Raising Lavinia...
...and flogging a recalcitrant priest
Father Christopher warms the old bones beside the Lake of Fire
Filling the bus to bursting, we rocked, rattled and rolled down the old road leading through the Rocky Mountain National Park outside of Boulder. We were headed for the Jesus Bunker and a weekend retreat with Father Christopher, our Spiritual Guide and Adviser.
Brother Marek suggested time would pass more quickly if we all sang a song, so we opted for our favorite, Father Christopher. With a maniacal cackle, Marek assumed his customary position at the front of the bus, and started us off.
Soon, the sound of lyrical lovesong and wholesome laughter filled the fresh Colorado mountain air. Sucking on our blotters and sharing syringes, we sang all the way to our weekend with Father Christopher.
Here's how the song goes. You can sing along too, if you wish.
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm!
Father Christopher, who rebuilt the Jesus Bunker after its unfortunate bombing last October, met us at the gates of the security compound and immediately began ministering to the faithful.
"Jesus Fucking Christ," he roared. "Where the fuck do you think you hosers are going?"
Brother Phil stepped forward. "We come to visit, Father, and to pay you homage."
"You sniveling fucking limp-dick," screamed our Master, "Visit? And who in Christ's name do you think is going to put you up?"
"We have brought our bedrolls, Father. We will not inconvenience you."
"And what's this about paying homage, eh?"
"We have been mightily blessed, Father, and can pay by Mastercard, Visa or American Express."
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm, left arm!
Father Christopher was not listening. His eyes had fallen upon Sister Lavinia, a pure and chaste girl of great virtue and comely appearance. He was distracted.
"Eh..."
Father Christopher was studying Sister Lavinia's breasts. "Mine eyes have seen the glory..." he began, but his voice tailed off.
He approaced her slowly, with a lascivious leer.
Did you come?" he asked her, a demented glint in his eye.
At this, realizing a lesson was in the offing, the faithful fell to their knees. Sister Lavinia, a girl of great charm and a former Simply the Best cover girl, smiled beatifically.
"I came good," she whispered.
The long "Oooh..." of all those assembled was a soft wind blowing through the trees of the forest bordering the electrified perimeter fence.
Father Christopher placed his right hand on the girl's left breast. "Did you come good?" he intoned, his voice louder and more urgent.
Sister Lavinia, her beautiful face a picture of composure, looked into Father Christopher's eyes. She smiled again. "Yes," she answered softly. Her voice sounded like falling leaves. "I came good."
The "Aaah..." of the faithful rose to the high branches of the trees and their creaking, outstretched boughs.
Father Christopher grabbed the girl's arm, pulling her to him. He slipped his left hand up her skirt.
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm, left arm, right foot!
We watched.
Testing Sister Lavinia's faith to the utmost, he kissed her forcefully before screaming at her, "Did you come good? Did you come good? Did you come good? Huh?"
Sister Lavinia raised her right arm and, passing the palm of her cool, slim hand across Father Christopher's brow, said; "To is a preposition. Come is a verb, the verb intransitive. To come."
She paused, smiling at all of us, repeating the words. "To come."
The resulting "Eeeh..." rose above the trees, took the form of a dove and rose to the heavens. We watched it disappear.
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm, left arm, right foot, left foot!
I felt a hand on my shoulder. Startled and somewhat blinded by having stared skyward for so long, I found myself looking directly into Father Christopher's deep, dark, kindly eyes.
"You fucking dog," he snarled, holding my shoulder and giving it a brotherly shake. "You did it. You really did it."
I was somewhat taken aback. "Yes, of course, Father. It was your wish and it was as you said it would be. Indeed, she is a wonderful woman."
My Spiritual Adviser smiled. It was an emotional smile. A tear inched its way along his laugh lines.
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm, left arm, right foot, left foot, | Chin up!
Suddenly, his shoulders slumped and his posture drooped. Dropping his head, he muttered, as if in confidence and so that only I could hear, "But what about me?"
I embraced him. Not in a sexual way, you understand, but as a brother who knows, who feels, who identifies with another.
"Don't worry about it, Father," I told him gently. "I come better with you, than with anybody in the whole goddamn world. Besides, it is as the girl says. 'To is a preposition. Come is a verb, the verb intransitive. That's all there is to it'."
"Really?" asked our Master and Spiritual Adviser.
All had risen to their feet. They gathered about us, their faces expressing the love of kindred spirits. Sister Lavinia took her place beside me and slipped her hand into mine.
I smiled at my teacher. It was a smile of beneficent love and gratitude. "Really," I said, and squeezed his shoulder.
Father Christopher shook himself. As if waking from a trance, he looked at each of us in turn. He scratched his head, gave me a last, quizzical glance, and strode off to the podium.
"Okay, you dumb fuckers," he roared from his position on high. "Here's how it goes. First, my sermon. After that, a couple of joints and the ordination. We'll then have lunch. After that, I get to fuck with your heads."
His confidence seemed unshaken. He glanced at me. I gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed Lavinia's hand. She squeezed mine. Father Christopher launched into his sermon:
How now, Lavinia! Mike, what means this? | Some book there is that she desires to see. | Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. | But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd | Come, and take choice of all my library, | And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens | Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed. |Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm, left arm, right foot, left foot, | Chin up, turn around!
Sister Lavinia has many admirers
My lunch hour was almost over. I was down in the street, enjoying a smoke. Under the mountain, the sun shone on the city. The chatter of fellow smokers and the voices of passersby rose above the noise of the traffic, speaking of Spring.
A skateboarder wearing a Panama hat sailed past the truck offloading fresh bread outside the 7-11. Music poured onto Kloof Street from the block of flats opposite.
My feet moved.
I asked a young guy passing by if he knew the music. "It's kwaito," he answered, stopping to listen.
Kwaito is a unique fusion of house, pantsula and mbaqanga, and has fast become the music of South Africa's urban youth. Vivid, dynamic, and filled with the rhythm of Africa and the townships, it's often vilified by those favoring established or imported music forms.
"Yes, I know, but who's it by?" I asked him.
The singer was a woman. Her voice was rich, strong, and plaintive. It carried a song with Latino or jazz overtones. "Mafikizolo," responded the passerby, moving to the sound. "You like it?"
"It's fucking great. What's mafikizolo mean?"
"He came yesterday."
I turned to him and smiled.
"Thanks," I said. "It couldn't be more appropriate."
Father Christopher had many sons | Many sons had Father Christopher | I am one of them and so are you | So let's all praise the Lord. | Right arm, left arm, right foot, left foot, | Chin up, turn around, sit down!
Brother Marek
