Lonely People

The words just didn’t come out right for Sunday’s sermon, and Bishop McKenzie was having a hard time conciliating his thoughts. Even the Vivaldi's music coming out of the computer speakers wouldn’t set the right atmosphere this time. Had not been for the Pope's recent statements about world affairs and Islam, he would still consider himself a company man. “Oh yes, Mr. Pope went too far this time. It wasn't wise, it wasn't politically correct and, worst of all, it wasn't good public relations at all. What good can come out of bashing Islam like that, in a world where their presence is being felt stronger every day? He can declare all he wants; but making those kinds of statements one day after the anniversary of 9/11? Of course the shoe would fit. And he’s talking about reason; well, they’ll serve him their reason.” Not that Bishop McKenzie cared all that much for the Muslims; nor the Middle East; nor Osama. They all could go to hell as far as he was concerned. It just wasn’t the right thing to say; plain stupid. Where are those brilliant diplomats from the past? Come on, even Thomas Becket would had done better than that. Why do they have to complicate things so much these days? Long gone were the golden years of his life in the Europe of the mid-sixties, when a young priest could dream and have ambitions. And the priesthood was not only a good vocation but also a good profession to embrace. He stood there in the solitude of his office. With his back to the shut window, the bishop contemplated the old black and white pictures that hung on the wall, behind the desk, amidst the small reproductions of Bellini's Agony in the garden and Grunewald's Crucifixion. But this was no good time for nostalgia. He had to be practical; assertive. He had always been known for his pragmatic approach to life and he needed to live up to that right now. No matter how good the sixties, or the seventies, or his teenage years had been, he had to live for today. But it was hard; too hard. Although only 69, he was now feeling immensely old and lonely; and frustrated. He didn't feel secure anymore; too many bumps on the road. He walked up to the chair in front of him, across from his desk. As soon as he sank his tired body in it, a knock came on the door, which coincided with the telephone going off, in unison. He jumped up, as ejected from the chair. For an instant he stood there, undecided about what to answer first: door or telephone. The telephone was closer. “Just a second!” the bishop said with an agitated tone in his voice, while picking up the receiver. “Hello... how can I help you?” “Are you ready?” inquired the voice on the other end of the line. “Almost… but I need to touch it up a bit,” replied the bishop, hesitantly. “I want that sermon to say something that won’t leave room for any more impugn from anybody. To hell with your shenanigans!” The last sentence was uttered energetically, with an attitude that demanded delivery. Then, they hung up. As soon as he heard the tone, the bishop put the telephone down and ran to the door. When he opened, a young boy was standing there impatiently. As soon as he saw the bishop’s face he presented him with a folded piece of paper. Without waiting for an answer the kid turned around and ran to a car that was waiting for him at the curb. “It’s a girl,” read the paper in a single, short sentence. He tore it in small pieces and threw it in the trash can. Then he opened the blinds of the window and stood there for a few minutes, looking outside, trying to gain composure. Suddenly, he snapped out of whatever was keeping him so frightened and undecided. “Enough is enough!” he shouted. “I’m not doin’ it anymore!” The bishop was resolved this time. He walked to a corner where there was a pile of boxes full of papers and dumped the contents of one box on the floor. He started filling it up with pictures that he took off the wall and different things from the desk drawers. The last items he put in the box were two framed lithographs, of two landmarks of New York City, both of which represented loss to him: the Twin Towers and the Dakota Building. Then, he opened the phonebook and dialed a number on a rotary phone that had been in his office for thirty years. As soon as they answered he told the dispatcher to send him a taxi, and after giving him the address he gave some extra directions, because he wanted to make sure that they picked him up ASAP. There was no real use in doing this, because the dispatcher wasn’t going to be the one picking him up. The bishop dug in the box that he'd set on the desk and pulled out a pint of Rémy Martin. He took a shot and put it in his coat’s inner pocket. Then, he lit up a cigar and turned up the volume, right when the "L'estro Armonico" Op. 3 No. 11 was in full swing. He started feeling at ease. A few minutes later the bishop heard the horn blaring outside and glanced around the office, looked out the window for a last glimpse of the garden, and went out the door toting the box with his only belongings in it. He asked the driver to take him to Bank of America, where he withdrew all his money and closed both his saving and checking accounts. Then the driver took him to a store where he bought a suitcase big enough to fit the contents of the box. After that the bishop asked to be driven to Central Park. He got out of the taxi at the light of Central Park West and 72nd, and stood there, contemplating the Dakota building for a few minutes; giving special attention to the entrance, whose picture had been in newspapers around the world twenty five years ago. The bishop walked into Central Park and went straight to the bench he was sitting on the day he met John Lennon, just a couple of weeks before his assassination. That was one of his most precious memories. Probably because back then, at 43, he was at the prime of life. He sat there thinking about all the times he had come to the place to find solace, over a period of thirty some years. While meditating on his life, the bishop took another swig of Rémy Martin, which seemed to give him the inspiration for his next resolution. It had been decided: he would take a flight to San Diego or the closest place to the Mexican border, and then he would go across to start a new life in Baja.