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The Priest They Called Him
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Nirvana
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Fight tuberculosis, folks. " Christmas Eve, an old
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Junkie selling Christmas seals on North Park Street.
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The "Priest," they called him. "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. Thin kid in prep school clothes,
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Familiar face, the Priest told himself, watching from the doorway.
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"Remindsme of something a long time ago." 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. The boy went inside
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A building. "Hmm, yes, maybe" - the suitcase was there in the doorway.
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The boy nowhere in sight. Gone to get the keys, most likely,
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Have to move fast. He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner.
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Made it. Glanced down at the case. It didn't look like the case the boy had,
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Or any boy would have. The Priest couldn't put his finger on what was so
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Old about the case. Old and dirty, poor quality leather, and heavy.
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Better see what's inside. He turned into Lincoln Park, found an
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Empty place and opened the case. Two severed human legs that belonged to
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A young man with dark skin. Shiny black leg hairs glittered in the
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Dim streetlight. The legs had been forced into the case and he had to use
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His knee on the back of the case to shove them out. "Legs, yet,"
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He said, and walked quickly away with the case.
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Might bring a few dollars to score. The buyer sniffed suspiciously.
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"Kind of a funny smell about it." "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. But since this is Christmas
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And you're the Priest... " he slipped three bills under the table into the
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Priest's dirty hand. The Priest faded into the street shadows, seedy
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And furtive. 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 unless
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I paid him the three cents I owe him. Yeah, isn't that a fruit for ya,
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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. The doctor put the
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Money in his pocket and started to scream.
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"I've had troubles! People have been around!
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I may lose my license! " The Priest just sat there, eyes, old and heavy with
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Years of junk, on the doctor's face.
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"I can't write you a prescription." The doctor jerked open a drawer
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And slid an ampule across the table. "That's all I have in the OFFICE!"
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The doctor stood up. "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, "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? Couldn't you lend
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Me a nickel...? " "Get out, get out, I'll call the police I tell you. "
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"All right, doctor, I'm going." Of course it was cold and far to walk,
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Rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top floor.
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"These stairs," coughed the Priest there, pulling himself up along the
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Bannister. He went into the bathroom, yellow wall panels,
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Toilet dripping, and got his works from under the washbasin.
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Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room, get every drop in the dropper.
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He rolled up his sleeve. Then he heard a groan from next door,
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Room eighteen. The Mexican kid lived there, the Priest had passed him on
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The stairs and saw the kid was hooked, but he never spoke, because he
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Didn't want any juvenile connections, 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, no mistaking that groan
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And what it meant. "Maybe he had an accident or something.
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In any case, I can't enjoy my priestly medications with that sound coming
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Through the wall. " Thin walls you understand. The Priest put down his
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Dropper, cold hall, and knocked on the door of room eighteen.
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"Quien es?" "It's the Preist, 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, eyes black with
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Pain. He started to fall. The Priest helped him over to the bed.
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"What's wrong, son?" "It's my legs, senor, cramps, and now I am without
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Medicine. " The Priest could see the cramps, like knots of wood there
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In the young legs, 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. " And now he has the leg cramps back
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With compound junk interest. The old Priest stood there, feeling the boy
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Groan. 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." "I do not require much, senor."
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The boy was sleeping when the Priest left room eighteen.
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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. All the gray junk yesterdays.
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He sat there received the immaculate fix. And since he was himself a priest,
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There was no need to call one.
The Man Who Sold The World by Nirvana ly...
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