Gone

CHAPTER 19

I was ready to tackle the guy the whole way up the aisle. As it turned out, nothing happened. I breathed a sigh of relief as the old hippie left right after Communion.

But, of course, it wasn’t over. Nick Nolte was pretending to read the bulletin board when I went out with Seamus and Juliana ten minutes after the end of Mass.

What will happen now? I thought, my hand tracing the line of my back where my gun was located. A postservice Wild West gunfight? I mean, give me a break. My blood pressure really didn’t need this.

“Hi, strangers,” the hippie said, smiling.

I noticed for the first time that the guy was in pretty good shape-broad shouldered, with big hands. I instinctively put myself between him and Juliana.

“Nice service,” the guy said. “Are you guys new to the parish?”

“No,” I answered for Seamus. “We’re just passing through.”

“Passing through?” the hippie said. “In Aaron Cody’s station wagon?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” I said. “I got one for you. You always carry in church?”

“Carry?” the hippie said, his bleary eyes squinting. “Oh, you mean the ol’ pistola here,” he said, giggling as he patted the small of his back after a beat. “Oh, sure. All us rootin’ tootin’ cowboys up here like our Second Amendment rights. That goes without saying. How about you? You always carry in church?”

“Get in the car, guys,” I said to Juliana and Seamus as I walked over to the still-giggling weirdo. Despite my initial paranoia and the guy’s roscoe, I could tell he was just a high California goofball.

“It’s been really fun talking to you, bro,” I said, smiling as I stared into his red eyes, “but don’t you think it’s time for you to grab a bag of Doritos and go watch Jerry Springer?”

He burst out laughing at that.

“I like you. You’re funny,” he said, going into his anorak pocket.

“Tight-lipped, too,” he said, removing a fat joint and lighting it with a Zippo as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He blew some rancid smoke in my direction.

“Around here, tight-lipped works just fine,” he said. “Actually, I was just trying to be neighborly. The priest’s accent reminds me of my grandpap. I’m Irish, too. They call me McMurphy. There’s a little bar down the road a bit called Buffalo Gil’s. Why don’t we meet up? I’ll buy you a Guinness.”

I stared at the lit weirdo, wondering why this kind of crap always happened to me. I mean, talking to drugged crazy people was fun, but I had cows to milk.

“Sounds like a plan, McMurphy, but I actually have a better idea,” I said as I turned to walk toward the car.

“Yeah, what’s that?” my new dope-smoking hippie friend wanted to know.

“How about we don’t meet up, but we just tell everyone we did?” I said as I climbed into the station wagon.

He stared at me blankly as I started the engine, but just as I pulled past him, he suddenly got it.

In my rearview mirror, I watched as the nut broke up, laughing in the empty parking lot, the joint in his hand falling to the gravel as he slapped at his greasy thigh.