Allister Cromley's Fairweather Belle (Bedtime Stories For Grownups To Tell)
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His Confession

2/27/2009

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Allister’s time in the priesthood, was a brief experiment. He had found the robes most fitting and comfortable (even resorting to wearing these a long time after his membership had ended). So, it was not the attire. It was not the hours, either. These, he enjoyed, too. And, though it was not the easiest of sacrifices, Allister even found celibacy to be a workable condition. He was even fond of the daily chores that had little to do with spirituality and more to do with church cleanliness-the dusting, the mopping, the weeding. 

Where he lost the desire to priest (or preach or what have you) was in the penance. To sit in a dusty box (metaphorically dusty-for Allister did take care to dust regularly-which you may have already deduced) and listen to people dump all their sins and ask for advice on how to make them better was too much for him. There was a discomfort that crept in him. 

Sure, he could offer penance to many sins easily. The stealing, the adultery, the murder. The penance for these in most particular order went like this: return the item, apologize and be honest, and turn yourself in to the proper authorities. These were all followed with a special caveat to bear the punishment that you deserved. It can go without saying, that Allister did not necessarily wish for bloody murderers in his church. But, it was easy to offer them advice. Whether or not they took to the advice was not up to Allister. So, in these easy cases-though they be awful in many ways-Allister could crank and turn the penance out like a penance factory. Most of these people knew the answers to their guilt anyway. 

It was in the common sins. The lying. The cursing. The disobeying. How do you answer these questions? How do you offer advice when you, too, find yourself stumbling? Is it not part of life? Is it not okay to make mistakes? What do you tell someone who has lied and feels the pang of guilt? 

At first, Allister would crank these out like the major sinners. Kneeling and prayers were the simple answers from the books. But, people kept coming back broken. They would keep lying and keep feeling those pangs. Allister wracked his brain. You could not make someone promise not to lie again. Nine and half times out of ten those promises are also lies, which lead to a deeper guilt. Do you make someone fast? For how long? Until they stop lying? How will they know when that will be? What if they were children? Fasting with no end was too cruel for someone so young.

Allister felt guilt for all the minor sins that he could not alleviate. He felt guilt that he did not feel as guilty for his own minor sins. He began looking into the eyes behind the iron mesh in the confessional box and asking why they felt so guilty. Began saying blatantly, “You do not need my help. If you are harming someone, correct it. If you are not harming someone, stop feeling guilty. If something makes you feel guilty, stop doing it, for heaven’s sake. If you keep doing it, stop feeling guilty about it. We are probably all doing it.” 

Allister felt it not his decision to condemn those that wanted to be condemned. It led to people feeling powerless in correcting their own problems on Earth. He meant no disrespect for the priesthood and, on the contrary, held much respect for many priests he met. But, it was not for him. And so, Allister hung his collar in the sacristy of Saint Vitus (though, as I said earlier, he kept his robe for some time after).
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The Promise Of A Call

2/26/2009

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Whilst most in the world resorted to the answer/ask of "Hello?", Allister adopted a more exacting method of answering his first telephone. When the receiver danced on the hook to its own high-pitched ring Allister would save it from its maddening trance with a most admirable diligence. Before the caller on the line could even pause, Allister would bellow, "I can most certainly help you. What is your name?" 

This, of course, gave Allister the upper hand (a hand that Allister was not all too familiar) and left the caller grasping for words-though all words seemed to float in the same blurry soup stirred by Allister's bellowy greeting. What was their name and why had they called? It was all out of order. Some called just to talk. Some called the wrong number. And some called for directions to his residence-the same residence where Allister sat in his shellacked chair across from his telephone-the same telephone into which he had just bellowed.

To know the madness of a time's technology-the pull that finds us both closer and farther apart-one must live through it. Allister found himself amidst the birth of the telephone-where voices miles away compacted and slipped through wires in milliseconds, wildly laughing at the hooves and wheels of the postal service whose letters could do little but end sentences with exclamation points in return. There was unification, to be sure. Allister called near and far, at first. Called friends in Borneo. Called strangers in Helena. But, when the novelty wore away, Allister found his telephone ringing far less. And, when calls to friends far away went unanswered, Allister suddenly felt farther away than he had ever been.

He found himself looking at his silent phone. Found himself talking to it as though it could answer on its own. In times like those, silence can be so loud-can pulsate insultingly. Can force a man from his home-to do what? To research. Research what?

Everything. 

Libraries lost entire sections of subjects for months on end. Allister researched botany, cosmotology, first aid, post-impressionism, tank construction, origami, whistling, paleontology, track and field, physics, altruism, evolution, revolution, home decor, radiation, meditation, salmonella poisoning, breeding, blood letting, equestrian sports, forensics, dictation, etceteras and etceteras. 

He collected all knowledge and stopped studying only whence he knew enough to place an ad in the classifieds as an expert in the subject. Allister Cromley's name could be found typed in bold print too many times to be counted as several. Below his name, each time it was printed, was a description of a subject Allister had mastered and the simple but pleading phrase: 

PleAse Call Me 
(the capitalization of the "A" in "PleAse" was an error in type that, for an authentic feel, begs re-erroring)

It would be wrong to consider Allister a lonely man. But he did trip occasionally into the melancholy of depression. This period of time (the adolescence of the telephone, we may choose to call it) could most certainly fall into this category. There would be a time when he would rise from the shellac of his chair and find the voices he waited to hear. But, this chapter ends before that time. The adolescence of anything is littered with errors. And, along that line, it essential to take note that along with Allister’s error in capitalization, one must also add the absence of Allister's telephone number.
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