It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 14: Chapter II (Cont'd)

Coarse and offensive language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The story of Mr. Alfonso Ignatius Carr, not yet Alan, should begin on Sunday, July 14th, Anno Domini, 1957. But to truly know the man, it is best to meet him as he would have liked to be remembered. In the midst of the Saturday crowd in O'Toole's, young and carefree, amongst the family, friends, and neighbors, too drunk to remember his real name, but who honored him all the same with a better one. They called him 'Buddy' at first, and when that grew too taxing, the St. Gregorites shortened it to Bud.

Bud Carr was a small and thin boy with the world spread out before him for the taking. His hair was black and fell straight over his oval-shaped face in the bowl cut his mother forced upon him every other Tuesday, while his eyebrows, sizable even as a child, connected into one by a thin trace of fuzz over his angular nose.

By 10, he was already famous in the parish, which, to him, meant he was famous everywhere. A regular at O'Toole's, as were most of his contemporaries, Bud stood out. He had, even then, what is colloquially known as a presence. He moved around his environment with an easy, slightly crooked walk that he'd learned from his many observations of those most popular and intoxicated around him, a walk that would be later imitated by every true fan and impressionist. His smile was brighter in those days, more sincere, but it was his eyes, dark brown and always open, were what people remembered the most. At so young an age, Bud Carr had mastered, whether intentionally or not, a specific 'looking-technique'. Unlike most children whose eyes wander nervously when adults address them, Bud would meet your gaze head on. He would stare, head cocked to the right, never blinking, holding you in place with an hungry look of interest that made you feel like the only person in the world.

And that made him different, and in this case, different translated to popular.

The young men, soon heading off to a jungle war, would punch his shoulder in greeting and let him finish their beers. The girls, just out of high school and soon-to-be impregnated by these warriors, would squeal in delight at the sight of him, calling as he passed. 'Heyyyy Bud! You're lookin' handsome!' They'd pinch his cheek and pull him onto their laps, and they too would let him taste their drinks and test the quality of their cigarettes. Evie Cassidy, 19 years old, already married to Connor Kelly, who, on this particular Saturday, was stationed somewhere near Saigon, taught him how not to cough when he inhaled, and the right mouth structure for a perfect smoke ring. She liked to squeeze him around the middle and plant her lipstick on his cheek, but Bud would never be kept for long. He had to wander, bouncing from neighbor to neighbor, basking in their praise as he cut a path across the gluey floors—

'DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW WHERE WE'RE STANDIN'?!' came the scream of Mrs. Louise Fitzgerald. The crowd parted, and Bud had a clear view of the middle-aged lady, who clutched onto the edge of the bar, legs shaking from too much drink. She lifted her grizzled face to the ceiling, mousy, grey hair quivering as she roared again: 'DO YOU KNOW WHERE WE'RE STANDIN'?!'

Of course they did.

'THE CENTER OF THE FUCKIN' WORLD!!' came the crowd's unified response. They were all filled with such immense pride.

Mrs. Fitzgerald giggled as her legs gave out. Her hand slid from he bar, and she crumpled to the floor. No one cared. It was a common, Saturday occurrence to see the lady sprawled out like this. Honestly, it was a good sign. If Mrs. Fitzgerald could no longer stand, then that meant the night was especially merry.

The crowd congealed anew, and Bud found himself under the looming shadow of Derek O'Grady. 'This is the nice one,' Derek grunted, finishing a thought in his own head. He was a scrawny man, his front teeth long since vanished, while the other thirty were rife with rot. He blinked hard, trying to keep the world in focus. 'What are you doin' here, Phil?' he asked, peering down into Bud's repulsed face. 'You're supposed to be home!'