Free The Journalist by G.L. Rockey Page B

“Keep the
change.”
    “Thank you.” The server left.
    “Big tipper.” Mary threw a penny in Zackary’s
fresh drink. “How old was Ms. Elizabeth?”
    “I’d rather not talk about that now.”
    “I would.”
    “She was forty-five.”
    “And her husband died, right? Heart attack,
him being only forty, right? She liked ‘em young, right? And she
was a lonely, lonely, lonely widow, and you felt so sorry, sorry
for her because she was contemplating suicide, slashing her
wrists—or was it pills? She didn’t kill him, did she?”
    “Mary.”
    “She’s in California now, remarried,
right?”
    He avoided her eyes.
    “Right?”
    “Right.”
    “She better be.”
    “Mary.”
    “Anyway, I might not be in tomorrow. I might
quit.”
    “And who is going to write your columns?”
    “You write them.”
    “How about a cup of soup?”
    “Here?”
    “Sure, they have ancient birds’ nest.”
    “No.”
    “Lemon goat’s not bad  ”
    “Zackary.”
    “We could start with some sushi  ”
    “Forget it. So tell me again about your
priestly days.”
    “End with a fortune cookie  ”
    “Come on, I like to see where you went wrong,
so I can learn.”
    “Mary  ”
    She tilted her head. “Let me see. From
memory  the Reverend Father Zackary Ignatius
Stearn got canned, uh, defrocked.” She lowered her voice to imitate
Zack. “For one thing, I didn’t see myself as reverend. Neither was
I inclined to be obedient. Poverty, on the other hand, I had no
problem with. Chastity  eh. Besides, I
couldn’t see a poor widow commit suicide. I was doing God’s
work  ”
    “Mary  ”
    “Nevertheless, I understood the inward vow,
unlike the outward signs, was supposed to be an indelible tattoo
immune to my whims, desires  so they
say  ”
    “Mary  ” He leaned
back and studied her performance.
    She continued. “So I, being a defrockee, out
of work, took a professor position at Florida State; but students,
professors, nobody would play marbles with me so I decided to be my
own boss.” She dragged her palm across her face in imitation.
“Anyhow, if I had stayed with teaching I’d be a penniless drunk by
now.”
    “That part is true.”
    “So you’re a penniless journalist.”
    “Reporter.”
    “So you’re a penniless reporter.”
    “At least I’m not a drunk.”
    “Not yet.”
    “Mary  ”
    “So, you’re an over-fifty white male,
dropout, a little bit radical, the lowly owner of a two-bit
struggling version of the penny press, have a golden opportunity to
ravish a beautiful young lady  and you’re
blowing it. What else?”
    “Still a good pugilist.”
    “Please, you couldn’t go two rounds with
me.”
    “Bet on that.”
    “Okay, when?”
    “I don’t want to make another goddamn
life-thing mistake  ” Zack crushed his
cigarette out.
    “Neither do most people.”
    “I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
    “Let’s change the subject. Do you believe the
Apostles Creed?”
    “I asked congregations that every
Sunday  if they really believed what they
were mouthing. Invariably got me in trouble with the bishop.”
    “Why is it you are constantly in trouble with
authority?”
    “Interesting question.”
    “I think you’re fifty-two going on ten.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Anyway, Apostles Creed. ‘We believe in God,
the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. We believe in
Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. He was conceived by the power
of the Holy Spirit and born of the Virgin Mary. He suffered under
Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. He descended to
the dead. On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven,
and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He will come again
to judge the living and the dead. We believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness
of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.
Amen.’”
    After a moment, “I am truly