An Ashtray in Church

        I hadn’t slept in twenty-seven hours, and at the time, church seemed like the logical place to be. My mind and body were mired in that haze that comes from the toxic mix of deprivation and depravity. A haze I knew all too well. A haze in which objects are rimmed with fuzz and everything seems to be going way too fast to keep up. And, at a certain point, the mind just stops trying. When that happens, the world moves like a time-lapse film in which portions are completely skipped over in order for the overall picture to maintain some semblance of reality. This can be dangerous. But for some reason, at these times, the awareness that the world beyond my eyes is, in fact, not the same world I am seeing behind my eyes, can be, in some ways, exhilarating.  
        I wandered to a pew and slid to the end, closest to the wall. The place was filling up fast. The people were dressed in their Sunday best. I was still in my Saturday best; but no one seemed to notice. I didn’t get many looks my way, a few side-ways glances, but mostly just pure, unadulterated avoidance.
        I imagine I stunk a bit. A bit like Wild Turkey and shame. And these people could smell the shame like blood in the water. Vicious beasts. I wondered if they could smell the Wild Turkey too. No one said. They kept out of my parameter. And I kept out of theirs, for that matter. 
        Personally, I didn’t think I looked that bad. But the crowd told a different story. I happened to be wearing sunglasses, and it seemed to frighten them. People who can be trusted do NOT wear sunglasses, especially not in church. But, in my defense, I wore them simply to hide the fact that my eyes were a deep shade of crimson. Were proper sunglasses not better? I certainly didn’t want to frighten the children with glazed and bloodshot eyes at this hour of the morning, not in church. I believed I should be commended for that.
        The people ignored me and found their seats and came to a startled hush moments later as a tall priest came out before them. He was a dandy. I judged him to be at least eight feet tall, with a head like the Rock of Gibraltar. Just the sight of him made me shrink. 
        I was pretty sure I was in a catholic church, but there was no way to be fully sure. I looked around for clues, but that was a pointless exercise in futility; my heathen lack of theological acquaintance prevented me from being able to accurately propose any substantive answers to my theory. Whatever the church was, I had been in it for about an hour at that point and I was starting to wonder why the hell I had come there. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I just wanted a cigarette. The priest was starting to speak and I looked around. Could I just leave? I thought about it. Not a chance. For sure they would wrangle me and lash my hands and feet behind my back and drag me to the front of the cave to drain my blood on their altar in a feverish sacrificial orgy.
        Good God, I thought, get it together. The lack of sleep was getting to me; my brain was turning to mush. I needed sleep. I needed sleep badly. But I was boxed in, cut off from the outside world. I looked around in a panic. What if I dozed off here? What would happen? My eyes darted around. I absolutely could NOT fall asleep here, that much I knew; they would no doubt castrate me before I could wake to defend myself.
        Now people were looking, only a few. They heard me think the word castrate and their senses stirred. I slowly slid down in my seat and kept a watchful eye on the anxious mob surrounding me. I would have to wait it out lest these animals quench their thirst for blood. I must keep up my guard. How long would this thing last? I looked at my watch. The battery had stopped working months ago. Damn.
        At this point, the priest was warmed-up and finding his oratorical stride, belting out a masterpiece about a river of pestilence and mortal sin, or something like that. I must admit, he had quite a way about him. As I settled in, I listened closely to his sermon. As closely as I could in my current state. He was tall and broad with thinning black hair combed straight back. He looked like he might be a Mafioso if he weren’t a priest. Maybe he was both. The people were certainly mesmerized and I too was enjoying his style. But, even so, I could feel my eyelids getting heavy. Was this the end?
        Then I saw it, to the far left of the altar, in a dim, possible overlooked corner of the church. There, seemingly unnoticed, sat a table, and on that table sat an ashtray. It was clear glass and there were ashes in it, I was close enough to see that much at least.
        I was taken aback. What the hell was an ashtray doing in the corner of the church? I looked up at the priest, then back at the ashtray. There was probably some perfectly proper explanation for its appearance. I thought of what that could be. There were ashes in it, and that fact alone ruled out matchsticks for candles and most other innocent explanations. I strained to see if the ashes were large like a cigar or small like a cigarette, but I couldn’t tell.
        The priest was really raving now and I looked back up at him. I stroked the twenty-seven-hour-old stubble on my chin and furrowed my forehead in thought. I had stumbled upon quite a mystery. I grinned and looked down the pew at a small white-haired lady, raising my eyebrow. She looked nervously at me from the corner of her eye, not knowing what to make of the troubled man with the sunglasses grinning at her. I was convinced she had something to hide. I would let her sweat it out.
        I returned my attention to the ashtray. Ah, the ashtray. The ashtray sat on a folding card table. It was evident that someone must have forgotten to put it away. The whole scene reeked of conspiracy.
        I looked to the right at the organ player. It didn’t take much study to recognize that he was missing notes from time to time. Poor playing perhaps. But on review, apart from the missed notes, he played a mean organ, he was certainly no amateur. I looked at his face. There was something there. His gaze was unseeing, drifting about the wall above his organ. His shoulders slumped in defeat. It was obvious that his mind was elsewhere, somewhere dark and stressful. He was no doubt very worried about something. What was it?
        As I pondered this, my gaze landed on the sisters behind the altar. They, too, carried blank looks, down at the floor. They were paying no attention to the sermon of the priest. And it was a hell of a sermon. When it came time to stand for one thing or another they would be the last to rise, only after noticing the other folks rising. Hmmm. If I didn’t know better I would believe that they probably felt about like I did right then.
        But where was this all leading?
        My prying eyes again fell on the ashtray. What had transpired here? What madness was hidden within that inanimate object? It was obvious to see that the organ player and the sisters were in rough shape from one thing or another. And a used ashtray was hiding in the corner of the church, dying for its story to be told. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
        I thought back to when I arrived, early, about an hour before mass started. The place was empty at that point. I tried to think of when I first saw the sisters. It had been shortly after I arrived. Yes, because the doors opening startled me. They came in through the front doors. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now it made me wonder. And, wonder, I did. Why would they be coming in the front? Do the nuns not live in the back? How the hell would I know? Straining to remember, I recalled them hurrying in and shuffling straight to the back rectory, keeping their eyes on the floor. Do I remember seeing Mardi-Gras beads? Or was it a rosary? I couldn’t be sure. And now the appearance of the mysterious ashtray. What kind of sin?
        A rousing outburst from the priest awoke me from my rumination. He was really cruising along. I again stroked the stubble on my chin and studied his face. The bags under his eyes told a story of sleepless nights, and his collar was loose, his forehead glistening with sweat. But he preached with a fervent vigor. He had rocket fuel in the tank no matter what his outward appearance.
        But it made me wonder what kept him up at night. Worry? Concern? Or was it guilt? As I studied deeper I began to believe that he was no stranger to the sleepless nights that currently ailed him. The creases in his face told of hard times. What stories lay behind those wrinkles? That he had something to do with the mysterious ashtray, I immediately had no doubt.
        I searched for other clues. The table rested near an alcove at the back of the church. At first, it looked like the only thing in the alcove was a tall bookcase filled with shelves of books. Then I noticed three folding chairs rested sloppily against the corner of the bookcase. Maybe I was looking too far into it, but it sure looked to me like those chairs were not there for long-term storage. They had been hastily placed there recently. Were they the chairs for the folding table that held the ashtray? No doubt. But there was one chair that was still unfolded, sitting beside the table. Why the one still out? And what of the other three? Four chairs. Does that mean four culprits? When were the three put away? Before the ashtray, or after? And why so hastily stowed? The conspiratorial winds were rising. These questions demanded answers; and I was just the man to answer them.
        To my right, the old lady was looking at me again. This time she didn’t even try to hide it. She knew I was on to something. But how did she fit in? Or did she fit in at all?
        I was pondering these questions when the priest called for the people to come up and drink the blood of Christ and eat the flesh of Christ. I sat up with a start. Did I hear him right? The reference to cannibalism was the last thing my mind needed right then. Something wasn’t right here. Is this what happened in church? Now the people were all lining up to perform this weird vampiric ritual. And the priest seemed to revel in the consumption. Was it the thought of blood, or the taste of wine? Good God, I thought, I was expecting a refuge, not this kind of madness.
        The people all seemed to be looking at me as they returned from the blood-drinking. As if they had gotten a tease, and now wanted the real thing. I sank deeper into the pew and covered my throat. Oh, God. I knew it was only a matter of time until they descended.
        But then a thought occurred to me. People were moving up and down the aisle, coming and going from the altar. There was confusion. In this melee, brought on by all the consumption of human flesh and blood, I had my opening to escape. I could enter the fray, then make a run for the doors and hope nobody noticed. Most of the flock was old and white-haired anyway. At least they appeared to be. Who knows what was hiding under their wrinkled skin. Surely, they wouldn’t be able to catch me, though. Right? The lady at the end of the pew told a different story. But she was just one.
        I weighed my options. It was now or never. I glanced around. But I didn’t move. This was a tough decision. If I left now, I would never solve the mystery of the ashtray. And my senses told me I was right on the heels of that elucidation. But, at the same time, I knew I would never be allowed to leave with the truth. I probably wouldn’t be allowed to leave no matter what. These beasts had the scent of human blood in their nostrils. I was doomed.
        I made my decision in the blink of an eye. Without a second to lose, I leapt to my feet and tore off my jacket. With a shriek for distraction, I threw my jacket over the head of the old lady at the end of the pew to buy myself some time. Then, without hesitation, I sprung over the pew in one fluid motion. But the row behind it was blocked as well. I hurdled the next pew and the next after that until I finally reached an empty row. Without pause, I made a dash for the aisle before the mob could cut off my exit. As I made the turn into the aisle, I barreled over a beast disguised as an old man and he went sprawling backwards, head over heels. I didn’t stop to look back; I knew they were coming for me. But, in front of me, there was nothing but daylight between myself and the front door.
        I ran for my life.

THE END

Jar of Change

            Frank's heart was racing and his hands were sweaty. He tried rubbing them on his pants but knew it would not help.  It was so damn hot.  And the air conditioning in his car had stopped working years ago.  The orange needle of the gas gauge hovered just above the Empty line and the little gas-pump shaped light was on beside it.  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to slow down his heart and calm his nerves.  His belt felt tight around his waist and his shoes were awkward on his feet.  This was only the second time he had worn them.

            “Make your own way with Festiva Cruise Lines,” the ad on the radio played through nearly muted speakers.  Frank rubbed his head.  He was just past his thirtieth birthday and he could see his hairline receding in the rearview mirror. 

            “Jesus, Frank.  Get it together,” he implored himself.  This was not the time for a loss of confidence. 
            He thought he looked rather sharp in his blue shirtsleeves and grey slacks.  The slacks he had purchased at JC Penney about three years before; but with his new belt and shoes, the pants looked brand new.  He had spent extra time on the crease this morning while ironing.  Now the heat was making him sweat through his shirt and causing his pants to wrinkle.  He tried to push those petty thoughts from his mind and focus on the task at hand.  There was nothing he could do about the heat; his air conditioning was broken.  

He leaned forward in his seat to look again in the rearview.  Everything seemed in order; he was as presentable as he was going to be. 

“Go get it, man!” he spoke to the man in the mirror, trying to bolster his confidence.  In a burst of motion he turned off the key and stepped out of the car.  Straightening his belt he stepped toward the grey building quickly, as if he knew that he only had moments of positive energy of which to make use.  The day was hot and the sun made a bead of sweat sizzle down his forehead. He wiped the drop of sweat with the back of his hand being careful not to moisten his sleeve.

As he reached the glass double doors, Frank could see himself in the reflection walking up, and again, everything seemed in order.  There was no toilet paper trailing from his shoe or anything like that.  At the double door, he paused for just a moment before pulling the left door open and stepping inside.

The air-conditioning in the building engulfed him the moment the door closed behind him.  The cool air felt amazing.  It had been a long and hot drive down to this place.  The sweat on his forehead cooled and dried-up almost instantly.  Frank surveyed his surroundings and noticed that the people moved around the refreshing air of the building with purpose.

In front of him, a pretty lady in a fashionably loose-fitting ivory colored blouse and tight black business skirt that accented her long legs stepped behind the sleek reception desk with a small stack of loose papers in her hand.  Behind the desk, glass walls and doors showed an office in motion.  The workers appeared confident and intelligent.  He didn’t notice any dullards or slobs and everyone appeared to be on a driven mission.

“Can I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked in a friendly but businesslike tone as she set the papers down in front of her and sat in the ergonomic chair.

“Hello, how are you?” Frank responded.  “Yes you can.”

“I’m fine thank you,” she replied with a smile, “how may I help you?”

“I would like to talk to someone about a job,” Frank stated.

“Did you have an appointment?”

“Uh, no…I have this résumé,” he stammered.

“Okay,” she smiled, “I’ll take that down to Noreen.  If you would like to have a seat someone will be with you shortly.” 

Frank handed her the résumé and tried to present himself well while she stood and turned toward the buzzing office.  As she stepped through the glass doors Frank turned and strode to the futuristic plastic chairs positioned beside the front door. 

He sat and tried his best to look smart.  In a few minutes, the pretty receptionist returned and took her seat.  She smiled at him as she sat down and returned to her work.  There was traffic going into and out of the building and Frank tried to nod to each passing employee in the sternly businesslike manner he had seen his father use while making business deals down at the marina.  He tried to keep his posture and even crossed his legs, holding his knee in his woven fingers.  Five minutes went by like this and then fifteen and Frank continued to sit up straight in his chair and nod to each person whose eye he caught.  His butt was starting to hurt.  He wanted to slouch.

After twenty minutes, a woman in her mid-thirties came out from behind the glass doors and walked toward Frank.  She was holding his résumé in her hands and approached him with a smile. 

Frank smiled as broadly and charmingly as he could and stood up.  He thrust out his hand.  “Hello, Frank Dickens,” he stated in a deep businesslike voice as she accepted his handshake.

“Noreen Roberts, nice to meet you.”

Frank took a half-step toward the glass doors from which she had come, expecting to be led to her office so they could talk.  But then the woman sat down beside the chair on which Frank had been seated for the previous twenty minutes.  Frank quickly stepped back and sat down in his chair, the woman smiled warmly at him and looked down at his résumé.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get out here,” she apologized as she looked up, “I was on a very important phone call.”

“No problem,” Frank responded with a friendly smile, “I didn’t even notice.”  He felt like he was presenting himself well.  He was sure that if he made a good impression he would be well on his way to getting the job.  He smiled cordially and looked her in the eyes like his father had taught him.

“I just felt bad,” she said looking down at his résumé, “because I assume you are looking for our warehouse and they have their own Human Resource department.”

Frank was taken aback. “Uh, no ma’am,” he felt his cheeks turning red, “I was applying for a job in the office, maybe sales.”  His confidence was draining like a pool with a ruptured lining.

Now she was the one who was surprised.  “Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed,” she paused for a few seconds to gather her thoughts.  “Okay then, let me see…” she looked down at his resume.  “Do you have a college degree?”

“No ma’am, but I received straight A’s for all of high school,” he had expected this to be brought up and thought he could talk his way through it.  But, he hadn’t expected to have to make his pitch in the busy lobby of the building.  He stammered a little.  He shifted uncomfortably. 

The pretty receptionist was looking over at him.  He thought he saw pity in her face as his eyes caught hers for a split-second.  He was starting to sweat again despite the cool air-conditioning.  This wasn’t how he expected this to go.  Why wasn’t he talking to Noreen in her office?

“Okay,” Noreen said slowly, “Well, I’ll hang on to this and we’ll give you a call if we want you to come in for an interview,” she smiled cordially and stood up.

Frank stood up stiffly.  Was it over already?  He stood silently for a second, not knowing what to say, then extended his hand.  “Thank you, I look forward to hearing from you,” he said with as much feigned pep in his voice as he could muster.  He knew they would never call, but that was all he could think to say.  She was already walking back toward the glass doors before he even finished his sentence.  It all went so fast.         

Frank avoided eye contact with the pretty receptionist as he stepped to the exit.  He was so embarrassed.  He felt like a damn fool.  He hung his head and his shoulders slumped as he pushed the heavy glass door.  The stiflingly hot and muggy air hit him in the face like a hammer the second he stepped outside.  The air was thick and uncomfortable.  It stuck in his throat.  He tried to muster up his pride as he shuffled to his car.  He tried to walk with his chin held high, but it was nearly impossible.  He wanted to run.

When Frank got back to his car, he jumped in quickly and turned the key.  The interior of the car felt like the surface of the sun and he sweat profusely through his shirt.  The vents pushed out hotter air.  He drove out of the parking lot rapidly, trying to flee from his humiliation.  His shirt was itching his neck and the open windows did little to cool him down. 

He looked down at the gas gauge and his shoulders slumped further.  He knew he had no money in his pocket.  He had no money anywhere.  His shirt clung to his back, his shoes felt awkward.  A mile down the road he pulled into a gas station and turned off the engine.  He sat in the seat for a moment looking straight ahead.  He blinked and gripped the steering wheel.  After a long moment he looked down at a handful of coins in a jar in the console of his car.  He picked up the jar and started fishing quarters out with one finger.  He put the quarters in his lap on his grey dress-slacks.  His eyes welled for a second as he fished for change. 

He pumped four dollars and seventy-five cents worth of gas into his car and walked into the station to pay.  He didn’t meet the eyes of any of the people he passed on the way in.  His belt felt too tight.  He wished he didn’t have these uncomfortable clothes on.  He wanted to run away from the feeling he had, but that was impossible.  The feeling clung to him like a straightjacket.  His chest felt like someone was sitting on it.  When his turn came, he handed the cashier the sweaty stack of coins without meeting his eyes and turned to flee out to his car.

Frank stepped into his boiling car and started the engine.  He held the steering wheel and stared straight forward.  He glanced down at the blue shirt and grey slacks he was wearing then over to the manila folder that had previously held his résumé.  The little orange gas pump next to his gas gauge was still on.  The vents blew out hot air.  He stared forward and tried to keep from crying.  With a sweaty hand he put the car into drive and the few remaining coins in the jar of change rattled as the car lurched forward and rolled away from the gas pump.  

THE END