Father John

A priest walked into a bar. It was a long bar which ran for 50 feet to the right and ten feet to the left. To the left was the billiards area, the dart boards and what passed for a dance floor when there was a band on what passed for a stage. The fifty foot stretch to priest's right had originally been the counter of a diner. When Mickey, whose name was in neon above the front door, bought the diner after he got home from desert storm, he'd kept the row of tables-for-four that ran parallel to counter so that those who wanted a place away from the pool players and the band could sit and eat. It also allowed Mickey's Tavern to double as a comfortable lunch spot for the local merchants. Father John sat in the booth at the far right end of the bar. It had the only table with a reserved sign down in the corner with no windows.

Mickey's Tavern was not the kind of bar that typically had reserved seating, but the locals knew that no one sat there except for Father John. He would come in maybe three or four times a month, greet no one and sit there and wait without a sound for Mickey, a large Desert Storm vet, to join him. Mickey always took Father John a beer and sat and talked with him.

Jane, the new girl was racking glasses. Mickey had hired Jane for her looks more than her bar tending skills. However, she'd proven in the first week that she was a quick study and her personality won over the women at the bar while her long black hair and sweet, farm girl face kept the men coming back and ordering more food and drinks than they normally would. She turned to a small row of regulars seated at the bar.

"What's up with Mickey and the padre?"

Everyone looked up and turned to her. Jane wondered if she had just asked for a dark secret. Stanley had barstool seniority and there was tacit agreement that he knew the tale best. Stanley had retired from GM 7 years before and had made daily visits to Mickey's since then. Even before that, he'd been one of Mickey's first customers and had been, by sheerest coincidence, present at every major happening in the tavern.

"Well," he leaned back in his chair so his moderate beer gut could enhance his authority, "some six years back, young Father John there came in and sat there in that seat right there. Not a word. Just sat there for an hour, looking out the window." Jane moved as though to correct Stanley because there was no window at that table. Rachel, Mickey's second hire after opening, and the unofficial mother to everyone at the bar, shook her head subtly and Jane demurred. Stanley continued, unaware that he'd almost been interrupted.

"Mickey finally went over with a beer and sat down. No one knows what they talked about, but later Father John was all smiles. That's when he introduced himself. We still don't know why Mickey needs to see a priest in here three or four times a month, but he's done that ever since."

"And the reserved sign?" asked Rachel. She knew, but she also knew her part in the telling of the story. Stanley raised his left eyebrow and nodded at the memory. "I was here for that one too. Some young punks came in and sat there and when Father John saw them there he turned to leave."

"What did Mickey do?" asked Jane, no longer interested in racking the glasses.

"He asked them to move, all nice and friendly like. You know, to make room for the Father."

"They said 'no,' right?"

Everyone looked at Ted like he had farted in church. Ted was new and knew neither the story nor the traditional manner in which it was told.

Stanley moved ahead to spare Ted undue embarrassment. "Yeah, they said 'no.' Mickey was even bigger then." Stanley shook his head and smiled to savor the climax just a little longer. "He asked one more time and then hauled all three of them at one time. You would think that it would have taken two trips but he had all of them in the parking lot in less than a minute. As they lay there on the pavement, he told them they ought to go and see Father John to apologize personally."

"So the 'reserved' sign is meant to keep the table free for Father John whenever he thinks he needs to see Mickey?"

"Yep." Stanley leaned back on his stool with the air of a cop summarizing a crime scene. "Mickey calls that his confessional. The Padre gets a free beer for his services." Jane smiled at this detail.

"Getting a priest drunk for confession? I gotta try that the next time I unload during confession."

Stanley raised his eyebrows in surprise. "How often does a sweet girl like you have to go to confession?" Jane bit her bottom lip to suppress a grin.

"I get into trouble sometimes that I don't always avoid. It amazes me that the priest doesn't go crazy-horny with all the details of my sinful ways."

The regulars at the bar all nodded in appreciation of the priest's dilemma.

Ted leaned forward across the bar, "What kind of details?"

Jane threw her drying cloth in his face. "Nice try, Ted. I tell my secrets to a priest exactly so I don't have to deal with a hormonal perv like you."

Ted sat back in good-natured defeat. "Why not tell a girlfriend?" he asked.

"The last time I told my secrets to a 'girlfriend' she posted them on her myspace page. I can't afford therapy so I go see a priest to unload. Feels great and I am forgiven in the process."

Ted threw the drying towel back at Jane. "Why don't you keep your secrets to yourself, if they are so dirty?"

"Boy," said Stanley, "the dirtier the secret the more you have to share it with someone. Everyone, even big-and-strong Mickey there, needs to unload. The first time he met with Father John, Mickey told me that he felt great. Now he seems tired after their little meetings, as though he carries more than when he was younger. I guess he has more of a life than just sitting and listen to us piss and moan about our lives over all this booze."

"And you gotta be able to trust someone who won't tell," said Rachel. "When I was being beaten by my ex, I couldn't talk to no one but my priest. I made the mistake of telling my dad and he got so angry it was all I could do to keep him from killing my Tony. After that, I lied about things being better and I saved all the worst stuff for my priest. It didn't really solve nothin, but at least I know the priest wasn't about to go all crazy and kill someone. They deal in charity and forgiveness and that was what I needed."

Jane was pouring herself a coke. "True enough, Rachel. That so-called girlfriend who put my sex life on the web? She got all self-righteous and was like, 'how could you?' and 'I'd never do that.' Then I found out from a friend that she was totally jealous because she liked the guy I'd been with. With the priest, I don't have to worry about him liking me, like Ted here, or judging me, like my 'friend.' I just thank God I have a priest to talk to."

"Well," said Ted, "I never go to confession. I'm not even Catholic, but I could so use someone who won't judge me, especially for what I am thinking about Jane right now."

This time Jane threw a coaster him, but Ted was ready and caught it.

"Thanks, Jane." Jane smiled, just a little impressed at the new guy's reflexes. He was, after all, kind of hot, for a mechanic.

Ted emptied his stein, smug in the possibilities he saw in Jane's eyes. recognized Jane's expression and began to plan what he would have to confess after he hooked up with Jane. "I think," he said, "I will see Father John next. Sort of a Pre-emptive confession. Do priests do that?"

"Nope," said Stanley. "I told you: that is Mickey's confessional."

The regulars all sat for a minute with their own thoughts.

******

Mickey rose from his seat and came from that far end of the bar. As he approached the regulars, he said, "Another draft, Jane."

"Slow down, Mickey," said Stanley, "You can only lay so much on a priest in one sitting. The man carries everyone's load and has nobody except other overloaded priests to help him carry it all."

Mickey looked at Stanley for a second and then narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips into a forced smile. He took the beer, thanked Jane and headed back to the table to sit with the padre. Jane looked at Stanley and the rest of the regulars.

"Wow," she whispered with exaggerated quietness, "Mickey must be getting his brew's worth. Wonder why Mickey looks so tired."

Ted said what they were all thinking. "If the average joe like my can't keep his few secrets all tied down inside, how does Father John keep everyone's from just gushing out?."

******

"Here you go, John." Mickey was worried; Father John looked like he had battle fatigue. Mickey had seen it enough times in combat. He'd even seen it in teachers, nurses, doctors, and cops. It was the look of someone who'd been stretched too far, seen and heard too much. "John, for years you have sat here and unloaded about the evil in the world in general, but this is something else, isn't it?"

Father John took a long slow drink of his beer. "Do you remember why I first came in here?"

Mickey looked out at the few clouds passing through the sky and pretended to think hard about this question. In fact, he'd always remembered the disillusionment of young Father John that day. "I think you were upset that everyone of your parishioners seemed to be living with secrets and sins on a scale you'd never thought possible."

The padre nodded. He did not even notice the weather. His eyes were glued to his drink. "I felt useless because nothing I ever did made them better people or the world a better place."

"As I recall," Mickey said as he took a drink, "I told you that's not what you do. You take away the weight people are carrying so they can make themselves and their world better."

"You saved my career, my calling, as priest with that insight." The prematurely grey priest took a long drink. "One minute I'm listening to a man who has beaten his wife…again, and feels so much remorse…again! Then I am listening to a beautiful young woman tell me about how much sex she is having…again. I swear she's not so much confessing as she is bragging. I wish they would all just grow up."

Father John hung his head low and Mickey heard his quiet confession, "And I wish I could be just like them.

His jaw clenched in frustration. Mickey waited for the priest to calm down. To himself he had to agree that Father John looked more worn down this week than ever. The man's hands clenched and flexed, even when he wasn't talking.

"Sometimes I burn from lust for the promiscuous girl whose silhouette is as clear as a cameo through the screen in my confessional. Other times I am consumed with murderous wrath towards this cruel husband. I tried telling this to Father O'Malley, but he's so judgmental I think I've begun to hate that old man."

Father John looked at his bartender friend for a long moment. "You know, Mickey, I thank God you let me unload on you."