The Priest They Called HimThe 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, gray 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 stop
just ahead under a streetlight.
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. "Hmm, 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. It 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 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." "It's just Mexican
leather." "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
bills under the table into the Priest's
dirty hand. The Priest faded into the
street shadows, seedy and furtive. Three
cents didn't buy a bag, nothing less than
a nickel. Say, remember that old Addie
croaker told me not to come back unless I
paid him the three cents I owe him. Yeah,
isn't that a fruit for ya, 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 TROUBLES!
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." Of course it was cold
and far to walk, rooming house, a shabby
street, room on the top floor. "These
stairs," coughed the Priest there, pulling
himself up along the bannister. He went
into the bathroom, yellow wall panels,
toilet dripping, and got his works from
under the washbasin. Wrapped 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 eighteen. The
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. The Priest had
had enough bad news in his life.
He heard the groan again, a groan he could
feel, no mistaking that groan and what it
meant. "Maybe he had an accident or
something. In 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 eighteen.
"Quien es?" "It's the Preist, kid, I live
next door." He 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, senor, cramps, and now I am without
medicine." The Priest could see the cramps,
like knots of wood there in the young legs,
dark shiny black leg hairs.
"A few years ago I damaged myself in a
bicycle race, it was then that the cramps
started." And now 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,
senor."
The boy was sleeping when the Priest left
room eighteen. 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 received the
immaculate fix. And since he was himself a
priest, there was no need to call one.
Kurt Cobain & William S. Burroughs. 1993.