Authors: Chuck Stepanek
5
It has been noted that what the feeble-minded and socially-inept lack in the finer graces; they more than make up for in work ethic. Any factory recruiter knows that a healthy crop of hair (blossoming from the ears and nostrils) is one of the best signs to look for when selecting a candidate for back-breaking, low-paying drudgery.
Daddy fit the bill. He took orders; orders that he never questioned. He worked hard. During the worst of storms he would still
trudge
diligently to every house on his meter-reading route long after the other city workers had retreated to the shelter of the municipal building for cigarettes and sips of 90 proof from their auxiliary thermoses. He never took a sick day. It was something that you just didn’t do.
While most people aspire for time off and the opportunity to socialize or relax with ones thoughts, for others the absence of toil is terrifying. Daddy was among the others. He needed to toil. It’s a characteristic that is easily identified and more easily exploited. And yes, daddy was exploited. He was charged with extra duties: mopping out the shitter, toting muni building waste to the incinerator, and was the constant target of gopher duties from fellow employees.
His social ineptness was targeted too. One notable occasion the fellow meter readers hid his lunch bucket and watched in amusement while he searched high and low for a good 20 minutes. Finally, when asked what he was doing he stammered out the words: “Lunch bucket.” “Well maybe you left it at ho
me.” One of the nitwits opined:
“Why don’t you grab a bite at the counter across the street while you still have time.”
It was a frightening concept; but it was also an order, not a suggestion but an order. And daddy obeyed orders.
The rare cultural experience of ordering a meal at the 5 and dime lunch counter left him puzzling over the menu. The waitress, suspecting the type, allowed him extra time without having to ask. But all the time ticked off by Big Ben in the last century couldn’t have helped. When she finally posed the question: “What would you like to have?” The single word response: “Meat” caught her totally by surprise. She lowered her pen and cocked her head at her latest customer. “I’m sorry, what was that?” Daddy searched for the words. He had the word ‘meat’ but he needed the others. “Meat. I – want – meat.”
The nervous laugh from the waitress expressed many things. Is this guy messing with me? Is he feeble? Does he even know that he’s going to have to pay for this and god knows I can’t afford to get stiffed again this week. But she pushed the thoughts aside and dove back in with just as much professionalism as one can expect from a 5 and dime hash slinger. “Meat. Okay, what kind of meat?” A look of earnest filled the patrons face. He seemed to shrink a bit; as if pondering bolting from the store but afraid that he might get lost trying to find his way out. The waitress pressed on. “We have chicken, pork chops, hamburger and mea – (aha!) meatloaf! Meatloaf-is that what you want?” Daddy nodded, not because it was what he wanted, it was just easier than trying to conjure up the proper vocal cord array for any of the other forms of meat. The waitress stroked the letters ‘ML’ on the ticket and braced herself as she realized she was far from done.
“And what would you like to drink?” With trepidation.
If it weren’t so sad it would almost be comical. But this one daddy handled easy. Having a wife with an obsessive compulsive disorder coffee fixation, this was a word he heard often and had used with enough frequency that it came out with confidence.
“Coffee.”
“The cream and sugar are right there hun.” The waitress nodded to the wire rack of condiments grateful that she would not have to pry any more words from the modern day missing link. And as she turned to clip the ticket to the carousel in the fry cooks window, Barb Svenson thought how glad she was that she didn’t have anything in common with people like that. She had plenty of her own troubles; a good-for-nothing drunk of a husband and an unplanned kid that was one blemish shy of a sideshow attraction. The fact that both of their children were being preyed upon by the local priest was an unacknowledged coincidence.
Daddy had come back to find his lunch bucket in its usual place inside his locker. The lunch room, now vacant, told him that everyone else was back at work and he needed to do the same. Something far, far back in his brain suggested that he had been tricked; but that concept was not allowed to surface. What had happened was one of the
men
had found his lunch bucket and had returned it to its customary spot.
That resolved, the far greater question was what to do with the food in his still full bucket. Taking it home would not do, oh no, that would unleash a frenzy. An unrelenting frenzy from his wife and her army of the apostles, the saints and the angels of the apocalypse. Dumping it would be a sin. Giving it away would involve human interaction. Again, not an option. The only choice would be to eat. Some now, the rest after work. He took half a sandwich and began introducing it to the meatloaf. Then he picked up his metallic clipboard with addresses and numbered columns and returned to the streets of Elmwood.
6
The snow that had accumulated on the grounds of Saint Mark’s was far from significant. Any able bodied Minnesotan with a good pair of boots would find no trouble at all in making their way to their destination. But the modest amount of snow and the need to shovel were not questioned. Daddy had been asked to work. And that was what he was doing.
His progress was steady. The subzero temperatures had made this most recent snowfall airy and light. A little too deep for
a broom, but easily pushed, five
feet at a swath, into a pile that was first lifted and then deposited over the curb.
He had finished the walk in front of the church and turned north to tackle the eastern side. With the wind now directly in his face, daddy realized that each shovelful lofted to the curb got caught in the breeze. A backfill was being created into the cleared space behind him. He leaned on the shovel, peering ahead at the depression of white that indicated the span of sidewalk. Shoveling from north to south would put the wind behind him – helping him. From just under his breath: “Other way.” He clenched the neck of the shovel, stepped off the curb and into the street, and made his way to the northern end of the property. Had he merely walked up the sidewalk he knew that his boot-falls would have crushed the snow into the cement, creating icy impressions much harder to remove. There were already a few pairs of tracks from earlier pedestrians, but he did not add to them. Now with the wind at his back, he grounded the blade and plowed the shovel forward. His progress would be faster.
7
“We’re going to practice first. Bend over slowly to the eyepiece.” From behind Corky Father Gus motioned with his hand (the one without KY; the other hand was occupied) toward the scope. This was Corky’s moment; he was going to see the heavens. Just as he neared the eyepiece Gus halted him. “Oh
my, that just won’t do. It’s a good thing we practiced first.” Corky was devastated. He wanted more than anything to see in the scope. He would do anything to see. Anything! And that’s just how Gus wanted it. “You’re not bending right
. H
ere, let me help you.” KY or not, Gus used both hands this time as he gripped the boys narrow hips. “Your pants are bunching up
. L
et’s move them out of the way.” Corky was more than happy to comply and with both of them working together he was bare-assed in seconds; pants and underwear below his knees which actually made kneeling on the stool more comfortable.
“There, yes there!” Gus chugged out in guttural excitement. He had to get inside the boy soon or his seed would be wasted on the ground. “Now lean forward again and look directly into the eyepiece, don’t look anywhere else.” Corky complied and got his first look at heaven, and what a disappointment – it was all black. No God, no Jesus, not even one crummy angel. Gus sensed the reaction and offered words of encouragement. “Give it time, you will see it.” He was looking at the boys buttocks. He could see the star-shaped anus and breathed: “Oh yes! You will see it and it will be sooo good!”
Corky looked harder but still saw only black. “I c-c-can’t” He nearly whimpered. This was Gus’ cue. It was now or never. “Then let me help you. Keep looking now.” And Gustavus Milliken, son of vermouth-chugging Barbara Milliken, victim of her ogre boyfriends, graduate of Duluth seminary, pedophile to Timmy Swenson and half a dozen other altar boys, confidante to the sins of an entire community and responsibl
e for guiding them to salvation;
Gus Milliken separated a pair of preschool butt cheeks and began his insertion.
Nudged forward; Corky understood only that the priest was trying to guide his vision. There were two hands on his exposed behind: One dry and firm, the other greasy and grasping for purchase. Then there was another sensation; a pressure in his behind. Like having to take a hard poop; only—different. Initially the feelings were oddly comforting, the large
man’s
body enveloping him in an intimate fashion. But then it
changed—oh how it changed. The priest gave a thrust and the head of his penis entered the puckered anus. A harsh squeak came out of Corky and he tried to pinch off the invader that was violating his bum. “Don’t do that!” The gentle tone of the priest had been replaced. He had had his doubts about even being able enter the boy but now that the door was open he wasn’t about to risk his toehold.
Corky tried to pull away from the priest and the telescope. If this was what heaven was all about he didn’t want any part of it. “No!” came the roar from behind him. “You must keep looking until you see heaven. When you see heaven it will stop!” The whimpering boy feigned looking into the scope and cried meekly ‘I see it.’ Meanwhile Gus had gained another two inches. He was assuredly far enough in now to begin a rhythmic stroking pattern without risk of losing his lodging. He dared another
half
inch, succeeded, and turned again on his victim. “No! You don’t see it! You’re n-n-not even looking in th-th-the
eyepiece!
Openly crying now, from the pain in his bottom and from the rapid change in demeanor of the priest, Corky again took up his search for the heavens. He now held the telescope with both hands; not only to aid his futile viewing but to brace himself from the pounding he was receiving from behind. “Tell me w-w-what you see!” The voice behind him demanded. Five inches and counting. This exquisitely tight ass was going to get a shot of hot lava. Just a little more and then it’s ‘mister cock ring meet mister anal ring!’ Ha!
“I see… I see… a light.” It was a statement of honesty and relief. The shaking of the scope had caused it to cross paths with a street light. The glare smeared into and out of view and then back again. Fixing it into view was impossible, but it had been
something
. To corky it meant heaven. A great disappointment from his expectation of heaven, but that mattered little now. He had seen it and that meant the pain would stop.
He was wrong.
8
Daddy had made short work of the paths running north and south and was on the final section at the back of the quad. Here he discovered that dumping the snow over the curb meant ‘into the wind’ which created yet another dusting back to the sidewalk. An inept yet practical man, he modified, and dumped the snow on the other side of the walk; on the grounds. Fearing that he may have to justify his actions he began to form the words: ‘snow,’ ‘wind,’ ‘blow,’ ‘back.’ This intellectual dilemma preoccupied him as he reached the end of walk without realizing his progress. He was finished.
Walking back to the rectory a new dilemma surfaced: He was finished. Or was he? The priest had told him to ‘shovel the snow.’ And that’s what daddy had done. He had cleared all the sidewalks, but did that also include the rectory driveway? And what about the steps leading up to the church? He could ask the priest. A daunting proposition. First there was the matter of explaining that he had to throw the snow on the grass. Then it was the matter of asking if he should clear the drive and the steps. And there were other things. What about spreading sand or ‘Ice Melt.’ He looked in the direction of the rectory and thought about the intellectual and social labor it represented. Physical labor was better. He climbed the 13 steps to the entrance of the church and resumed pushing snow.
9
Gus was now fully planted
.
The sensation of manic sperm
,
all searching for an escape route
,
was maddening in his scrotum. He concurrently thrusted with his body to increase the sensation and withdrew with his mind to prolong the experience. He tried to think of benign things: Baseball scores, balancing his checkbook, last
night’s
“I Love Lucy” episode. He had learned to flick these images through his mind to help savor the sensation. But the boy. The boy and his perky
bottom
would win over his mental stopgap. “A light?! Just a l-l-light?” The
tone was no longer harsh; it was desperate. “Heaven.” Thrust. “The angels.” Thrust. “You h-have to see th
-
the angels.” Thrust
.