In Father Nathan’s priest collar, I was me but not me. A different servant of God. Some animals live in disguise, surviving through deception. Camouflage of plain sight. The gnarly tree knot that’s actually an owl staring into your soul.
Other creatures knew where to hide and when to run.
As I walked in the borrowed collar, I spotted a half-consumed cigarette some knucklehead had flicked into a hedge from a moving car. Still lit.
Yep, a burning bush. Miracles were real. You just had to know where to look.
I picked up the live treasure and took a drag. The smoke smelled like a new start, reminded me of morning sex. Smoking and sex. Dear God, I loved them both. Though now only smoking was an option. And a limited one. Dancing on the edge was fun, but it could also send you toppling into the sea below. Eating from the forbidden tree was Eve’s “fall,” our original sin. But wasn’t that bite also bliss? A craving to see ourselves differently, free ourselves, fly close to the flame. Some of my benders opened new perspectives, breakthroughs on my first album, my best lyrics, religious epiphanies. Many others just ended in blackouts. And Fleur’s ended her. It wasn’t a misfire—addiction—but a feature of us. The Bible says we’re minted in God’s own image. We’re all micro Gods, wired for prayer, innate as instinct. We’re pre-programmed to save, to need saving. Did that make our capacity for addiction divine? Did that mean God was addicted? To us? Was God just as fucked up as the rest of us? That comforted me more than I could ever say. Made me love God even more.
My legs moved on their own accord, down Decatur Street. The jasmine and eucalyptus in the hot wind gave way to the sour turn of sopping river air.
I trudged along until my soles blistered, until I hit a crummy dive in St. Claude. “$3 special, whiskey and beer chaser” was hand-written on a ripped paper bag taped to the door. Perfect spot for lowlifes, the old Holiday, folks who need to disappear or slip under the radar.
Neon signs chewed the air with their dancing, warm light. My black gloves and priest collar drew curious stares and some head turns. Female reverends weren’t uncommon outside the Catholic Church. But in that bar, I might as well have been carrying John the Baptist’s head on a tray. Some moron in a jester hat straightened up real quick when he saw me, like I was his drill sergeant. Though I wouldn’t have minded screaming in his face and demanding he drop and give me twenty while reciting the Beatitudes. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are the meek. Blessed are they who mourn. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Thirst was right, fuckers. I ignored the chumps and snaked my way to the bar where the bartender had big eyes and bigger fists.
“Would ya look at that,” the bartender said. “A lady priest in my bar.”
“Reverend,” I lied.
“What’ll it be, Madame Reverend?”
“Water,” I said, though I would have loved to murder a double whiskey. “And just Reverend will do. No Madame.”
“Holy water coming right up, Just Reverend.”
The woman on the next stool rubbed her eyes. Was she crying? Sweating? Both?
“Rough night?” I asked her.
“Rough life,” she replied.
“Seems like the whole city’s hurting.”
“You’re damn right about that,” she said.
The bartender set down my glass of water a touch too hard and liquid splashed over the side. “On the house,” he said.
Free water. What a gentleman. I raised my glass to the sad lady next to me. “A toast to healing.”
“I need a whole mess of healing,” she said with a wince.
“Been hearing about a lot of pain lately.”
“I can’t get a break.” Her wedding ring seemed to blink as she sipped her drink. A Malibu and Coke, from what I could gather from the smell and color of the liquid and the patron’s fashion choices. God help me but I was still a judgmental bitch—on occasion. “My husband’s an asshole.”
“Hurt people hurt people,” I recited.
“Don’t have to tell me,” she said, and left greasy prints on her glass as she rotated it.
In a quiet voice, I said, “I’m here to listen.” And collect info, I thought. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m all talked out.” She grabbed her drink and left, barstool spinning in a lopsided rotation. She relocated to an empty back corner.
First fail of the night. I downed the water in two gulps and thanked the bartender.
At the other end of the bar, an older guy in a black and gold VETERAN cap kept rubbing the top of his shoulder like he was trying to start a fire. The way he scanned corners reminded me so much of Moose. Preparing for threats, expecting danger, alarms always incoming. Always real.
I moved toward him with my hands in prayer position. “Mind if I sit?”
He looked at the barstool then back into his glass. “Free country. That’s what they keep telling me.” If the priest collar bothered him, he didn’t show it.
“Army? Navy? Marines?” I asked.
“Army. ‘69 to ‘70.” He fidgeted with the useless straw in his drink. “Was a medic. Now I mostly medicate myself.”
Another medic. That hit like a boot to the throat. Moose had said something like that once. How combat medics spent their army tours patching up people, only to come home broken themselves.
“My kid brother was a medic too. Afghanistan.”
“Made it out?”
“Yes, thank God. And thank you for your service.”
“Service. Sure.” He scratched at his shoulder again.
I watched him drain his drink, feeling a sideways kinship. His drinking, my addictions to sex and substances. The temporary fixes of self-destruction. Weren’t they all medicines of a kind, in the moment? Attempts at a cure, rather. Every stranger’s bed I’d ever crashed in. Every bar I’d closed down.
The vet ordered another Jim Beam and mumbled, “Helps me relax.”
“A little self care’s good for the body and mind,” I said. “What else helps?”
“What’s it to you?”
“A lady of the cloth has to live vicariously.” I pulled at the collar.
A barely-there smile crossed his face. Not enthusiastic. Just slightly amused. “The VA can’t get me a medical card. Said I should try meditation or church.” The word church froze in the air. Like it was framed on a shelf. “Not against it or anything. Just not for me.” He tilted his chin to indicate the collar around my neck.
“No medical card? You got a dealer?”
He shrugged as he took a sip. “Maybe.” The brim of his hat drowned his face in shadow.
“Your contact sell anything harder than weed?”
“Maybe.”
I leaned in. “Fentanyl?”
When his eyes went sharp, I knew I blew it. Absolutely tanked it. Sweat collected in the crooks of my elbows.
“Jesus fucking—” He set his glass down. “Why you asking about that?”
I blessed myself. “I’m trying to understand how good people end up in tough places.”
“You got it backwards,” he said and downed the rest of his drink in one swig. “Tough places end up burying good people.” After slapping a dollar tip on the bar, he stormed out.
The bartender gave me a consolation nod as he cleared the vet’s glass and napkin. “Another water to wet your whistle, Just Reverend?”
“Bless you.” I watched him fill my glass with his soda gun. How many bartenders had I sat in front of as they poured, uncapped, measured, muddled? How many noticed me unraveling? How many had pretended not to see as I followed strangers into bathroom stalls?
“You’re a long way from church.” As he set the water down, the scars on his hands and knuckles flexed. All the nights opening bottles, hauling cases, emptying trash.
“Can’t be too different in here,” I said. “Folks with a lot on their minds, stuff to get off their chests, prayers that need answering. I’m sure you’ve heard it all.”
“At least your patrons come back every Sunday to see you.” He sliced a lime into identical wedges.
‘Well, I’m just the opening act for the ultimate headliner,” I said, which got a laugh. Good, I thought, building a rapport. “Local bar like this? Lots of repeat customers, right?”
“Here?” He plopped two impossibly small straws into a glass and slid the drink to a patron three seats down from me. “A mix, but folks are mostly passing through. Ghost tour drop off site’s across the street.”
“Even so, I bet you’ve got a front row seat to real troubles.”
“Amen to that, Just Reverend. Even their troubles have troubles.”
“Hard to see people at the end of their rope.”
“Hate it.” He blinked quickly.
I leaned in, lifting off the barstool. “Any of your clientele getting mixed up with fentanyl?” Apparently the last exchange had taught me nothing.
He shook his head. “That’s definitely not my bag.” But for all the money in the world he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Don’t know a thing about that shit. And if I were in your collar, I’d leave it in God’s hands.”
The momentarily lull ended as a rowdy group stumbled in, demanding Jack and gingers. “Coming right up,” he said.
Leave it in God’s hands? Honestly, I’d love to. Except God gave me hands of my own, and I’d be cheating us both if I didn’t use them to get some fucking answers.
I stood and walked in a slow circle. Then another arc in the opposite direction. Covering the entirety of that bar. That’s how I caught the attention of a group of men near the dart board.
“Get a load of this one,” said a weasley guy with wire-thin arms and cheap ink, the kind you get after too many Jell-O shots and not enough consciousness. “A High Priestess. Forgive me, hot mama, for I have sinned!” He fell to his knees and raised his hands high. One of his whiskey-soaked buddies laughed so hard he sloshed his drink on the already sticky floor. Another doubled over whooping, slapping his thigh, trying to catch his breath.
At least someone wanted to talk to me. Not my ideal informant, but couldn’t squander the chance.
“Well, aren’t you entertaining, my child. But if you have something to confess,” I said as I inched closer, taking in the evidence of his hard living. More track marks than Grand Central. “I’m all ears.”
He smiled like I’d just flashed him my tits. “Got plenty, but what’s in it for me?”
“Salvation.” I blessed myself, my hands pruning under my gloves.
“Try again.”
“Are you in trouble, my child?”
“You got that right.” He laughed. “And I keep buying more.” The guy exchanged a look with one of his buddies who was using his front teeth to tear open a bag of Frito’s.
“Then maybe I’ve got something you need,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” He perked up.
Another sloppy crew entered the bar, flooding the area, and the energy shifted. I was about to lose my already thin chance. Had to press on while I could.
“Let’s go outside,” I said.
He asked “whatcha got?” as he followed me out. A good shepherd, I knew what my sheep wanted.
Outside, the splendid smell of dumpster mixed with piss funk almost knocked me out. The music from the bar kicked back up, or maybe it never stopped. Memory is a bitch like that. Something to shape to our needs. What we perceive as the past becomes the content of the future.
“So whatcha got?” he asked again. I swore I could see his mouth watering.
“Absolution.” I shoved him into the wall. The element of surprise, a major advantage. Then I whispered into his shut eye, as if it was a tape recorder, “Tell me everything you know about who’s moving product in this town.”
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