More than twenty years ago, I had the privilege of visiting a couple of monasteries, abbeys, actually. Quite an amazing experience. Over the years, I think of the brothers going about their daily routine of work and prayer, unchanging as the world outside continually changes.
Today I felt a tinge of monkishness, having to work while just about the whole country "celebrated" Labor Day by not working. I did my best. But it got me thinking about something I wrote a few years go, trying to provide a pick-me-up for someone who seemed to need one. I had picked up a copy of The Collected Short Fiction of Bruce Jay Friedman because he was always one of those writers I wanted to learn more about (check him out here). A review I read called the story "The Mission" one of the funniest stories in American literature. So I got the book and turned right to the story. I start reading and reading, and I'm not laughing. I read more, and don't laugh. I get to end of the six-page story, think a minute, and I laugh hysterically.
Basically, without spoiling anything, the story allowed me permission to take a good joke and turn it into a short story. Which I did with what follows. Hope you laugh.
MONK'S WORD
So I know this guy named Dean. Known him since he moved to Cleveland from Tulsa in the seventh grade. He didn't fit in real well at our close-knit Catholic school, probably because he was a real Catholic, ultra. While the rest of us boys could recite up-to-the minute batting averages of our favorite baseball players and children's phone line numbers of our favorite girls at the drop of a hat, he was into saints. Hit him up in the lunch line or on the playground with some random date, and he'd tell you whose feast it was: September 1st: Saint Fiacre. While we all snuck gulps of church wine after serving mass at eight in the morning, he'd stand in the corner (keeping watch for the priest and those old ladies who are sort of church/priest groupies, always hanging around the sacristy--at least he was sort of a team player) and mumble the Apostle's Creed.
Anyway, Dean was all right after a while. He could take a joke and he was as sweet as anyone, and even we in our worst seventh grade boy moments could respect totally unmalicious, unpolitical sweetness. In high school he sang in the men's chorus and acted in the plays and went to all the dances, always with a different girl, but they all looked the same, like they'd just stepped out of some twisted, mail-order would-be nun catalog. He went to Notre Dame, of course, and even succumbed to getting drunk every once in a while there, and graduated magna cum laude with a degree in theology and a minor in African-American Studies. He taught religion at an inner-city elementary school for a few years, but got burned pretty badly by the mother of one his students, a sweetly malicious woman named Melinda who was one of the world's first crack addicts. She played him for a fool and ended up bilking him out of about ten thousand dollars and much innocence and self-possession.
When he turned thirty he went to Europe for a year to do nothing but tour great cathedrals, but once again he was led into precarious straits by a Czech woman and her half-brother; let's just say that when they need to, American Embassies can pull a lot of weight. Fully chastened and feeling aimless for the first time in his life, Dean returned to America, made a half-hearted attempt to get a doctorate in philosophy, fell in with some guerrilla-style renegade priests who'd descend upon unwitting highway rest stops and perform three-hour Latin masses to road-weary travelers. In a turn of events no one has ever believed so I'll spare you the fascinating details and the story about the circus performer, he finally decided to enter an obscure monastery located high in the Rockies near Butte.
When he first arrived (and this story was related to me via three-D crucifixion postcards over several months in `95), he decided to shed all his worldly cynicism and force himself to look at the world through those same unscarred eyes with which he arrived in Cleveland in August `75. On his first day, he had a private meeting with the head monk, Brother Nunzio. Now Brother Nunzio, I guess, was revered as a Buddha-like figure; he didn't say much to his religious charges, but he was the most pious, self-effacing, self-denying man any of the two-and-a-half score monks who lived at the monastery (no devout slouches themselves) had ever encountered. Brother Nunzio didn't usually get close with the new monks (and he considered any monk who had been a monk less than twenty years a new monk: "Rome wasn't built in a day," he used to say, "nor is a worthy soul tilled in less than 10,000 days"), but for whatever reason, at lunch on Dean's first day (grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and Acts 12:1-45, read aloud as the brothers ate in silence) Brother Nunzio took a shine to good-hearted Dean and took him by the arm after the meal and led him to his cell. There they chatted in whispers about Dean's calling, the rigors of the monastic life, eternal penance, and Brother Nunzio's odd fascination with "this new kind of music I have heard about, what they call, hip-hop, yes?" After their hour-long colloquy, Brother Nunzio told Dean that instead of floors, his work detail from the start would be copying the great texts. Dean, naturally, was ecstatic ("he didn't even ask to see my penmanship!") and went to work immediately in the dusty old library, and began apprenticing under the stern tutelage of Brother Stoudt, who was never known to make one erroneous ink-smudge in more than forty years of copying the great religious texts of the monastery. Dean was obviously intimidated by Brother Stoudt, but he soon took to his chores with relish, poring over the great pious writings and copying their ornate letters into newer leather-bound books.
After two weeks at the job, though (and after a mini-crisis when his wrist seemed to go dead for three days before snapping back to life stronger than ever--a common malady known to all monk-scribes everywhere as Resurrection Wrist), an odd, nagging question kept assaulting Dean throughout his long days and nights of transcribing, praying, eating, and not speaking. At first he chalked this doubt up to being a newbie, and with the kibosh put on much social interaction, Dean didn't feel comfortable approaching any of his new brethren about it, and he certainly would never say anything to Brother Stoudt; "He'd probably bust me back down to floors for a decade or three," Dean wrote.
But during his third week, after a dinner of fish sticks, soda crackers and peanut butter, and Leviticus 11:36-112, Brother Nunzio once again tugged at his cloak and led him down the dark hallways to his cell. Brother Nunzio pulled a bottle of contraband Swiss Cream Soda, warm, out of his austere bureau, poured Dean and himself small paper cups, and asked him, "So how's the life, young brother?"
Dean whispered his joy at living the contemplative life, his fondness for the example of his wiser brothers, and his grateful privilege at being allowed to work with the sacred texts day after day. Brother Nunzio nodded in shared glee, it seemed to Dean, but then he asked, "But what are your complaints, young brother?" Dean thought this was a test, so of course he said he had no complaints. Brother Nunzio persisted, though, and finally Dean did manage to whisper that his mattress was a bit old and severe. Nunzio drank deep his Swiss Cream Soda, suppressed a minor burp, and said, "You're a monk, what do you expect? But what are your real complaints?" The voice was more emotional, more football-coach-like than wise old monk, and in a moment of divine inspiration, Dean thought to himself, well, if this guy wants the dope on hip-hop, I guess I can spill the beans.
"Well, Brother Nunzio, there is just one thing."
"Ah, speak, young brother," oozed Brother Nunzio, closing his eyes and sort of rocking back in anticipated empathy.
"Well, it's been bugging me for a few days now," Dean began. "I work all day copying the great texts, but I know that the texts I'm copying from aren't the original texts."
Brother Nunzio was a bit taken aback, not expecting this complaint. "Well, obviously, young brother, the original texts are too sacred and too fragile to be handled every day, by humble men like you and me; they are stored in the vault in the attic."
"I understand that, Brother Nunzio," Dean said, feeling that under the influence of the cream soda he might as well go for broke, "but I worry that maybe years ago, centuries ago, somebody might have made an honest mistake in transcribing the texts, and unbeknownst to generations of monks, the mistake has been replicated hundreds of times."
Now Brother Nunzio did burp. He looked like somebody would look at the onset of a cardiac arrest. "Good God, son," Nunzio whispered; his cup of cream soda visually trembled, "such a thought never occurred to me." He gulped down the rest of the cream soda and looked for a long minute at the crucifix that faced him across the small room, then said, "But I will investigate. Rest assured, young Brother Dean. I will go immediately to the vault and look at the original sacred texts and make sure no mistake has been made. Now," he said, rising with much force and tossling Brother Dean's new tonsure, "trouble yourself no more about this matter. It is in my hands. Sleep peacefully." With that he walked out of his cell, but not before blindly dropping the empty paper cup to the wicker wastebasket that sat near the door. The cup hit the rim of the basket, though, and fell to the floor. Brother Nunzio didn't seem to notice; he just kept walking in the direction of the vaulted sacred texts.
Dean did sleep deeply that night, dreaming of singing nuns and vodka martinis in a post-communist Prague sidewalk cafe. At breakfast (oatmeal, unbuttered toast, grapefruit juice, and Exodus 6:13-82) there was some quiet scurrying about by some of the middle-management monks before finally Brother Cletus, a no-nonsense former FBI agent/CYO soccer coach, interrupted the silence by announcing that Brother Nunzio was missing. They had checked his cell, but he wasn't there, and his bed appeared not to have been slept in the previous night. The tables of monks turned into a pack of high school girls, though lower in volume, spreading rumors and theories amongst themselves. But quickly Dean got up from his table, walked up to Brother Cletus, and told him that they should look in the attic, that Brother Nunzio had gone there last night to consult the sacred texts. Brother Cletus nodded his head, told Brother Dean to resume eating, and motioned to brothers Floyd and Lowell, twins who used to work as longshoremen in Brooklyn, and the three of them bustled out of the dining room.
Dean said the rest of the story is clouded in legend, hearsay, and third-hand accounts (not helped by the fact that Brother Nunzio, soon after being discovered, packed his bag and fled in dazed silence), but from what he could piece together from the most reliable sources he could find is this: brothers Cletus, Floyd, and Lowell entered the attic, shyly calling out Brother Nunzio's name, more than a little scared of what they might find. The attic was dank, dark, and overstuffed, but eventually they heard soft sobs coming from a far corner. With great care the three tough monks approached the delicate old monk, who sat on an old wooden chair, unshaven, unkempt, distraught, and sobbing a long sob.
"Brother Nunzio," asked Lowell, the "soft" but more pious twin monk, "what's wrong?"
Minutes seemed to pass as the three tough monks watched in fascinated uneasiness as Brother Nunzio tried to speak but could only manage weak hand gestures that bespoke helplessness. Finally, after a heavy sag, he managed to whisper in a voice most despairing and empty, "Celebrate. The word is cele-BRATE."
Kool and The Gang-Celebration
Jill Scott-Celibacy Blues
The Monks-Complication
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