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
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