"It's Not A Blouse!"

It's a rainy Sunday. Thinking of St. Stephen of Hungary in 1964. Here's an altar boy story that worked it's way into my Yorkville memoir. The book is available at Amazon on Kindle $9.95 and hard copy $17.95. "I Hate The Dallas Cowboys ~ tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." Also available at Logos Bookstore 1575 York Avenue.

“Bob, I need more house money,” Mom said.

“Why?” Dad asked.

“To clean Tommy’s surplices.”

“His what?” Dad said, frantically looking for his keys and belt.

“Surplices… the thing he wears serving mass?”

“Oh, you mean the blouses?”

I cringed. My brother, Rory, laughed.

“They’re not blouses.” Mom gave me a supportive look. We exchanged foolish smiles.

“They sure look like blouses. Cleaning blouses is a house expense. It should come out of your house money.”

Dad wasn’t keen about my altar boy and choir duties. He told Mom that the whole thing was a little odd.

“They’re not blouses, but if they were, that’s not the issue. You haven’t put a dime more into house expenses in the last three years.” Mom shook her head and added, “If you decided to smoke four packs of cigarettes a day instead of three, wouldn’t that change how much money you spend on cigarettes?”

“Your point?” Dad had never seen me serve mass or sing in the choir. I never saw him in church outside of Rory and my first communions and confirmations.

After a deep breathe and exhale, Mom continued, “If Tommy needed a new baseball glove would you buy it for him?”

“Why? What happened to his old one?” Dad ran out the door, late for work with his belt rolled up in his hand.

Every time I walked in with a dirty surplice Mom’s face dropped. I’m sure she was thinking about my father’s brick skull. The pressure was on me to keep them clean. If they didn’t pass Brother Albert’s muster he’d send it back home and Mom would have a fit over the embarrassment and having to spend another 35 cents.

Mom heard me muttering, “They’re not blouses,” and said to me, “Surplices, surplices, why don’t you bring the cassocks home? At least we could have some fun with them. I could wear it to a costume party and go as Hop-Sing, the Cartwright’s cook on Bonanza.”

Nobody made me do it. I wanted to do it. Being an altar boy allowed me to work on my balance sheet, same as being in the choir and being a boy scout or a crossing guard, all helped offset my idiot streak. I knew I was going to be bad and needed some gains for a spiritual offset. There was a chance I was going to Hell. Sister Lorraine and Mrs. Francis told me that all the time. I needed to change my salvation ticket to Purgatory, or better yet, Limbo for a heatless stay. I had an incurable addiction for creating chaos tied to an affection for deception. A certain level of sneakiness was encouraged by the older boys and led to their grudging admiration if I pulled off a good one and got away with it. I couldn’t resist the excitement of doing something sneaky and sometimes I was compelled to let it all out at once. I was also trying to perfect my faith in the mysteries and rituals of the Mass. I wanted it all to be true. But I couldn’t resist trouble, even while wearing my surplice.

Friday night, Rory and I went up to Woolworth’s Five & Ten on 86^th Street to look over the record albums. Mom gave us a buck each for pizza and we had to be home by nine. I didn’t mind because I wanted to make sure I was asleep before Dad got home, there was a good shot he was going to be tight. He was, and the TV was loud while he cooked spaghetti and boiled a few eggs to put on top. Eventually, I dropped off to sleep smelling cigarettes, Ronzoni #9, butter, eggs and grated Parmesan.

The next morning, I was bushed and had to serve a ten o’clock funeral. Funerals were boring. I rarely got a tip and there were no friends in the church to torture me. This one started late, the hearse had a flat. To kill time, Smithy and I heard each other’s contrition in the shadowy confessional booth.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed my nun, kicked my father in the ass, and knocked over Joe’s Candy Store,” I confessed.

Smithy gave me absolution, “You are forgiven, my son. For penance, say three Hail Mary’s and sneeze five times in your grandmother’s hankie.”

Brother Albert gave out the altar boy assignments the day before. I ran the freshly inked mimeograph sheet across my nose making myself light-headed, then I quickly scanned the light purple print looking for my name, praying I’d see it next to a wedding, and dreading I’d instead see it next to a early morning mass (the only plus for doing the early mass was the chance to see and get a smile from Don Ameche, a St. Stephen’s regular, and the man who invented the telephone in the movies).   Older brown-nosers did best, young wise guys did worst. Most of my assignments were early, or the all-time worst assignment: the 10 o’clock mass on Sunday in Hungarian. What the hell were they saying?

This was Father Emeric’s mass: he was a nice guy, but once he got in his Hungarian groove, English flew out the window. He only spoke Hungarian before, after and during the mass and he’d forget I knew zip and give me directions in Hungarian on the altar and I’d stare at him waiting for sign language or his miraculous recovery back into English. Usually a pointed finger and head nod ended the business. It was a long event, everyone drunk on nationalism, the crowd way too happy for my taste and I didn’t have a clue what anyone was saying. I memorized the steps of the mass, so I could usually follow Father Emeric’s non-verbal cues. But based on our latest schedule, no weddings for me, I was funeral bound.

After our phony confession, I ran straight into the sacristy to change without realizing I had to go badly. I had no time to leave and there was no bathroom. As I buttoned up my cassock from my neck to my feet, I checked the door and the passageway. The coast was clear and I peed into the slop sink.

“Hey!”

A voice startled me. I quickly put myself away. I turned to face mister goody two shoes, Steve Nemeth, an eighth grade pain in the ass on his way to a career as a priest or a prison guard. He hadn’t decided yet.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked.

“You will burn in hell for urinating in God’s house.”

Anything I said going forward was useless.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

I held my ground, said nothing and washed my hands.

“With soap, lots of soap, you must not soil the Lord’s vessels.”

I held my hands up, showed Nemeth they were clean, and gave him the finger when he turned around.

After the funeral, I ran home to change. Dad was getting up and I asked him if he wanted to go for a bike ride. He said no, but how about a catch?  I waited for him on the stoop, throwing the Spaldeen against a car to kill time. Walking over to Loftus Tavern along York Avenue we talked.

“Tommy, why are you in the choir?”

“I like to sing.”

“I’ve never heard you sing except through the door of the bathroom.”

“I only do it in crowds.”

Dad gave me his “I can’t figure you out” look, and then he walked across 85^th Street to the other side. We threw the ball back and forth over the cars for an hour, then I went down to the park and Dad went inside the bar.

There was an Easter Vigil that night with a full mass. All the kids in school were encouraged to go because the second graders making their first holy communion were coming in their new blue suits and ruffled white dresses and the nuns wanted us to support them. Most of my friends turned this into a social event and it gave us a destination to get out of the chilly April rain. The church was packed and there was no room to sit, so we stood in the back, avoiding the ushers trying to shove us in to a pew.

Twice during the mass, everyone in church, including people standing in the back, had to kneel on at least one knee. Sometimes, there were as many as a dozen kids kneeling lined up in a row. They moaned and complained, moving from one knee to the other on the cold marble floor until it was time to stand again. Depending on which knee each kid knelt, with the right force I could knock them all over with one good shove. That night, I saw a long line and most of them were on their right knee. I knew, without their left knee down ready to brace and resist, they were mine. I moved three steps away from the first kneeler and ran back into him as hard as I could. Then I started counting the tumblers. That’s Church Bowling! The record was thirteen down. I never made it past nine. I wasn’t hung up on the record. I loved listening to the grunts and groans as each kid hit another.

“Ugh!” “Ooooh!” “Hey!” “No!” Grrrhh!”

The beautiful ballet: body after body going down in sequence made my heart bounce. It was important to act detached after the assault to deter detection. I got lost. Smithy later confirmed my score for the frame was eight.

The next morning was Easter. Somebody got sick and I ended up getting the juicy nine o’clock children’s mass. Full House! Everybody was there and I loved playing my role in the ancient ceremonies and rituals. I was lousy at magic and card tricks but admired the talent. On the altar, I was in the vicinity of two miracles when the priest changed the host and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ, but I did have one trick of my own and I saved it for special occasions.

Twice during the mass an altar boy rang heavy gold plated bells. There were five big bells with a large screwed on handle. Each priest had different bell preferences. Some liked snappy hard rings, others favored softer tolling. Toward the end of my mass, I worked the bells’ handle screw down to half a turn and left it there. I hung around the back of the church and waited for the ten o’clock Hungarian mass. When it started, I saw the altar boy on bell duty was my personal Satan, Steve Nemeth.

Here’s where the priest’s individual ringing preference made a world of difference in the quality of my trick. If the priest enjoyed a short solemn ring, the bells whacked the side of the altar, a mere accident. “Oops! Sorry.” But if the priest loved loud tolling, “Hosannas in the Highest,” the altar boy would lift the bells to the sky like the town crier and on his first whip back toward his shoulder the bells would fly off the altar and torpedo toward the pews. “Incoming!” The old ladies would duck like the players who stood too close to the cage during batting practice at Yankee Stadium. Unfortunately, Father Emeric, a quiet man, preferred light action. Nemeth shook the bells. They pulled away, leaving him holding the handle as the five chimes rolled across the altar coming to a rest next to the pulpit.

I felt delightful leaving the scene, but Brother Albert cornered me coming through the girl’s church entrance. This was forbidden.

“Thomas, how are you this morning?”

“I’m fine, Brother.”

“Good, very good. I need a favor. Go to the store and pick up a dozen roses. Here’s two dollars.”

I figured I got off easy, and asked Brother Albert to hold my surplice. He made a face and took the hanger and I walked to the florist on 84th Street and First Avenue. Mickey was taking care of a customer when I walked in. “Tommy, be with you in five minutes.”

Mrs. Sweeney was buying a tombstone floral arrangement for a visit to her parents’ grave later that morning. She planned to take the Grand Central instead of the Long Island Expressway based on Mickey’s suggestion. Mrs. Sweeney’s back had been acting up, and she wasn’t as young as she used to be and felt old.

“Oh, no you’re not,” said Mickey.

“I’m old.” Mrs. Sweeney answered, while tossing her wavy hair around.

“Your legs say otherwise,” Mickey smiled.

I learned all of this while a five-minute wait drifted into 15 minutes. The Grand Central was smart, but as to Mrs. Sweeney’s age, Mickey needed glasses; my eyes saw a 35 year old, lumpy, over-the-hill mother of three.

Completing the sale and the long goodbye (I thought they’d kiss). Mickey came over to me and began making small talk, “So how is your grandmother? Is she running for re-election this year?”

“Yes, she is,” I said with a forced smile. Nan was the local Democratic District Leader. All my comings and goings got reported back to her faster than jungle drums. I was doomed to be good.

“Mickey, Brother Albert said he needs a dozen roses pronto. Here’s two dollars.”

“That’s odd, it’s Easter, no weddings, no funerals… and two dollars is not enough anyway for really nice roses. OK, I’ll get the flowers and I’ll put it on the Church’s tab.”

I was frantic; more than 25 minutes for a two-block errand. I was dead. I ran like a madman, turned down the block, and saw Brother Albert standing under the massive St. Stephen of Hungary cross. Arms folded tightly, his brown leather sandal was tapping the concrete pavement as I ran toward him.

“Where have you been and what are those?”

“I went to Mickey’s. Here’s your roses.”

I passed the flowers to Brother Albert and his face twisted like the bouquet was a baby with a stinky diaper.

“Roses? Roses? Pastor Dudley and three angry priests with cold coffee are waiting for their bakery rolls upstairs. Roses! My God! Here take your blouse.”

 “It’s not a blouse!”

When I got home, Dad was alone at the kitchen table eating a bowl of corn flakes. Mom and Rory had already left the house to go help Nan Ryan with Easter dinner.

“I saw you in church last night,” Dad said.

“Huh?” I said, stunned.

“We ate out at the Silver Moon. On our way over to Second Avenue, Mom said, “let’s pop in to church,” so we did. We figured you’d be up in the choir; I looked up there, but didn’t see you. Then, I saw you standing in the back with your friends. Why weren’t you singing?”

I sighed with relief; he obviously missed the Church Bowling match.

“I was late and the nun doesn’t let you sing if you’re not on time.”

“Choir sounded nice,” Dad said, and put his spoon down and asked, “How many girls are in the choir?”

“Fifteen.”

“How many boys?”

“Three.”

Dad smiled, picked up his spoon and swept it through his bowl.