It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 16: Chapter IV

Scenes of physical abuse. Coarse and offensive language. Reader Discretion Advised.

The geography of St. Gregory's Parish was simple and memorized at birth. It consisted of comfortable points from which all St. Gregorites could totter between in harmony. First and foremost, at the center of it all, as has been established, was the church and O'Toole's, diametrically opposed on Ascension Hill. At the top of the hill, two streets branched off. One to the right—Crown St.—that was more of a dead end than a street, and led into the shaded graveyard of close quarter headstones of the generations of parishioners moved on and forgotten. Most people in Alfonso Ignatius' day avoided Crown St. as best they could. They preferred to turn left at the church, down Bailey Road, the most hospitable thoroughfare in all the parish, with its three deckers, each more drab than the last, and its 'respectable' neighbors on their porches, who bandied about gossip and unsolicited opinions and gripes over whatever catastrophe their beloved sports franchises had inflicted upon them the night before.

Bailey Road went on for a few good paces, eventually curving right and coming out onto a flat plain of broken concrete that smelled strongly of motor oil and festering garbage. From there, Bailey split into a trident. The main artery continued, soon becoming Fitzgerald Way—no relation to the Mrs. under the bar—where Sammy the Pollack's packie and Spiro's diner stood. A smaller, better kept path—Honey Lane—went left into the parking lot of the old, red-brick, public school that had a similar aesthetic to that of a mental hospital. Opposite Honey Lane, the left option on the Bailey Trident was Glendale Road, and if the Church could be called Heaven, and O'Tool's hell, then on Glendale Road you would find a true manifestation of Perdition. The Hinterland of Nothing. The Void.

There lay a network of ugly, three story—also red-brick—buildings with littered and weed strewn courtyards, and a weather beaten and derelict sign at the front that read:

             WELCOME TO THE JAMES MICHAEL CURLY HOUSING PROJECT

And gratified just under that:

F  U  C  K   Y  O  U

Whose ever brilliant idea it was to put the James Michael Curly Housing Project—Curly's for short—across the street from the public school must have thought they were very smart. They must have patted themselves on the back for a job well done. They must have been one of those educated people who presume that 'education will set you free'. Put your center of knowledge across the street from your poor and downtrodden, and watch as those helpless throngs flock to your hallowed halls of betterment.

The only problem with this theory was that the residents of Curly's never considered themselves downtrodden and helpless. They would have agreed that, monetarily speaking, they were underserved, but they didn't need an education to remedy that. They needed cash, and there were far easier methods for acquiring cash than a classical education. Armored trucks were a good start. Intruders, for some reason, always had cash on hand. Convenience stores worked, as did all packies, except for Sammy the Pollack's packie, because Sammy would shoot to kill, and he was a terrible shot, so it would be a slow death.

The public education was a good education in those days, there were no complaints from parents on that front, but the mandatory attendance grated the children of Curly's, especially Bud Carr. So did the rules of school. We all have our crosses to bare, and rules were Bud's.

In the beginning, there were high hopes for the middle Carr. When he began his education, the teachers believed that he would follow in his eldest sister's footsteps. Alanna Kathleen Carr, ten years older than her brother, was the darling of St. Gregory's education. Punctual, respectful, intelligent. She would go far, her teachers believed, or as far as an intelligent woman ought to go. Bud, it was assumed, would exceed her. He was a boy, and if he'd half his sister's brains, then he just might make something of himself. A lawyer, his mother hoped. Or a doctor. Or a politician! She wasn't picky, and there as a time when Niamh grasped at that most elusive of immigrant dreams. Her boy could one day be President, and wouldn't that make up for all the failures in her life. President Alfonso Ignatius Carr taking the oath, and there she'd be, beaming proudly under the shadow of that white domed capital. What a day that would be!

Alas, it was a foolish hope, and being his mother, Niamh really should have known better than to expect much. It wasn't that he was stupid, it was just that Bud Carr couldn't be bothered with the things he found menial. Much like his grandfather, he'd a flair for the dramatic, and preferred the adventures of own his imagination to the lectures of his teachers.

'Mr. Carr?' asked Mrs. Elsbeth Jackson, born a crone, one very sunny Wednesday.

Bud looked away from the window with a start. He'd been far away, waging some fantastical war that would have made Caesar weep with pride. 'Me?'

'Is there another Mr. Carr in this classroom?' Mrs. Jackson pursed her lips, and the children around laughed, which made Bud seethe with hatred for the imperious, reedy, horse-faced—'Tell me, Mr. Carr, what famous phrase did Patrick Henry use at the Second Virginia Convention?'

Gun to his head, Bud wasn't sure he could find Virginia on the map, let alone tell you what a convention was, or who in the fuck Patrick Henry thought he was to speak aloud!

'Give me liberty, or give me death!' whispered young Edward Towne from the seat next to Bud, more bookish than his dearest friend.

'Don't help him, Mr. Towne,' chided Mrs. Jackson, and Ed blushed. 'Come now, Alfonso. Patrick Henry, when speaking about the American Revolution said...what?'

American Revolution! Bud knew what that was! His grandfather had taught him that lesson early in life!

'Bud,' Colin had said, holding his little grandson up to the apartment window. 'Ya see that out there?' He pointed a chubby finger towards the school yard across the street.

'School?'

'Nah, beyond the school.' Bud had peered closer and could just make out the tall obelisk that every St. Gregorite and Bostonian knew. 'What's that?'

'That's the Bunker Hill Monument!'

'Correct!' boomed Colin. 'Do ya know why that's so important?'

"Cause it's big and pointy?"

Colin's face grew stern. 'Because that's where the first American's fought the tyranny of them English bastards!'

A sigh came at these words from the uncomfortable couch in the corner of the living room, and Mary Malone, grey hair styled two sizes too big, looked stern. She pushed her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. 'Colin!' she said, and even when angry, she'd the loveliest of all brogues.  Bud didn't just believe that because Mary was his Nana, but because it was a plain, old fact. It was lyrical and brimming with love, even when growling at her husband. 'Don't be fillin' the boy's head with yer nonsense.'

Colin waved her off. When he started in on the English, nothing could stop him. 'Bud! D'ya know what the best type of Englishmen are, don't ya?'

Bud grinned. He'd learned this already. 'Dead ones, Pa!'

'Good boy,' laughed Colin, ignoring the elongated hiss that came from his wife. 'Dead ones indeed—'

'Mr. Carr!' yelled Mrs. Jackson. 'What did Patrick Henry say about the English?!'

Bud puffed out his chest. I know this! He cleared his throat, and declared in his best imitation of Colin, 'he said: Fuck the English! Up the Irish!'

His Pa would be so impressed when he heard! His mother and grandmother...well...but their eventual anger was nothing in comparison to that of Mrs. Elsbeth Jackson, whose mouth fell open with horror as pandemonium broke loose in her classroom. The children gasped and cheered and shouted out their own expletives as Mrs. Jackson took up her heavy, wooden ruler and chased Bud into the hallway, where she mercilessly whipped the boy.

It's all well and good to be beat by Ma, he thought, yelping loudly with each strike, the faces of his friends and classmates coming out into the hall to watch and howl with laughter at his predicament. That's what mother's do! But this is too much!

With a final SMACK! that snapped the ruler in two, Mrs. Jackson flung the sore boy from her. 'GET OUT OF THIS SCHOOL! OUT! AND DON'T YOU SHOW YOUR FACE HERE UNTIL YOU LEARN SOME RESPECT, YOUNG MAN!'

What is the point of an education, Bud considered, running for his life, if you get beat for knowing things? Better to stay safe in Curly's. At least there, I can do what I want!