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Authors: Mark Schweizer
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laugh.”
“Okay then,” I said. “Remember when we did that Clown Eucharist last year?”
“How could I forget? Crown Him You Many Clowns…The Clown Imperial March …it was awful.”
“Yes, well…I got a call from Holy Comforter in Morganton. They heard about our Clown Eucharist.”
“You’re not doing another one?”
“Of course not. I told them a Clown Eucharist was a bad idea, and it didn’t work that well.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Then I might have mentioned another option for them to try,” I said, sheepishly.
Meg’s head dropped. “What did you suggest?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“A Pirate Eucharist.”
“ WHAT?!”
“Really, Meg,” Ruby said. “You shouldn’t scream. Use your ‘indoor voice.’ What will the neighbors think?”
“They’re not going to do it, are they?” asked Meg. Then she comprehended the meaning of my maniacal grin. “You may not play for a Pirate Eucharist.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You misunderstood. I’m not only playing for it; I’m writing the Pirate Eucharist.”
“It sounds like fun,” said Ruby. “Can we come?”
“Arrrgh-solutely,” I said, dropping into me best piratese. “Yar, me proud beauty, I be honored to take ye wi’ me!”
“But you can’t!” said Meg.
“Listen,” I said. “Clowns scare little kids to death. Pirates are much more fun. If you can have a Clown Eucharist, why can’t you have a Pirate Eucharist?”
“No reason I can see,” said Ruby.
“Lots of reasons,” said Meg. “Lots.”
“The priest thought it was a great idea. They’re advertising it.”
“Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes!” I said.
• • •
Ruby and Meg finished up the sandwiches in short order.
“Well, if I’m going to a Pirate Eucharist,” said Meg, “then you may go with me to church on Palm Sunday. We’re singing The Palms by Fauré.”
I snorted. “You realize that this particular Fauré is not Gabriel Fauré,” I said. “It’s by his musically challenged half-nephew Jim-Bob Fauré. It’s an awful piece.”
“Well, I haven’t heard it yet since I skipped rehearsal last week, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating because you, as we all know, are a musical snob. It’s probably lovely.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed, eyeing my lunch.
“And speaking of awful writing,” Meg said in her most pitying voice as she handed me a roast beef sandwich, “your story is not going well, is it? The plot seems to be a little off course.”
“Not a bit of it. I’m right on target. Every word a gem. Every nuance a nugget of pure gold.”
“I’d like to read it,” said Ruby, sitting down next to me. “Do you have a copy?”
“Not with me, but I’ll make sure you get one as soon as I finish,” I promised.
• • •
I got the skinny from the boys and set out just after the sun went down. It was a dark night, as nights here in the city usually are, and, in fact, I couldn’t remember a sunny night since my twelve-hour layover at Juneau International in the middle of August. It was also stormy, but that was a given. I pulled the lapels of my trench up over my ears, tucked my head down and turtled down the street at a leisurely pace.
The decorators were a front for a scam--that much was clear. One hundred sixty-five large for fabric swatches? Who did they think they were dealing with--Martha Stewart’s prison consultant? After a little friendly persuasion, they’d given me a name. I didn’t hurt them. I just pinched them a little.
• • •
I walked into The Slab on Thursday morning, bright and early, early for me being eight-thirty. I had taken my time driving in, enjoying the scenery and listening to the Ninth Symphony of Vaughan Williams. It was the symphony about which Aaron Copland quipped, “It’s like watching a cow for forty minutes.” Aaron Copland was right, but it was beautiful music for driving through the mountains on a crisp morning in March.
“I thought you
“Okay then,” I said. “Remember when we did that Clown Eucharist last year?”
“How could I forget? Crown Him You Many Clowns…The Clown Imperial March …it was awful.”
“Yes, well…I got a call from Holy Comforter in Morganton. They heard about our Clown Eucharist.”
“You’re not doing another one?”
“Of course not. I told them a Clown Eucharist was a bad idea, and it didn’t work that well.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Then I might have mentioned another option for them to try,” I said, sheepishly.
Meg’s head dropped. “What did you suggest?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“A Pirate Eucharist.”
“ WHAT?!”
“Really, Meg,” Ruby said. “You shouldn’t scream. Use your ‘indoor voice.’ What will the neighbors think?”
“They’re not going to do it, are they?” asked Meg. Then she comprehended the meaning of my maniacal grin. “You may not play for a Pirate Eucharist.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You misunderstood. I’m not only playing for it; I’m writing the Pirate Eucharist.”
“It sounds like fun,” said Ruby. “Can we come?”
“Arrrgh-solutely,” I said, dropping into me best piratese. “Yar, me proud beauty, I be honored to take ye wi’ me!”
“But you can’t!” said Meg.
“Listen,” I said. “Clowns scare little kids to death. Pirates are much more fun. If you can have a Clown Eucharist, why can’t you have a Pirate Eucharist?”
“No reason I can see,” said Ruby.
“Lots of reasons,” said Meg. “Lots.”
“The priest thought it was a great idea. They’re advertising it.”
“Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes!” I said.
• • •
Ruby and Meg finished up the sandwiches in short order.
“Well, if I’m going to a Pirate Eucharist,” said Meg, “then you may go with me to church on Palm Sunday. We’re singing The Palms by Fauré.”
I snorted. “You realize that this particular Fauré is not Gabriel Fauré,” I said. “It’s by his musically challenged half-nephew Jim-Bob Fauré. It’s an awful piece.”
“Well, I haven’t heard it yet since I skipped rehearsal last week, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating because you, as we all know, are a musical snob. It’s probably lovely.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed, eyeing my lunch.
“And speaking of awful writing,” Meg said in her most pitying voice as she handed me a roast beef sandwich, “your story is not going well, is it? The plot seems to be a little off course.”
“Not a bit of it. I’m right on target. Every word a gem. Every nuance a nugget of pure gold.”
“I’d like to read it,” said Ruby, sitting down next to me. “Do you have a copy?”
“Not with me, but I’ll make sure you get one as soon as I finish,” I promised.
• • •
I got the skinny from the boys and set out just after the sun went down. It was a dark night, as nights here in the city usually are, and, in fact, I couldn’t remember a sunny night since my twelve-hour layover at Juneau International in the middle of August. It was also stormy, but that was a given. I pulled the lapels of my trench up over my ears, tucked my head down and turtled down the street at a leisurely pace.
The decorators were a front for a scam--that much was clear. One hundred sixty-five large for fabric swatches? Who did they think they were dealing with--Martha Stewart’s prison consultant? After a little friendly persuasion, they’d given me a name. I didn’t hurt them. I just pinched them a little.
• • •
I walked into The Slab on Thursday morning, bright and early, early for me being eight-thirty. I had taken my time driving in, enjoying the scenery and listening to the Ninth Symphony of Vaughan Williams. It was the symphony about which Aaron Copland quipped, “It’s like watching a cow for forty minutes.” Aaron Copland was right, but it was beautiful music for driving through the mountains on a crisp morning in March.
“I thought you
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