Komrades:

Father M. stopped cold in his tracks at the altar. Nah, not in MY church! Millions of thoughts can traipse through the human mind at once. Was it a bosons pipe? The wind through an open window? A deranged Black Protestant? Nah, I have a Truce of God with Father F. at the Episky operation. The altar boys, who had just made easy work of the communion wine, were sniggering. They knew. A vicious glance from the kindly padre put an end to their hilarity. The nuns were alarmed and thus alerted. This abomination came from the area of the Fourth Station of the Cross. That was the public school kid's territory. They had no respect.

The reason for the foregoing is summed up thus: In the late 40's and early 50's, guys signed up before being drafted. Only one of our guys got thrown out of the navy. He had a penchant for falling out of his bunk. We were suspicious of him. In reality, a draft dodger? A communist? A future president? When the guys came home on leave, we would all gather at the flag pole, real genuine pizza, pepperoni, and beer to hand. (In those days, the flag went up and down with the sun.) These guys would tell the most hilarious, truly filthy jokes for hours. During a hiatus, we young ones would wash down the bricks under foot. Nothing would dare to grow between the cracks. Someone would shinny up the flag pole and get the rope; wind it around the pole and then take a ride round the pole hanging on for dear life from the rope. There was a down side to this bit. If one dropped off too early, he crashed into the bricks or the steps. Too late, and he bashed his head on the hollow pole with a resounding Booowng. The goodies and jokes usually ran out at the same time. There was a Greek guy, Andy. He had a neck like a johnny-pump; his name used the entire alphabet - several times. Something about Constantinople. Strong like the bull! But he was such an easy going lad. He had a new 1950 black Pontiac. We all would pile into and onto it. Then it was off to Boro Park for fresh bagels. (Did you know that there are 13 bagels in a dozen?) In lieu and/or subsequent to that, it was off to Coney Island for hot dogs and sauerkraut at Nathan's. We'd buy gaggles of them. Andy would curse out the Jewish guys serving up the dogs - in Greek, and with that ever present smile. No one knew what curses the Jewish guys flang at us. Then it was back home and off to a metal door down the docks. We each took turns at the same spot and in the end sliced it open. I think that you all are personally aware of the other results of these affairs. And thus it was the Saturday before the Sunday Mass we speak of here.

To continue. As one whistle tailed off another tailed on. (So to speak.) The wax in Fr. M's ears melted. The sound of a Gatling gun then chimed in. Almost popped Fr. M's skull. Fr. M couldn't leave the altar. But the nuns were on the way. Some rowdies in the general area of this most mortal sin were seen to have their faces buried in their hands as they knelt. Were they praying? Covering up their laughing or the crime itself? When the clicker signaled sitting, it seems as if it also signaled a broadside from Yamato's 18 inchers. It echoed off the back of the pew. A general cacophony of artillery ensued. Some have claimed that Fr. M's head was now on fire. Some urchins in the vicinity of the launch zone were gagging; some had tears in their eyes; a couple had passed out. One is alleged to have gone blind. A final great WOOOOFFFF channeled itself up a scoundrel's shirt and out of his collar. All was silence as the nuns reached the kill zone and passed out.

The bishop was immediately summoned to re-sanctify the church. God, himself, was ticked off! You all do know that God lives in the Vatican; speaks Latin, (Gave up on Greek.), and has a nice bit of lasagna with the Pope after Mass?

Now we come to Confession. It was standard practice for the louts to kneel in a pew and observe who came out of which confessional and what he was up to. If he was on his knees with a Rosary in his hands and rambling about the church, this was not to be your confessor. Sometimes mistakes were made. The next Saturday one of our heroes blundered. Bless me father for I have sinned most grievously. I broke wind at Mass Sunday last. Wuuuhaht? That was your work? Fly! Flee! Escape! The kid charged out of the confessional and bashed his head on the back of the last pew. He saw rockets and many stars. But this was no time to pass out. That would have to wait for later. Much later.

It was a great Mitzvah that these doings did not take place in a crowded elevator or on an escalator.

Cecil