Read Online Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me by Richard Farina - Free Book Online

replacing everything criminal in the rucksack. Got to cool Mother Church, too much irony in getting busted by a priest. As he turned toward the speaker, snapping his fingers, he found the image of a wrinkled penis looking back at him. Only after it moved did he recognize the reflection as his own.
    “Jesus, put some clothes on,” from Heff, who also saw, tossing him a black terrycloth robe. “Your body is obscene after a debauch.”
    “Meaningless word, man.”
    “Lewd, then. How the hell you ever get women to make love to is way past me.” Traffic noise from the street, a world functioning on.
    “I don’t. I bang them is all. I’m still a virgin. Have yet to make love, right?”
    A polite rapping at the door.
    “Jesus, the Man.”
    Heff leaping up from his rocker, “Lie down somewhere, quick. And for Christ’s sake, keep that robe closed!”
    Pappadopoulis pulled the terrycloth around him and jumped onto the pathetic leather couch, its skin peeling in jagged strips. Heffalump threw an army blanket over his knees, tucked him in, and waited until hands were locked in reverence before going to the door. Monsignor Putti was waiting nervously, carrying a black pigskin satchel in stubby fingers. He entered and stood to be helped with his heavy coat.
    “Is this the patient?” he asked with a twitching smile. Wound around his splendid frock was a scarlet sash. Swollen belly, balding scalp, hair combed back to front in a foppish attempt to conceal. Eek, a concave sternum.
    “He finds it difficult to speak,” explained Heff cautiously.
    “God help us. Has the doctor been here already?”
    “He refuses all medical assistance.”
    “Dear me, is that wise?”
    “He has faith only in, well, you know.”
    From the couch a hand groping weakly into space: “Father. Father, is that you?”
    The monsignor bending curiously toward Heff, “Perhaps you’d better ring the infirmary, after all—”
    “And movements, you see, sudden movements give him great pain.”
    “Yes, yes . . . ” shakily opening the pigskin bag and removing the delicate cruets of holy oil. Plump pink fingers. Jesus, that Miles.
    “Father?”
    “Yes, my son?”
    In a whisper: “More treble, we’re losing the highs.”
    “What’s that? What’s he saying?”
    “He wanders now and again, Father. It happens every half hour or so,” Heff going over to the amplifier and adjusting the controls.
    “Better,” from the figure on the couch.
    “My son, I’m, well, I’m moved that you sought the blessing of the Church first in your infirmity; but perhaps a doctor—”
    “BUTCHERS,” called Gnossos violently, thrashing under the army blanket, “ATHEISTS!”
    “Oh dear.”
    “You see, Father, that’s how he becomes.”
    Then, in a lower tone, inviting them closer to hear, clutching the monsignor’s retreating sleeve and staring at him with one eye closed, breathing Bromo Seltzer, whiskey fumes, and hangover in his face: “I know what they do, Father. These doctors, these men of learning, I know what they do, all right. They cut open your belly and look inside for a soul, that’s what. They look inside for a soul and when they don’t find any they say, ‘HA! No soul! Pancreas maybe, but no soul!’” Releasing the sleeve, falling back against the couch with a gasp, “I’ve got one though, haven’t I; I’ve got a soul, tell them I have a soul.”
    “Yes, my son, yes,” brushing his sleeve unconsciously, glancing for support at Heff, who just in time suppressed a choking giggle.
    “Fix me, Father, I’m a sinner. I’ve done wrong. My mortal soul is in danger.”
    “Yes, yes, of course, try and calm yourself, I’ll be only a moment.” With shaky gestures and an odd glance around the mildewed room for security in some familiar object, the priest annointed the senses with holy oil. He squinted as he prayed hurriedly for the sins each perceptive organ had under its jurisdiction.
    There was a pause, then a startling, erotic sensation