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4

He begins on his knees.

He closes his eyes tighter.

It is a ’64 GTO Judge, almost cliché in its cool.

Father Patrick O’Shaugnessy, almost cliché in his faith, slips on his ray ban wide frames, cracks his knuckles, cracks his neck, shuts the door to his modest home without caring to lock up, and walks out towards the car. He throws the keys out of the pockets of his all-black priestly slacks and catches the jangling muss with his off hand. He won’t be needing a good 90% of those keys, anymore.

Noisemakers, now.

He slides in and starts the car up with ease. It purrs like it just came fresh off the lot, and the new bose sound system he had installed the other week with his friend that he had helped sober up 5 years prior blasts a big heavy amount of bass through the speakers as 70’s rock comes blaring through.

It’s all cliché in it’s blending of old cool and new school.

father begins,

He tears off his collar, throws it out the driver side window, and peels away, guitar solo screeching and tires rolling and engine revving and life starting anew; and all energy and buzz and whir and whistle and whip and no whisper and never-again and not-for-you and now-all-new.

father got stuck at the bridge.

The bridge is a big old detachable modern monstrosity at the only cut in the entire city which separates the north part of town from downtown which conveniently has the only exit available. It goes up for about 30 minutes a day so the only carrier vessel that ever comes through these parts comes through. Sometimes a sail boat slips underneath.

Father shuts off his engine. He’ll be here a while.

He looks up at the sky.

It’s the hottest day of the year. 95 degrees. It rained yesterday. The smell of cooked asphalt. The squiggling lines of heat rising from the concrete. The musky sensation of damp summer. The only rainy day of August, encapsulated in this traffic.

There’s cars lined up at least 3 blocks at the bridge.

Patrick didn’t grab water for the trip.

Stupid car doesn’t have AC and the fan’s busted.

The glasses have long since come off, they were starting to fog up.

The slicked back hair droops.

says the Lord almighty our Savior and God praised be his name,

Father closes his eyes and drops his head.

One drop, then two; then comes the rain.

The cars all begin to shift and shake with people rolling up their windows. There’s motion in the cars so people may look out at the clouds overtaking the sunshine on this unexpectedly inclimate day.

He, our lord God the king of all things on Heaven and Earth, says.

Patrick closes his window and turns the battery on, proceeding to crank the music.

45 minutes and two and a half playlists later:

Father Patrick fires up his engine and the purr returns. He’s taken good care of his mid life crisis.

The bridge begins to go down.

Father lowers his head:

The swell of traffic on the bridge begins to slowly move. Cars toward the back can be heard restarting their engine.

God begins,

Patrick takes a good hard look at the crucifix on his rearview mirror –

God asks.

Father answers.

He tops out at 85 mph on the highway — dark, balding brown hair whipping in the wind, funneled from the open windows.

He starts to floor it, he starts running his mind down the stretch of unoccupied road, he is running not away but he is running, he is reacquainting himself with himself, he is not scared but he is anxious, he is swerving on the inside but his hand is steady; he is not afraid, he is not running, he is cool, he is calm, he is black sunglasses on a foggy day, keeping to himself with a smile; he is flooring it, he is picking up speed, he is staying in his lane but passing no one with no threat of danger, he is staying out of his own head, he is keeping clear of the mud and muck and weed, he is everything Godly and Good and Giving but engaging in the Self Care that he had forgotten, he is Forgiving himself for the respite from prayer he is to take, he is making his sabbatical Selfish and Wholesome and Useful and Full Of Merit and Not In The Service Of Others For Once In His Life.

He is crossing bridges and speeding down highways and bouncing off speed bumps and ignoring the voices of doubt that would otherwise give him pause; he is keeping a calm hand on the wheel and shifting the weight from his big toe slowly and steadily more onto the gas as he hits the horizon at top speed now. Some time soon he will return to some life akin to this one, for what else is he to do, but for now he is briefly away from it.

But for now he is gone, a quick respite from prayer in the garden of the father, not on his knees, in his cliché cool, with his cliché cool, for his cliché cool; outside of some cliché way.

Or so he hopes, or so he prays.

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