The "Priest" They Called Him

Fight tuberculosis, folks

Christmas eve, an old junkie

Selling christmas seals on

North park street

The priest, they called him

Fight tuberculosis, folks

People hurried by, grey shadows

On a distant wall

It was getting late and no money to score

He turned into a side street

And the lake wind hit him like a knife

Cab stopped just ahead, under a street light

Boy got out with a suitcase

Thin kid in prep school clothes

Familiar face, the priest told himself, watching from the doorway

Reminds me of something a long time ago

The boy there with his overcoat unbuttoned

Reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare

The cab drove away and turned the corner

The boy went inside a building

Hm, yes, maybe, the suitcase was there in the doorway

The boy nowhere in sight

Gone to get the keys, most likely

Have to move fast

He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner

Made it, glanced down at the case

Didn't look like the case the boy had or any boy would have

The priest couldn't put his finger on what was so old about the case

Old and dirty, poor quality leather and heavy

Better see what's inside

He turned into lincoln park

Found an empty place and opened the case

Two severed human legs that belonged to a young man with dark skin

Shiny black leg hairs glittered in the dim streetlight

The legs had been forced into the case

And he had to use his knee on the back of the case to shove them out

Legs yet, he said, and walked quickly away with the case

Might bring a few dollars to score

The buyer sniffed suspiciously

"Kind of a funny smell about it

Is this mexican leather?" he shrugged

"Well, some joker didn't cure it"

The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor

"Not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is

Three is the best I can do and it hurts

But since this is christmas and you're the priest"

He slipped three notes under the table into the priest's dirty hand

The priest faded into the street shadow, seedy and furtive

Three cents didn't buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel

"Say, remember that old anti-croaker told me not to come back

Unless I paid him the three cents I owe him

Isn't that a fruit for you to blow your stack

About three lousy cents?"

The doctor was not pleased to see him

"Now what do you want? I told you-"

The priest laid three bills on the table

The doctor put the money in his pocket and started to scream

"I've had trouble, people have been around, I may lose my license"

The priest just sat there, eyes old and heavy with years of junk

On the doctor's face

"I can't write you a prescription"

The doctor jerked open a drawer and slid an ampule across the table

"That's all I have in the office"

The doctor stood up

"Take it and get out!" he screamed, hysterical

The priest's expression did not change

The doctor added in quieter tones

"After all I'm a professional man

And I shouldn't be bothered by people like you"

"Is that all you have for me, one lousy quarter g?"

"Couldn't you lend me a nickel?"

"Get out, get out, I'll call the police I tell you"

"All right, doctor, I'm going"

Christ, it was cold and far to walk

Rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top floor

These stairs, the priest there pulling himself up along the bannister

He went into the bathroom

Yellow wall panels, toilet dripping

He got his works from under the washbasinWrapped in brown paper

Back to his room

Get every drop in the dropper

He rolled up his sleeve

Then he heard a groan from next door

Room 18

A Mexican kid lived there

The priest had passed him on the stairs

And saw the kid was hooked

But he never spoke

Because he didn't want any juvenile connections

Bad news in any language

And the priest had had enough bad news in his life

Heard the groan again

A groan he could feel

No mistaking that groan and what it meant

Maybe had an accident or something

Any case I can't enjoy my priestly medications

With that sound coming through the wall

Thin walls you understand

The priest put down his dropper

Cold hall

And knocked on the door of room 18

Quien es?

It's the priest kid

I live next door

Could hear someone hobbling across the floor

A bolt slid

The boy stood there in his underwear shorts

Eyes black with pain

He started to fall

The priest helped him over to the bed

What's wrong son?

It's my legs señor

Cramps and now I am without medicine

The priest could see the cramps

Like knots of wood there on the young lean legs

Dark shiny black leg hairs

A few years ago I damaged myself in a bicycle race

And it was then that the cramps started

And he has the leg cramps back

With compound junk interest

The old priest stood there feeling the boy groan

He inclined his head as if in prayer

Went back and got his dropper

It's just a quarter G kid

I do not require much señor

The boy was sleeping when the priest left room 18

He went back to his room and sat down on the bed

Then it hit him like heavy silent snow

All the gray junk yesterdays

He sat there and received the immaculate fix

And since he was himself a priest

There was no need to call one