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Priest They Called Him
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Nirvana
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1
"Fight tuberculosis, folks"
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Christmas Eve, an old junkie selling Christmas seals
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On North Park Street
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The "Priest" they called him
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"Fight tuberculosis, folks"
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People hurried by, gray shadows on a distant wall
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It was getting late and no money to score
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He turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife
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Cab stop just ahead under a streetlight
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Boy got out with a suitcase
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Thin kid in prep school clothes
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Familiar face, the Priest told himself
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Watching from the doorway.
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"Reminds me of something a long time ago"
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The boy, there, with his overcoat
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Unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare
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The cab drove away and turned the corner
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The boy went inside a building
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"Hmm, yes, maybe," the suitcase was there in the doorway
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The boy nowhere in sight
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Gone to get the keys, most likely, have to move fast
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He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner
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Made it, glanced down at the case
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It didn't look like the case the boy had or any boy would have
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The Priest couldn't put his finger on what was so old about the case
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Old and dirty, poor quality leather and heavy
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Better see what's inside
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He turned into Lincoln Park
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Found an empty place and opened the case
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Two severed human legs that belonged to a young man
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With dark skin, shiny black leg hairs
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Glittered in the dim streetlight
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The legs had been forced into the case
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And he had to use his knee on the back of the case to shove them out
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"Legs, yet," he said and walked quickly away with the case.
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Might bring a few dollars to score
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The buyer sniffed suspiciously
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"Kind of a funny smell about it"
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"It's just Mexican leather"
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"Well, some joker didn't cure it"
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The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor
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"Not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is
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Three is the best I can do and it hurts
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But since this is Christmas and you're the Priest"
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He slipped three bills under the table into the Priest's dirty hand
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The Priest faded into the street shadows, seedy and furtive
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Three cents didn't buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel
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Say, remember that old Addie croaker told me not to come back
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Unless I paid him the three cents I owe him
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Yeah, isn't that a fruit for ya, blow your stack about three lousy cents
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The doctor was not pleased to see him
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"Now, what do you want? I told you!"
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The Priest laid three bills on the table
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The doctor put the money in his pocket and started to scream
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"I've had trouble! People have been around!
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I may lose my license!"
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The Priest just sat there
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Eyes, old and heavy with years of junk, on the doctor's face
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"I can't write you a prescription"
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The doctor jerked open a drawer
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And slid an ampule across the table
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"That's all I have in the office!" The doctor stood up
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"Take it and get out!" he screamed, hysterical
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The Priest's expression did not change
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The doctor added in quieter tones
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"After all, I'm a professional man
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And I shouldn't be bothered by people like you"
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"Is that all you have for me? One lousy quarter G?
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Couldn't you lend me a nickel?"
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"Get out, get out, I'll call the police I tell you"
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"All right, doctor, I'm going"
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Of course it was cold and far walk to rooming house
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A shabby street, room on the top floor
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"These stairs," coughed the Priest
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There pulling himself up along the bannister
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He went into the bathroom
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Yellow wall panels, toilet dripping
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And got his works from under the washbasin
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Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room
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Get every drop in the dropper
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He rolled up his sleeve
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Then he heard a groan from next door
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Room 18, the Mexican kid lived there
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The Priest had passed him on the stairs
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And saw the kid was hooked
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But he never spoke because he didn't want any juvenile connections
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Bad news in any language
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The Priest had had enough bad news in his life
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He heard the groan again, a groan he could feel
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No mistaking that groan and what it meant
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"Maybe he had an accident or something.
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In any case, I can't enjoy my priestly medications
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With that sound coming through the wall"
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Thin walls you understand
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The Priest put down his dropper
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Cold hall and knocked on the door of Room 18
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"Quien es?"
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"It's the Priest, kid, I live next door"
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He could hear someone hobbling across the floor
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A bolt slid, the boy stood there in his underwear shorts
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Eyes black with pain, he started to fall
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The Priest helped him over to the bed
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"What's wrong, son?"
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"It's my legs, se탱or, cramps
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And now I am without medicine"
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The Priest could see the cramps
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Like knots of wood there in the young legs
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Dark shiny black leg hairs
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"A few years ago I damaged myself in a bicycle race
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It was then that the cramps started"
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And now he has the leg cramps back
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With compound junk interest
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The old Priest stood there, feeling the boy groan
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He inclined his head as if in prayer, went back and got his dropper
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"It's just a quarter G, kid"
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"I do not require much, se탱or"
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The boy was sleeping when the Priest left Room 18
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He went back to his room and sat down on the bed
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Then it hit him like heavy silent snow
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All the gray junk yesterdays
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He sat there, received the immaculate fix
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And since he was himself a priest
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There was no need to call one
William S. Burroughs and Kurt Cobain - T...
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