Marty Shambles

Communion

I wake up with the shakes on the cold cardboard bed. The sky is a continuous grey yawn. Everything feels grey. There is a light snow, such that you could walk between the snowflakes if you were clever enough. I’m not feeling clever and I let a snowflake kiss my cheek, then deliquesce–Its union with my beard causing it to lose its composure.

Life’s been rough for awhile. I spend my days on the hunt for hooch, and my nights are spent in the sauce, thinking about all the ways I done wrong; fantasizing about going back in time to make things right. Maybe if I loved her better then…

The shakes are going to get bad soon.

I get my bearings. I’m on 8th, outside the Episcopal church. I think it’s Sunday. Perfect. That means there will be a bunch of benevolent Liberals with their pockets full to tithe… 

That gives me an idea.

I take the Sharpie from my pocket and write on my bed, “TITHE TO ME I need it more than the church does.” I tear off the piece of cardboard, which is my drink ticket. Next I need to find a discarded cup. I see one rolling in the wind, about half a block up.

A man walks past and yells, “Get a job, you bum!”

I say, “Thanks, I hadn’t thought of that. Do you have any more sage wisdom for me?”

He doesn’t seem to understand what I’m saying because he just looks confused. “Fuck you!” And he walks away.

It’s weird living in a way that people just fucking hate you for continuing to live. I kind of understand it because I hate myself for continuing to live. But it’s just wild how skyrocketing rents and depressed wages and severe mental illness are my fault. They hate me because I remind them of what could happen to them with one or two bad turns. 

There but for the grace of…

I walk down to the cup, blowing in the grey wind. I pick it up. It’s a relatively clean cup. There’s only a couple drops of dried coke on the inside. It’s a Burger King cup, and it is my passport to the kingdom of drunkenness. 

The shakes are getting more severe. I find a snipe on the sidewalk and light it up to try and calm the terror welling up in me. It’s an old cigarette that’s maybe been there for weeks. I can taste the old of it. It’s disgusting, but it hampers the need.

I go to the door of the church with my sign and my cup, as the good Christians file past.

“Spare some change?” I say. “Spare some change?” I say again. A few people give me all of their change. It amounts to about 85 cents. Not enough for a beer. “Spare some change?” 

Most of them ignore me. A few make a show of patting their pockets before telling me they don’t have any cash. A few frown at my sign, but my sign is true. 

This church’s property was probably purchased in 1885 or some such time that they paid like $25 bucks for the land and they haven’t had to pay taxes on it since. It’s all gravy for them in there. I bet the pastor or priest or whatever lives in a mansion in Hyde Park. Meanwhile I just need three dollars for a drink so I don’t die of the DT’s. 

The pastor is a beggar too. Honestly, everyone is a beggar when you think about it.

The foot traffic slows to a trickle and it occurs to me that they have wine at Communion. I go inside and there’s an elderly greeter at the door like this is a Walmart or something. He hands me a slip of paper. I don’t look at it. He looks scared of me. I must look scary to old men. 

He says, “Peace be with you.”

As a reflex from my childhood I reply, “And also with you.”

I walk into the cathedral and the ceiling stretches up like it’s trying to prove something. There are all the churchy things here: stained glass windows, intricate carvings on all the columns, a throng of parishioners. I think that’s what they’re called. The audience, if you will.

I find a seat near the back. I sit far away from any of these nice people because I don’t want to spread my smell. I’m shaking like an Indonesian Richter scale now. It’s really bad and I see people look at me and whisper to each other.

I sit through the service for like an hour. It’s so boring, I drift off and think about when I was a kid going to church. I hated it. Dressing in my Sunday best. The button up shirt that would choke me with a little tie. The preacher being all fire and brimstone. He’d say that God was punishing me for my wickedness, and maybe he’d be right.

Finally it comes time for Communion and I’m a sweaty rattle of bones. I rush to the front, but as calmly as I can. I need that sweet blood of Christ in my bloodstream. An infusion to keep me going. I make my way through the line, trying to keep my cool, but people are looking at me like something stuck to the sole of their shoe.

Finally, it’s my turn and I greet the priest humbly. He’s in his 50s; A greying stoic structure of a man. He has the wine in a great golden chalice that probably cost a downpayment on a car. 

He pours the wine in my mouth and I grab the chalice and chug all the wine I can in front of everyone. He fights me, trying to get the chalice back. He pulls back hard and wine gets all over his robe. 

People gasp and mutter. “Filthy animal,” I heard one person say. I just confirmed for them everything they think about me.

Something strange happens to my stomach. It’s like the wine is turning itself inside out. My mouth tastes like copper. I don’t know how I know this, but the wine is actually transubstantiating into blood in my gut. 

I look up at the stained glass window depicting Jesus. I fall to my knees as the clouds part and sun shines through his face. Tears stream down my cheeks as large men drag me out of the church.