School Years Grade 8 #3

                 Blessed Virgin Mary: a Guarantee

 

     We students filed into chapel each morning and were encouraged to participate in Mass and receive Communion. On the first Friday of each month there is something special.

     If a Catholic receives Communion on nine consecutive first Fridays of the month, at the hour of his death there will be a priest in attendance for that person. It is a guarantee from the Blessed Virgin Mary. So say the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

     It was impressed upon us young boys. If we were to complete nine consecutive first Fridays of the month, receiving Communion, we were to gain that special benefit. How could one enter Hell if there was to be a priest in attendance at the hour of the penitent's death to hear Confession, and give final absolution? It was almost a guarantee to enter heaven. All one would have to do would be to complete the nine consecutive first fridays. It constituted a novena.

     If there were to be a priest in attendance, you could almost be assured of the sacraments.

     It would be full circle. The Church starts out with each Catholic newborn with the priest administering Baptism. Pouring Holy Water on the forehead of the infant, in the Sign of the Cross, while saying the words of the Church. An incantation. Something similar to the words of Saint John the Baptist. Without it, that person can not enter heaven. So says the Church. The best the person could do, would be to enter Limbo--a place that is neither Heaven nor Hell.

     So to complete the Catholic life, to go full circle, again there is a Sacrament: Last Rites. Again, it is in the symbolic form of a liquid: Holy Chrism. And it is marked upon the forehead of the recipient by the priest in attendance. He marks the forehead of the person, once again in the Sign of the Cross. So it is full circle; the priest marking the Sign of the Cross upon the infant's forehead at birth and death.

     So, to get a guarantee from the Blessed Virgin Mary that a priest will be with you at your hour of death--it's just like a guarantee that you will go to heaven.

     Try as I did, I could only complete two First Fridays of the month. I had no guarantee that I would go to heaven. And the Brothers made sure to impress upon each student who was not in a State of Grace--if that person were to die, suddenly, by accident, or whatever means--that person would immediately go to Hell. It would be unbearably hot. And it would be forever. That person would suffer. Forever!

     Yet, school continued. There was time for chapel and there was time for school. There was even time for boxing.

 

 

                           Hey Asshole!

 

     It was that month or the following, Brother Elexsis announced that there would be boxing that evening after supper. 'Any student who would like to take part, may submit his name and the name of another boy on a piece of paper, and a contest would be made between the two willing students.'

     I made a match with Darrel Luzier. Darrel wanted to fool around. Nothing serious. Just play around. No heavy hitting or anything like that. That was Darrel. He was the boy who called Brother Salvio everything but a queer in front of the whole eighth grade class. It was Darrel, who was then on the Brothers shit list--although no one knew it. So we two were to fight. The two students on the shit list. The shouter and the nigger. It was okay with Brother Elexsis if we battered each other senseless. He'd referee.

     So that evening, with just about every boy in the junior section gathered in the rec hall, there was formed a fighting circle, some eighteen feet or so. Enough room to box.

     Brother Elexsis, the referee, had his whistle in hand. I was near the lockers putting on boxing gloves. Opposite me, across the way was Darrel, putting his gloves on. He had the help and support of some of his friends.

     We were ready.

     Brother Elexsis blew his whistle for round one.

     Darrel came out and I met him in center ring. He ducked and bobbed. He shifted from left to right. He moved in and out. And not one punch was thrown. Darrel smiled and backed away. He looked good. He was having fun.

     I followed him, keeping my guard up, holding both my hands close to my face. We circled counter clockwise. I shifted left then right, countering Darrel's feigns. Then I moved in.

     Darrel went into a crouch. His right hand dropped low. From that position, coming up at me, he could land and it could be a powerful blow.

     I backed out.

     But Darrel made a bad move. A mistake I thought. He backed out of his crouch off balance! He was leaning back while coming out of his crouch.

     I moved back in to see if he was going to do it again.

     He went back into that same crouch.

     I stayed in. Close. Hitting range.

     Darrel tried to back up, and in doing so, he made that same wrong move again. He was trying to come out of his crouch, trying to back away, and he was leaning back. He was off balance.

     I threw a right hand. It landed flush on the side of Darrel's face. Down he went! Hitting the floor on the seat of his pants.

     Every boy in the rec hall burst into laughter. Darrel jumped up. He was totally embarrassed, and he came at me like a mad whirlwind. But Brother Elexsis jumped between us. He was going to give Darrel an eight count.

     One!

     Two!

     Yes, it was a knockdown pure and simple. It was agony for Darrel. He wasn't hurt, not physically. He was devastated emotionally. He tried to go one way and then the other, trying to get past Brother Elexsis, to get at me. Brother Elexsis blocked his moves holding out both his arms. Brother Elexsis was like Jesus on the Cross, stretching his arms out, stopping Darrel from fighting while he counted to eight.

     Darrel was enraged.

     Six!

     Seven!

     Eight!

     And then Brother Elexsis moved out of the way.

     Darrel came at me in a fury. He threw a right, a left, a right, a left, and a right. All fast punches. Quick and angry.

     I backed away and took each blow on my gloves--oh, if it had only been so easy to block the blows of the pervert bastard Brother Claver. Bastard Brother of Jesus. He whipping me with that leather strap of his. And all done within the silence and privacy of the utility room. Oh, the bastard perverts of the Society of Jesus. And wasn't it Darrel who started the whole business? Yes it was. It was he who laughed Brother Salvio out of the school and forced a replacement. And who replaced Brother Salvio? It was the bastard moronic Brother Charles who then threw me out of his class into the arms of the pervert Brother Claver, Frere Claver who whipped me. Jesus Christ Almighty.

     Darrel stopped throwing punches and I answered with a combination which Darrel effectively blocked.

     He quit then and there. He turned and went to a neutral area and pulled at his gloves, taking them off. (We were to be enemies, non friends, for the rest of the time at Mount Saint Charles.) With his gloves off and standing in an area with a group of boys, I queried;

     "What's the matter?"

     "Asshole!" he shouted at me. That was all he said. He shouted it loud and clear, mean and angry.

     Well, if that's the way you feel about it, there's the corner right over there. Go right over there and put your boxing gloves back on. Go over there and back up your words. Do you want to back up what you said? And I stood center stage. Within that makeshift ring, and I pointed to where Darrel could easily walk, put his boxing gloves back on, and back up his words. I pointed with my boxing gloves on, with open hand. I pointed and stood there waiting.

     He, calling me an asshole in front of the whole junior section. But Darrel didn't go to the opposite corner and put the gloves back on. He moved. He shifted away and was halfway hiding behind a group of boys and he stayed there.

     Those words were to follow me. Asshole! Hey asshole! Yes, those words would follow me. As I would be stalked by the bastards of Christ. From my background and from what happened to me in years past, keywords and key incidents would be noted and thrown back at me within a framework of harassment. I would be done by strangers too. Or so it would seem. It will make me wonder, how could strangers know of my past? People who would be strangers to me? How could they know of this or that incident from years ago. But they would know. And it would be information they will have gotten from the bastard grapevine within the Church. Information on me from the grapevine that the bastard priest Shaleau would keep on me. It was to be part of the curse that would be placed upon me by the bastard priest. A curse that would include incidents from my past. And it would build, tally up. It would be a religious curse that would include unpleasant happenings from my past. Repeatedly I would be reminded, re-enforcing the curse. Day after day, week after week, month after month. Repeatedly.

     It was to be a repetition. Something that would be more than coincidental. And, the bastards of Christ would leave their calling card; that way, the accumulative effect would be for me to recognize the association of religion and the curse the placed upon me. The cure for a curse? Penance. The priest will want me to take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. I was to be ostracized.

 

                           Black Balled

 

     I was to be cursed by the pervert Catholic priest Father Shaleau. But before the formal ritual was performed, the following took place:

     It was during the winter months. A cold spell had worked its way into Rhode Island, and at Mount, one the tennis courts was flooded and made into an ice skating rink. It would be used as a small hockey rink too.

     We junior section students had the rink for an hour that evening.

     An older student, a freshman who had a locker near mine, challenged me. He stated that he could skate backwards faster than I could skate forward.

     "No you can't," I told him.

     "Oh yes I can," said he.

     "You never saw me skate." I told the older boy.

     "I don't care. You wanna bet?"

     "Let me see your money," I asked.

     He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of stuff. Within his grasp was a bunch of scrunched up money. It was a lot of money to me. A crumpled dollar bill fell to the floor.

     "Whoops!" he said, and nonchalantly he reached down and picked it up. Then he showed me his handful of money and said, "See! You want to bet?"

     I stalled. I didn't have that kind of money.

     But something was different. The older boy, holding the money in hand, looked at me. He looked me up and down. He scanned me from top to bottom, slowly. He did it as a boy would do looking at a girl. And then he gave me a look of question! It was a homosexual query! With money in his hand, the boy did his double take. First, there was the bet. Secondly, there was the homosexual come-on.

     I didn't respond. The boy let me take my time. No, I wouldn't accept neither. Not his bet nor his homosexual come-on. So, he changed gears, dropping the homosexual implications and said, "Match it."

     But, it wasn't the bet. And it wasn't about skating faster that I could. He was saying; Look! I have money. You want some? It means so little to me, see how the money falls out of my hand. It falls to the floor as if it is of little consequence. I have more money. Here look at all the money in my hand. It is crumpled up because it means nothing to me. You want some? You can have some. As a friend. As a homosexual friend.

     But I paid no attention to his offerings. Everything was to remain aboveboard. He was a freshman, I, an eighth grader. Between us he was to remain an upperclassman. Just another student and nothing more.

     That evening, on the skating rink, a skater zipped by me skating backwards. It was him. The student who wanted to bet. The homosexual upperclassman. And yes, he could skate faster than me. Even backwards. I was glad I didn't bet. He skated hunched down, looking over his shoulder weaving in and out. He skated past slower skaters, sometimes skip hopping a step or two. He was a good skater. And he hailed from Vermont or New Hampshire. Circling the rink, he flew past me once more; then, with a slight twist of his body, a hop, and angling his skates, he dug in hard upon the ice and threw up a shower of shavings and swooshed to a stop. We talked and laughed. I kidded him about his cap.

     That cap that he wore, it was comical. It was a gaudy red knit cap. Like a Frenchman's cap. It looked something like a sleeping cap. Yes that's it--a sleeping cap. Something like a red knit sleeping cap that flops down over one side of the face or other. And, attached to the floppy peak was a red fluff ball. Right on the end. It was a red fluff ball of yarn tied to the peak of his cap that would flop from one side of his face to the other. As he skated that the red fluff ball would fly about his head. The faster he skated the more the red fluff ball of yarn would fly around. And he made a game of it. As the boy skated he would throw his head one way and then the other, and the little red fluff ball would bounce about, following the movement of his head. First bouncing from his left shoulder to his right. That little red fluff ball flew in the wind and bounced about. The boy skated and moved his head one way then another, swinging it in a downward motion then up again. The little red fluff ball followed. With another movement of his head and the little red fluff ball bounced from behind, over the boy's head and landed upon his chest. Bouncing lightly. He twisted and turned, skating forward and backward, and the little red fluff ball followed.

     It was a tell-tale. As he skated about, weaving in and out, past and around other skaters, the little red fluff ball indicates his whereabouts. It all added to the lightness of the evening.

     I laughed and told him about it. He enjoyed that. He was enjoying the difference. Vive la difference, so the Brothers of Jesus would love to say. (Their French expressions are so dear to them.) So I had noticed the boy and his little red fluff ball. He was different. The red fluff ball was different.

     In turn, I was noticed. I was being watched and it would be something to be built upon. The bastards of Christ were going to build upon the red fluff ball, turning it black and times two. Two times for Deuce.

 

                         Two Black Balls

 

     At the end of the month, having gone home, we were now on our way back to Mount; Dad, Gilbert, and I.

     Dad, who usually doesn't say much to me, now wanted to show me something of interest. It was a place where he and Mom had gone to have dinner one evening. It was the Old Grist Mill. Dad was going to show the location to us boys. But Dad became lost in his driving.

     "It's around here somewhere," he said and he slowed down the Olds, not knowing exactly where we were.

     Gilbert was sitting in front and I was in back. The day was bitterly cold and there was a strong wind sending the temperature to what felt like below freezing. The sky was overcast, like it was going to snow at any minute, but didn't. With all that bad weather looming, Dad was going to show us boys where he took Mom to dinner, one time years ago.

      It was so cold and windy that not one person was about. Upon the streets our lone car slowly made its way. And Dad was trying to recollect where the Old Grist Mill was. Sidewalks empty. Wind blowing. Houses were shuttered and drapes drawn. Tiny wisps of vapor emitted from chimneys. No one was about. Nobody. And the Grist Mill was not to be seen. It seemed to be a desolate day all around. A perfect day to return to Mount Saint Charles; a bastard school. Putting one misery atop another.

     In time, we found ourselves in a newly constructed upscale suburban residential area.

     "It's near here somewhere. . . . I took your mother to dinner there." said Dad with his voice trailing off.

     On this freezingly cold day, along comes one lone man walking. He was twenty-five paces ahead and is the only person outside. He was walking on the sidewalk. And oddly, he was leisurely walking--as if it was a beautiful spring day! His face was red from the cold and the wind whipped at him. So it was odd that he was not bent over and hurrying along.

     The man quickly, almost furtively, looked about. With no one around for distractions, a smile appeared on the man's face; and, as we slowly approached in our vehicle, the man stopped walking and turned to us in the car as we neared.

     As Dad slowly drove past--from two or three feet away, the man bent down and peered into the car. It was as if he wanted to say something, but the windows to our vehicle were shut tight.

     Then the man showed us what he had. In his hands he clutched two little black fluff balls! They were attached by twelve inches of black yarn to the peak of his watchman's cap. He was holding a fluffy black ball in each of his hands. Then, he jiggled them up and down by the black yarn attached to them, showing us the black fluff balls. Bouncing them up and down. But the strong wind caught and blew the fluff balls straight back, horizontal. He shortened his grip on the yarn string and holding each black fluff ball by thumb and index finger, he waved them at us. He wanted me to see the two black fluff balls. He waved them before us. Up and down. Up and down. And he smiled and looked at me sitting in the back seat of the car. He held the black fluff balls for me to see! And he moved them up and down. Up and down. As did the bastard Frere Claver jiggle the tasseled strap before my eyes for me to see.

     It was a thought association. And it was for me to remember. Remember the whipping, Deuce. Remember Frere Claver, dressed in black jiggling the strap before your eyes. This man is dressed in black jiggling two black balls before your eyes. Remember the whipping at Mount. It is times two. Remember the homosexual boy with one red fluff ball. This is two black balls. It is for you, Deuce. You are to be black-balled.

     But there were questions to be filled. How did this man know of Mount Saint Charles? How did he know of the homosexual boy at Mount and the fluff ball? And how did he know to jiggle the balls up and down, the same as Frere Claver jiggled the strap before me? How could he know!? It didn't add up; not at that time. But over time, the pattern would repeat, repeat, and it would become clear.

     The bastardly black dressed religious perverts of Christ Jesus were to follow me. Collect information on me. And they would use that information against me.

     Encounters. Odd occurrences would happen out of the blue. Out of the grey. Just as this man happened out of nowhere. This crazy like madman, dressed in black, somewhat like a priest or religious cleric, like he was associated with a religious order (but not wearing the Cross showing the Crucifixion of Jesus).

 

     As we passed the man in our vehicle, he turned and smiling at us, he kept jiggling the two black fluff balls. Up and down. Up and down. As would a fisherman to entice a fish.

     It was all out of place. The man stood out. His furtive look about was to check that he was the only person about. It was to be remembered. All loosely associated with Mount Saint Charles, Catholicism, homosexual men and boys, novitiates and priests, men dressed in black looking like religious clerics. Yet, at the time, I was young and didn't understand. Its meaning, later I would discern.

     It would be conjecture to imagine how this came about; my father rendezvousing at this particular spot--the Old Grist Mill, at this certain day--going back to Mount. But similar patterns would repeat that by no mere coincidence could they have happened out of the blue. Out of the grey.

     Perhaps, the priest told my guilt ridden father; take us young boys. Go to where he and his deceased wife had once gone. And Dad does the bidding of the priest, thus relieving some of the guilt from the suicide of his young wife. The priest, knowing of family matters, uses his influence and churchly power over the distraught husband and father to get at one of his children. Me.

     As for the boy who had the school locker next to mine. The homosexual older boy. He left school within the next month or so. And I believe he joined one of the religious orders, but Brother Elexsis wouldn't say where he had gone. It was all hush-hush.

     Later on it will be deduced that the work of the priest was not done by one person acting alone. There will be the assistance of other people. Those associated with the priest, friends of the priest, religious people. And I will point out the homosexuality of those persons involved. For later I will claim that it had been religious homosexuals harassing me, a heterosexual. Thus, laying a step in the groundwork for my curse against them and their Eucharist.

 

                     The Drake Bar and Grill

 

     By the time Gilbert and I made it home for summer vacation, I had two years of religious institutions. Last summer it was Cathedral Camp; this summer I would be the mop and wash the floor nigger. I was to clean, sweep and mop, wipe off the bar, empty ashtrays and clean out the restrooms. And I was to complete everything in the morning, so by afternoon the customers could start trickling in.

     The Drake bar would come alive in the evening. Men would be at the bar in small groups, talking and drinking, smoking cigarettes, cigars, laughing and joking. People would be sitting at the booths. The jukebox would be playing. Eliza would be working, moving in and out. Going to the bar, back to the tables, her tray laden with drinks, swizzle sticks, packs of cigarettes and a small stack of paper napkins. Cigarette smoke would hang heavy in a blue-grey haze. Amber light would reflect upon the front window squares of faux glass. The front door would open and close, bringing in the darkness of the night and the latest customer. Sometimes friends would call the man who just entered. Laughs and guffaws could be heard up and down the bar. The talk was usually friendly save for and argument or two.

     In the morning I had to clean up. I could tell if the past evening had been busy. If business had been good. If the ashtrays were full. If cigar and cigarette butts were strewn about, and table tops syruped by spilt drinks--it had been a good business night for Dad.

     But to clean the place--I hated it. It totally ruined the start of my day. It was my summer vacation. I should be riding my bike somewhere, going someplace.

     I started out by putting the barstools atop the bar. Flipping them upside down, setting them on their cushions. It took some doing. I weighed one hundred pounds then; the barstools seemed to weigh in at forty apiece, and I had to do the whole bar--a good twenty-five to thirty barstools. I'd work to a mild sweat, then I'd take a short break. After that I'd empty the ashtrays, wipe off the vinyl booths and clean the table tops. I'd move chairs that had been pushed out of place and I'd sweep the floor. Then, the biggest job: mopping the floor.

     I would start off with a full bucket of clean water and in it I'd mix a little Pine Sol. As I put the metal bucket to the floor, its heavy weight would hit the ceramic tiles, signaling the hardest part of my work day.

     I would mop and splash that pale white watery mixture, mixing the cigarette ash fallen from smoked cigarettes. Cigarette ash and bits of tobacco that would catch and embed between the ceramic tiles. Tiles so small; little half inch, one inch, criss-cross patterned colored floor tiles of red, green, blue and brown. And in between the tiny tiles was the grout which would catch all sorts of dirt, dust, hairpins and bits of tobacco.

     About this time of the morning the sun would be shinning. It would be a beautiful summer morning and here I would be; ten am, splashing water and Pine Sol onto a barroom floor. Plop into the bucket goes the mop; splash upon the floor, plop back into the bucket. Splash and mop and swish it around. Move it back and forth and around. Stop to move a lone chair. Stop to put up a stool atop the bar. Empty a few more ash trays and wipe some more tables. Return to mopping. Change the water in the bucket. Add more Pine Sol.

     Start again; mop, mop, mop. Sweep a little more of the floor, try to get some of that dirt out of it. Get a dust pan. Pick up. Empty. Get back to the mopping. Mop, mop, mop. The water would darken from the cigarette ash and tobacco. Change the pail of water. Repeat the whole process; clear water, Pine Sol, mop, mop, mop. Water darkens from cigarette ash. Repeat the process; clear water into the bucket, add Pine Sol, mop and mop.

     I cleaned the mens room last. The women's rest room was usually clean. Most days I forgot about it. But the men's room--the smell, the cigarette butts clogging the urinal, the occasional half smoked cigar, soaked and disintegrating. Sometimes there would be vomit splashed on the wall next to the urinal--the drunk having missed. There were two or three toilets. One usually had a lone cigarette butt in it. Flicked by some blurry eyed tiddly-winker. I didn't understand--with urine pissed upon the floor, puke on the wall--the drinker, drunk as ever, how could they always flip that cigarette butt, center-shot in the white porclean commode?

     Friday was payday. I got paid fifty cents for my work. Fifty Goddamn cents. My question was; where's Gilbert? Wouldn't Gilbert like to mop and clean? I got fifty cents for a weeks work. Three and a half hours a day for five days. That worked out to a little less than three cents an hour. Nigger Dave got paid fifty cents for seventeen and a half hours of work.

 

                         Lefty and Eliza

 

     Lefty and Eliza were a husband and wife team. Lefty took care of the front desk in the hotel; Eliza worked as a waitress in the bar.     They lived a few doors away, in a flat on Main Street and Eliza had two daughters by a previous marriage.

     In the bar, when I was cleaning up, I wouldn't make many excuses for not liking Mount Saint Charles and Eliza knew that. She had questioned me about it.

     I was at her place. We were sitting in her living room; me, Elisa, and her younger daughter, named Lisa, who was about the same age as I.

     "Why don't you like the school?" Eliza questioned, "What's wrong with it?"

     She seemed to want to know why I was always putting down the school. So, I posed a question to her daughter.

     "What school do you go to?" I asked Lisa.

     She said she was going to a day school in Fall River.

     "Do you like it?" I continued.

     "It's okay. Why?" she answered back.

     "What if you had to stay on the school grounds all day. And you couldn't go home. And you had to stay there all month. And at the end of the month you could go home for two days. Would you like it then?"

     "Where would I eat dinner?" she asks.

     "At the school. The school has a cafeteria. Doesn't it?"

     "Yes?" she answers.

     "Well. You'd eat in the school cafeteria. And you'd sleep in the school dormitory. And you wouldn't be able to leave the school grounds for one month. And you wouldn't be able to see any boys for one month. You wouldn't be able to date or talk to any boys for one whole month. Would you like it then?"

     "No boys for one month?" she questioned.

     She was starting to understand. Not letting up, I pushed the point.

     "Right. And for the whole school year." I quickly added.

     She was starting to understand the setup of the school. It was slowly becoming understood. She didn't answer me straight out. She took her time. Slowly. Ever so minutely. And she shook her pert little head to the negative. Slowly and deliberately. It was a no; she wouldn't like the school. And her dark hair softly bounced. Her carefully groomed and cared for teenage face with her dark and youthful Portuguese eyes. Sitting there, I could see her tight waist line, around which she usually wore a wide flashy black belt that was in style in those days. So she shook her pretty little head to the negative and said, "I wouldn't like it."

     Her mother who was listening to all this was starting to understand too. She heard it from her own daughter. She wouldn't like the setup.

     "Well, neither do I," I said to back up what her daughter had said. Neither one of us would like the school.

     Eliza understood, but it was not her problem.

 

     So, when I was in and out of the barroom; passing by, finishing up my work, putting away the mop and pail. Stuff like that. And one time--it could have been the early afternoon with a few customers in the bar--Eliza was taking orders and I overheard the conversation. Someone had made mention of a good school. It was a couple of men customers, they were sitting at table talking. One said something to the effect that Mount Saint Charles was a good school, or, a good Catholic school.

     Eliza, knowing my feeling about the school, countered. She said, I didn't like that school, but it was not to get back to Gil.

     "No, it's a good Catholic school I tell you," one of the men persisted.

     "No, David hates it," I heard her tell them.

     "Who?" one of the men asked.

     "Gil's younger boy. He hates the school . . . but don't tell Gil I said so."

     And to prove her point, Eliza called out to me, "David! Are you ready to go back to school?"

     "No!" I shook my head to the negative and grimaced. It was like something like her daughter had done. So I shook my head to the negative, showing displeasure.

     "See!" said Eliza. She had won the argument. She had beat the men customers. (And most likely those two men customers were Catholic trouble makers. How could they have known of Mount? And how could they persist in calling it a good Catholic school. What did they know about the situation? Mount Saint Charles was not a widely recognized school. It was in another state. So those two men could very well have been Catholic trouble makers. And that is how they would operate, in pairs. Bringing trouble to a barroom and setting up conflict and arguments.)

     If there was any way out of that school--to talk against it, then it was up to me to do so. Yet, it was sort of hush-hush. I hated that school, but I couldn't openly say so. I could get a back hand from Dad.

     Dad had to align with the priest, Father Shaleau, the priest who took Dad to Mount and showed him around. Thus, Mount Saint Charles; it's a good Catholic school.

     Dad was giving a stock Catholic answer, and in doing so, was keeping priest Shaleau happy. Eliza, by taking my position and sometimes aligning with me, was putting her job in jeopardy. The tight grapevine wouldn't let Eliza's words go unnoticed. Eventually it would get around to Dad.

 

     After finishing my chores at the Drake, I would come and go much as I pleased. Occasionally customers would call me over to where they would be drinking and ask me a question. Or they would say they had known my mother. Or they had a boy of my age. Mostly small talk like that, affable talk to a young obedient boy of thirteen. I would politely answer their questions and return their salutations, not saying much else unless there was an opening for a side shot at Mount.

     Dad couldn't silence me forever. Sure, he could yell at me, threaten me; but, if a person asked me what I thought about the school, and I, thinking my position would be safe: I would tell them. I would talk against the school, in a roundabout way.

     Perhaps I had to be taken away from the barroom talk of the Drake. But I believe the major reason was priest Shaleau. I believe Priest Shaleau didn't want me around Fall River. He wanted me isolated.

     I had been going to Alan's house. That's in priest Shaleau's parish. Alan and I had been going to dances held at Saint Michael's, the parish right next door to Saint Joseph's. And being in the where-a-bouts of Saint Joseph's parish, some days I would pass priest Shaleau on my way from here to there.

      He would give me the evil eye, staring at me with an angered mad look upon his face. He'd never say hello or answer my salutations. This is the same mad priest who admonished his parishioners to kneel. This is the Bread of Jesus . . . Kneel! He said on that long ago Christmas night.

     So, scant years later, I saw him standing across the street from Saint Joseph's. He was standing right next to the church cemetery and the gate to the small church cemetery had been opened. The gate was wide open to the dead, and priest Shaleau stood nearby. He silently watched me walk by, and not one word did he say to me. He had an angered look upon his face. Yes, I believe it was priest Shaleau who wanted me out of Fall River. And Dad had to do the bidding of the priest.

     So, to Island Park we moved.

     I had heard in a round-a-bout way, that us young boys--Gilbert and I--shouldn't be living in a hotel. It wasn't a good place to raise young boys. That was the excuse.

     The way I saw it, the Drake Bar and Grill had its benefits. It was close to the center of town. Alan's house was one mile away. Fishing was nearby. The Taunton River, the Old Bridge, Watuppa Pond, and added to that, I ate good.

     When Gilbert and I had first moved into the Drake, Dad had given us boys access to a small diner across the street. It was there I tried to run up large tabs, to put expense pressure on Dad. I knew he didn't like to shell out money because he had complained of the increased tuition at Mount. How expensive it was. To get out of Mount Saint Charles, expenses had to become prohibitive. Dad countered and had me eating at Eliza's. I was becoming expensive to Eliza, so now I'm headed to somewhere in Rhode Island. Island Park.

     Island Park is a small summer place some five to six miles away from Fall River. Our first residence there was a cramped cabin in the back end of the little summer community.

     We settled in; Dad, Gilbert and I. Dad would leave for work. Gilbert would be off somewhere--Fall River most likely and I would be in Island Park without much in the way of food or money. I scraped by. Sometimes I would grab my fishing pole, dig up some bait at low tide, and head out to fish later on in the day.

     Dad got us a dog, a dalmation. We named him Duke. Dad had paid five dollars and a bottle of whiskey for Duke. Duke had no papers, but he looked like a true pedigree. He had the run of 'The Park' begging for food and getting by. It was a private joke that Duke ate better than us because some people in 'the Park' fed Duke. Sometimes Duke would come home, sometimes not. I believe Duke even made the rounds of the bars, looking for Dad, and knowing the people in those places, he'd get tidbits to eat.

     So, for the time being, I was half-way isolated in a small summer community; an out of the way place that had a few barrooms, a restaurant or two, summer cabins, and a good sized main drag that passed alongside a beachfront breakwater wall that we teenagers would sit upon on good summer days, passing the time and hanging out.

 

                        Setup to the Curse

 

     One summer evening, I'm watching television and Dad comes home early. He's in a talkative mood. I'm trying to look occupied, trying not to be in the way. Trying not to be that someone who Dad would shout at if he was drunk, or talk sternly down to if he was not. That was the norm, something neither one of us would or could break out of, and with the passing of the years the more affixed it became within our relationship. But this evening was to be different. Dad called me to the table. He had something important to tell me.

     "Dave, you remember Father Shaleau . . . our parish priest? Well, he's holding a dance at Saint Joseph's."

     Sitting down at the table and hearing of the priest, I tensed up. I should be on guard against this priest. Caution!

     "A dance at Saint Joseph's?" I questioned.

     "Yes. It's going to be bigger and better than any of the dances they have at Saint Michaels," said Dad.

     I was skeptical. Saint Michael's had some big dances. Well over a hundred kids would attend. And Saint Michael's had a new building in which to hold the dances. Saint Joseph's? Where would they have a dance?

     But Dad was sitting there, smiling, watching me. Watching for my reaction--as if I should be pleased at this great bit of news. Then, as if reflecting upon some past joke between he and the priest, Dad adds, "Okay?" Then he chuckles to himself. He repeats the word in another tone of voice, as if two people are speaking. "Okay?"  And he waits for me to answer.

     Okay? Okay? Whatever is this about? And how does Dad know about the dances that are held at Saint Michael's in the first place? This dance at Saint Joseph's; it's not a dance I wish to attend. Not a dance sponsored by priest Shaleau. But Dad said this dance is going to be bigger and better than anything that the adjoining parish of Saint Michael's has put on. I still don't want to go.

     But Dad wants to talk, and he wants me to join in. He wants to lead. He will say one word and I am supposed to answer. In this little father to son talk, Dad will end his questions with Okay, and he would like me to answer in the same manner. Okay? Okay! It must have been something like the little talk Dad had with the priest. This time it would be different. Dad would be playing the role of the priest: Father Faria. And I would have the subordinate part: the dummy. Something like:

     Priest: "Okay?"

     Dad: "Okay."

     Priest: "Okay!"

     Dad: "Okay."

     Okay. Okay. Then some laughter at the simplistic repetitions; of course accompanied with a little alcoholic beverage, some false comradship, trite wordings, then indeed, it would seem funny. Back and forth it must have gone. Dad and the priest making a little game of it, playing upon the repetition, something like a variation of Abbott and Costello's, Who's on First. The mad priest and Dad going over and over the instructions on how to get to the big dance. A dance bigger and better than any dance they had at Saint Michael's.

     Now Dad thinks I am going to go along with the same format. It's a joke, and Dad wants me to get in on the merriment. He wants me to be part of it. He wants me to go along jovially as he repeats the mad priest's instructions. He wants to tell me how to get to this dance, this big dance, this dance to out dance all other dances.

     "There's going to be this dance. . . . Okay? . . . It's going to be bigger and better than anything Saint Michaels has put on. . . . Okay? . . . I'm going to tell you how to get there. . . . There's going to be some road construction blocking the way. But I'm going to tell you how to get around it.

     You've got to follow my exact instructions. . . . Okay?"

     As Dad gives me the instructions, repeating his words and chuckling to himself. I'm thinking, it's not like him. This is not like Dad, talking to me and trying to draw me in. But perhaps as he got the instructions wrong, and the priest repeating, going over, using differing tonal inflections and different emphasis, then chiding Dad for not paying attention. And Dad getting it all mixed up; that they would laugh, have a drink, and start over.

     Whatever it was, I'm not a part of it.

     ". . . now you go down main street all, . . . the way to Brighton, . . . Turn left! . . . There'll be road signs because of some construction going on . . . Stop! . . . You go! . . . Follow my directions now! . . . Understand? . . . Okay? . . . Now turn left on Brighton . . . Stay on the left side of the road, and continue on until you see a Do Not Enter Sign! . . . You enter! . . . "

     Dad laughs at these little worded contradictions and explains.

     ". . . the sign is for cars! . . . You turn left . . . stay on the left side of the road, . . . stay on the sidewalk, . . . Okay?

     "Yes Dad," I quietly answer. And Dad, thinking that I'm going to start playing the repetitious word game, brightens and quickly adds;

     "Okay? . . ."

     I don't respond.

     "Okay." says Dad once more and continues with the instructions.

     Ha, ha, ha. The sign is for cars! They must have been drunk. Stop! You go! They had to have been drinking. And when Dad says the word 'okay', he laughs. Do not enter! You enter! The sign is for cars! It must have been a jolly old time; drinking, laughing, getting the instructions wrong, and the priest having to go over and over to get ethem right. And Dad going along with the priest, playing the game. It must have been the priest asking for confirmation of his instructions, and Dad not paying rapt attention, answering okay, or giving some other response would give priest Shaleau time to dig in once more and go over the instructions yet once again. The repeated wordings giving way to more laughter. But the true meaning of the conversation was being obscured--priest Shaleau was trying to get at me. He was setting me up!

     The repeated instructions, the little contradictions, the laughter; it was all a facade. The priest was obscuring the main issue. Mad priest Shaleau was going to curse me! Dad did not know that, and the priest did not tell him. So, it was a false comradeship.

     "Say on the left hand side of the walk. It'll be dark. . . . But there will be a lamppost nearby. . . . There's a walkway that goes under the road. . . . Go down the steps. Through the tunnel. . . . There will be steps leading back up. At the end of the street you'll see a light near a door. . . . Go in that door. That's where the dance is. . . . Okay? . . . Father Shaleau will be there. Go and say hello for me. . . . Okay?"

     "Yes dad," I obediently answered.

     There was an imposition, and the mad preist was behind it. He was directing my father, giving him precise instructions, telling my father of the dance and where it was to be. And exact instructions on how to get there. But--and this was a condition--I was not invited. The priest wanted me to follow his specific instructions, but he couldn't invite me. If I was invited by the priest, I could not be cursed by him. That is what I believe. So an intermediary was used.

     Because of road construction, I was to take a certain path, walk along North Main, past the church cemetery, take a left and go via Brighton Street. I wasn't to cross the street, thus moving away from the cemetery at night. I was to turn left, walk one block, another left, walk a little more, turn right; there will be a short passage way going under the road. Walk down the stairs, through the passage, back up the stairs, and continue along the street. A little further and I would see a light over a doorway. That's where the dance was to be held. It was to be down in the basement of a building.

     I went the scheduled day. By the time I got to the north end of town, and Saint Joseph's parish, it was just about dark. I walked along North Main, going alongside the church cemetery where I remembered the opened gate to the dead; and, there had been an open door to a small mausoleum, where a dead person lay in his cement coffin. I peered into the greying darkness and saw the shadows upon the tombstones, and I quickened my pace. At the corner there was no road construction. No blocked roads. No temporary road signs. The instructions were bogus. It was meant for me to walk alongside the church cemetary at night. I turned left, and keeping to the instructions, I went around the cemetary, left once more, a half a block and then some, and I saw the underground stairway. Down the stairs into the darkened passage I went, through the tunnel and back up. It smelled of urine and there was refuse littered about. I continued on and saw the light over the door at the side entrance of a building. That's where the dance was to be held. I had found it!

 

                            The Curse

 

     This was no big dance. There was no one around. No boys or girls lounging about outside. There were no other youths coming to this big dance. There was no one but I entering.

     I opened the door that lead down a narrow stairway. At the bottom I could see light, and music I could hear. Music was coming from the room at the bottom of the stairs. Down the stairs I carefully traversed and reaching the bottom, I stopped and looked about.

     The room was well lit but sparsely occupied. Two couples danced while one other couple, seated at the left end of the room, were talking. It was a sparse utility room and was serving the purpose of a dance floor for the evening. It seemed to be a converted basement of some sort and in the center were two support posts the dancers had to maneuver about.

     The music stopped. Someone was changing the record. I looked to where that was happening but it was dark in that far corner of the room. After the record had been changed, from out of the darkness priest Shaleau appeared. It must have been he who had changed the record; and yes, he must have seen me as I had arrived. He was waiting for me.

     With him was a tall skinny boy and a short girl. Priest Shaleau was between the two youths and had an arm around each. He was leading them to the dance floor, and all the while, he was whispering in the boy's ear. As if coaching him, giving instructions. Then he turned to the girl and gave her instructions also. At the edge of the dance floor he let them go, as if directing them to dance.

     And dance they did. They danced to the music of the priest. They danced a slow strangely perverted dance. Something I had never seen before at that time. The boy, tall and skinny, held the girl as far away from him as possible. At arms length. And, at the same time he leaned over, hunching his back, and he planted a kiss on the short girl's forehead.

     It was like they became affixed. Stuck!

     It looked like the tall skinny boy's lips had become stuck upon the forehead of the short girl, and the boy was sucking on her forehead. The short girl moved to the left and then to the right. As if trying to free herself. She did a few steps here and a few steps there; but, she was powerless to shake the boy. He followed her every move with his mouth affixed to her forehead and his two hands grasping her body. It was like an insect grasping its prey, and once in its grip, proceeds to suck out the life blood of the hapless victim.

     It was a sick perverted dance and kiss the couple danced to. It was danced to the music of the mad priest.

 

     The two danced alone. Because the other couples, upon seeing this strangely perverted dance, had left the floor.

     I looked across the room to where priest Shaleau was standing. He was looking directly at me and was wearing a ceremonial black and red outer coat that covered him from neck down, to just inches off the floor. It gave him a statuesque religious like appearance. Prominent was a crucifix hanging by a black cord upon his chest--it was Jesus Crucified! The black cord looped down, then up and over his shoulders. And even though we were inside a building, priest Shaleau wore a hat. It was a four peaked religious affair, topped with a black fluff ball. A mitered cap. It was formal religious attire for a Catholic priest. This was to be a formal religious curse!

     Then, slowly and ritualistically, priest Shaleau held out both his hands for me to stop! I was to stay where I was. Not to move! All the while, Priest Shaleau stared at me with his hateful eyes. It was an evil hateful stare. The evil eye! And meanwhile, in the background the couple danced to his music. Priest Shaleau stood immobile, holding his arms outstretched for me to remain where I stood.

     Being young and naive, I obeyed. I stood and waited. I waited at the bottom of the stairs, at edge of the dance floor, waiting for an indication from priest Shaleau, so I could approach him to give the salutation as my father had instructed.

     The sick little dance continued, and across the dance floor evil priest Shaleau remained. Immobile. Holding out both his hands, indicating for me to remain where I stood. After some time, and with not a word being spoken: slowly priest Shaleau backed away! He backed into the darkness of the room. While slowly back stepping, he continued to hold out his hands for me to remain where I was. He back stepped into the darkness of the room.

     So, there was no polite salutation. No regards as my father had wanted.

     The mad priest didn't want that. He had cursed me. He had given me the evil eye. His religous attire; the religious symbolism, the Cross, the Crucifixion of Jesus, the association of death, the church cemetery, the dance of life (perverted)--it was all preplanned. It was a curse!

     It was a curse from priest Shaleau to me. I didn't know it then, not consciously. I didn't understand the symbolic meaning; the kiss upon the forehead, the dance, the priest, his association with the dead, spiritualism and prayers to the dead. It was a curse. It was sort of an excommunication. A non-communion. I would be cursed from that time forward. And not understanding its meaning, and the strange behavior of the priest; I became apprehensive.

     Over the years I would repress the thought. And I would repress associated thoughts. Over and over and over again. Throughout my life I would have to work at repressing the evil curse. All that happened that evening I would repress to the deep within my subconscious.

     I turned and left the dance. It had been a setup all along. The priest talking to my father; their laughter, their jokes, the directions to the dance. The cemetery, the open door to the dead. The church and its religious symbolisms. The priest not talking to me when I passed him on the street. It was all an evil sick perverted curse. A curse from a vile evil mad bastard priest.

     And this was just the beginning. It would take years for the priest and his lackeys to make me an outcast. A pariah. It would take years of the priest and his minions to slander me, harass and stalk me. They were to use drugs against me--placing them into my food and drink. Mickey Finning me into a submissive zombie. A know nothing. A dupe and a fool. A nigger. It would take many years and many people, and from the formal curse that started that day within Saint Joseph's parish--that is where the millions who were to follow me, started following me.

     I would be stalked. The priest would stalk me. Other religious people from the religious community would stalk me. They would have other people following me, and whatever social life I planned or had designed, it would be thwarted by those who were following me.

     I would like to explain how the religious curse of an ecclesiastic is carried out. And, more importantly, how one copes with the curse. It will be an explanation of how my life was ruined. How a curse influences the whole family. Divides family members one against the other. How it influences friends against others. How my father's business was ruined. And many years later, when I am confronted by the ever persistent thought that I had been cursed by the Catholic priest--it is then that I will curse him. I will curse his family. I will curse Jesus. I will curse the Jesuits. I will curse all those people who had followed me and harassed me--they who had helped in perverting my life, the only life I will ever have here on this earth. I will curse them and I will curse their families. Them and theirs. First and foremost I will curse the Catholic Church and their bloody bastard Eucharist.

     Every day I will curse the bloody bastard Roman Catholic Eucharist. I will curse it to the day I die; for, it was in the name of Jesus that I had been cursed.