
“Tell me this, Nancy. Why the hell do I have a secretary if she calls me every time someone drives their car into a river? Huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do about it?”
“They say they’re calling Bishop Randy.”
Bishop Randy. I hate that guy.
“Tell them he’s on vacation or he’s undergoing radiation therapy or something. Get creative. If I get a call from Randy I’m going to blame you, and you’ll be back on the streets turning tricks for a McDoubIe and a shake, you hear me? Not even a big shake, one of those dollar menu things. Do you remember the shame?”
“Yes, Father. I’ll try to talk to them.”
It’s true what I said. Nancy was a prostitute and junkie before she found God, and she never stopped eating McDonald’s even afterward.
“I swear to God, Nancy, if Randy calls me asking questions I’m going to tell him you never really gave up selling yourself, except now you do it in the office bathroom.”
“Please don’t, Father.”
It’s something about the desperation in her cracked voice when I threaten to take away everything that gives her life meaning, it gets me hard.
I’m pretty sure she’ll take care of it.
