The Long Run (15 page)

There's never a day when I don't wear odd socks. For a while, my nickname was Odd-Socks, but it never stuck. The rule is every night you must put your socks in the box over by the Rat Locker. The socks box is a big plywood box. Each night, the boy whose turn it is takes the smelly box down to the laundry room, and Rags washes every sock. Rags is a saint. I'm sure he's the nicest brother in the world. He has a great sense of humor. He's always acting and horsing around, and he's forever smiling. If he catches you running in the corridors, he stops you and asks where the fire is. Then he tells you it's okay to run, just don't go so fast, in case you bump into a little one. Rags treats us really well all the time, much better than the other brothers. And unlike them, he never asks you every five minutes if you think you have a vocation to the priesthood or the brotherhood.

Oberstein nicknamed him Rags one day when he heard him say that most Americans go from rags to riches, but he joined the Christian brothers and was sent to Mount Kildare and went from riches to rags. Blackie got the idea for the Dare Klub's motto from one of Rags' expressions—the glass half-full. It's written in Latin on a small plaque on Rags' classroom door:
Poculum semi plenum
. “Rags, Rags,” Blackie always says. “He's the man to listen to.” Blackie loves anyone who laughs, and Rags laughs all the time. Blackie says you can always trust a laugher. He refused to let some boys join the Dare Klub because they never laugh.

Another thing about Rags is he's always very fair. Unlike a lot of brothers, he doesn't have chosen ones, Oberstein's name for pets. And his classes are always exciting. He teaches science. Blackie gets a lot of his ideas from Rags. He's convinced Rags has black blood. “Don't need to be black to have some black blood,” Blackie says.

“We all had black blood at one time,” Oberstein adds. “Adam and Eve came from Africa.”

Blackie and Rags like each other, and banter back and forth a lot during class. They're both from New York. Maybe that's why. Blackie's from Harlem, and Rags is from the Bronx. They're like father and son in some ways.

Rags is responsible for training the altar boys. You get up at six o'clock if you have to serve at the early morning Mass. About the only time you get matching socks, usually not your own, is when it's your turn to be an altar boy. If it's your turn to serve, Spook, the night watchman, wakes you about fifteen minutes before everyone else, before reveille, as Brother McMurtry calls it. You get washed and dressed and are almost awake as you rummage through the box for socks that look like yours. I hate waking up so early. It's one of the hardest things, morning beating at you like a board. I'm sure that's what causes the spells for some of the boys. If only we could sleep every day until seven-thirty. I think that would make a big difference for all of us. Bug is my altar server partner, and he's a sleepyhead like me. We usually fight over the few remaining socks.

We all love it when our turn comes round to serve Mass, because Rags usually asks the altar boys to stay behind after Mass and clean up, and we miss breakfast, so he takes us to the monastery, where we get bacon and eggs and orange juice and toast. There's always a fight over who gets to be the paten server and who gets to be the bell server. Everyone wants to be the paten server. The paten is a perfectly round gold plate, the size of a saucer, with a wooden handle. It is used during communion when the communicants kneel at the altar rail to receive the host. The altar boy holds the paten underneath the communicant's chin to prevent even a speck of the consecrated host, the body of Christ, from falling to the floor. After communion, the priest spends about ten minutes wiping the paten clean to make sure not even a smidgen of Christ's body is left there.

Everyone wants to be the paten server for two reasons. You don't have to pay very much attention during Mass. Once you've recited the Confiteor, you can kinda doze off, drifting in and out a lot. You just have to mumble a few Latin responses once in a while, blasting out the last line or two so old Monsignor Flynn thinks you are paying attention and not goofing off. When you are the bell ringer you really have to be on your toes. There is a special way to ring the bells throughout different parts of the Mass, like the Sanctus, the raising of the host, the Agnus Dei. If you miss one, or screw up the way you're supposed to ring the bells, it's really noticeable and you can get into big trouble. You could even get strapped.

The other reason we all want to be the paten server is because you get to whack everybody in the Adam's apple. The paten is really sharp all around the edge, and it really hurts. Oberstein calls it the guillotine. The trick is to whack everyone, but hit your buddies the hardest without the priest knowing you're doing it. It gets really tricky when you're trying to whack a guy harder than he hit you the last time he was paten server. The chubby cherub holds the record at whacking boys really hard.

If you get caught, you're a goner. Once Murphy whacked Ryan so hard he gagged and coughed up the host. Old Monsignor Flynn, who's half blind and deaf, saw what happened and put down the ciborium and knocked Murphy up the side of the head. It was a really hard knock. It sent Murphy reeling.

If the host misses the paten and falls to the floor, it's a really big deal. During altar boy classes you're told that you are saving God from dropping into hell. “You all know what a circus safety net is, boys. The paten is God's safety net,” Brother McMurtry lectures every new altar boy. When Ryan coughed up the host, Monsignor Flynn stopped the Mass. All the brothers raced to the spot where the host had dropped. Brother McMurtry bolted to the sacristy and brought back oils and holy water and starched altar cloths to clean and cover the consecrated spot. Chairs and altar kneelers were gathered and arranged into a circle of protection around the holy area for two days. It was a really big to-do. They did everything but call in McNamara's Construction to jack up the building.

I always fight with Bug over who gets the paten. For some reason, this morning Bug's nose looks longer, and he seems stuck on talking through it. Probably a touch of the flu. I really want the paten because I owe a big one to Oberstein, who nearly drove my Adam's apple down my throat last time he served. Getting to be paten server is resolved in one of the usual ways: it's purchased with a few cigarettes or canteen card IOUs or marbles or stamps or baseball or hockey cards. Or you fight for it by having a snap game of palms. I offer Bug a wrinkled Johnny Bower card, but he refuses.

“C'mon, Bug,” I say. “I really want the paten. I owe Oberstein a hard whack.”

He refuses again, saying he is too sleepy to take the bells.

“I'm really tired too, Bug,” I say. “I feel like I'm gonna fall asleep.”

So we play palms. Bug's good at it. He wins a lot. In snapper palms, you play odds and evens once to see who has upper and who has lower palms. This time I'm lucky. I get lower palms, which gives me the advantage. One or two finger teases, Bug draws back, and
wham
. . . I nip him. I get the paten, and Bug gets the bells.

When Bug isn't an altar server, he always falls asleep. Sometimes he snores lightly in the pew, and the boy next to him has to poke him awake. He has never fallen asleep on the altar, until today.

Just before Mass starts, I say five Hail Marys for the success of the marathon and a few Glory Be's that we don't get caught for stealing the wine.

I glance over at Bug after the Introit, and he is looking kinda groggy. I point to the bells so he'll remember to ring them as Monsignor Flynn climbs the altar steps, chanting
Gloria in Excelsis Deo
. Bug gives me the finger. He's really tired and cranky. He picks up the bells and drops them before ringing them properly. Old Flynn turns and gives him an ugly look.

I don't pay much attention to Bug until the offertory, when he's supposed to join me in bringing up the cruets of water and wine. He's asleep, so I cough a few times, but he doesn't hear me. I get up and walk over to get the cruets, kicking his feet as I pass by. I figure he'll stay awake for the rest of the Mass, so I don't pay much attention until right before the Sanctus, when he's next supposed to ring the bells. He's out like a light. And he's swaying from side to side, slowly, like a ship at sea. Several times it looks like he's gonna fall, but he doesn't. But when I'm not watching, I hear a deep gurgle and turn to see him drop like a sack of potatoes, his head smacking against the linoleum floor. I race to him and bend over, pretending to help him up while whispering to him that he conked out and to keep his eyes closed and pretend that he fainted. Monsignor Flynn turns around and stares down from his perch as Brother Malone and Brother Walsh hurry to Bug's aid. They help him up and walk him off to the sacristy the same way they would've helped an injured baseball player off the field.

It is all very exciting. Bug is lucky old Flynn or one of the brothers didn't catch him sleeping, or he would've been a dead duck. Monsignor Flynn motions for me to take the paten and move to the bells' side of the altar. It is the first time I've ever served Mass alone. I don't mind. It's a bit of an adventure until we get to the Agnus Dei, when I remember I don't know all the words, so I half-cough and half-mumble my way through. Then I sing the Laudate to announce communion, pick up the guillotine, wait for Monsignor Flynn to descend the steps and walk to the altar rail to administer communion to my prisoners.

When Bug finally shows up at breakfast, white as snow, he gets razzed really bad.

“What happened, Bug?” Blackie asks. “Forget to take your wakeup pill?”

“Hey, if it ain't Bug the Slug,” Murphy says. “He came, he saw, he conked out.”

“Glory, glory, hallelujah,” Oberstein sings. “The Bug keeps marching on.”

“Keep it up, keep it up, four eyes,” Bug says. “Your day is comin'.” And the whine of injury is louder than his words.

St. Martin's in the choir room. We're doin' a play by Skatespear. Martin's in the choir room. Rags is doin' a play by Skatespear. Martin's in the choir room.

The crier is Benny Long. He's in grade six. Rags has sent him to get us. We're doing a drama for the Christmas concert. Rags' favorite play,
Julius Caesar
. One of the drama teachers from Holy Cross, which is way out in the west end of the city, is coming to the Mount three days a week to help him out.

Today we're practicing on the stage, which we love, because we horse around in the wings. Usually, the choir gets the stage, but lately, because we're doing a play, we've been getting it a lot. Rags is a good director. He's patient, and he puts up with a lot of shenanigans. Like the other day we were horsing around on stage, waiting for him to show up, and just as he did, Oberstein was booming out, “I'm a Yankee doodle dandy
. . .
” If it had been any other brother, Oberstein would've been a dead duck. But Rags just laughed and said, “Okay, okay, silly season's not for another month. We have work to do. Act two, scene one, draw the curtain.”

Father Cross is Julius Caesar, which is a good choice for the part, I think. Blackie is playing the role of Brutus. Bug is the soothsayer and Casca. He's the only one with two parts. “That's because he has a split personality,” Oberstein says. Murphy is Mark Antony, and Oberstein is the stage manager, which Rags says is the most important job in the whole show. I'm playing the part of Cassius, which is a very important role. “Type casting,” Oberstein says. “You have that lean and hungry luck.”

Today we're practicing the stabbing scene, which we all love because we get to beat up on Father Cross. As we crowd in on him with our wooden daggers, we stab and punch and knee him until he falls to the floor. Once O'Connor grabbed him by the nuts, and he shrieked like a banshee. He's usually in agony by the time Rags yells, “Wunnerful, wunnerful. Excellent blocking. Great stuff.” The conspirators do such a job on Murphy that Rags congratulates Father Cross every time. “Fabulous, Cross! You're terrific! Just terrific! You keep getting better and better. Good stuff!” Each time the scene ends, it takes poor Cross about five minutes to get up off the floor and fix himself up, while we're all in the wings howling with laughter.

Murphy is really good as Mark Antony. He'd be really good in any part. He has only one serious flaw, according to Rags. He keeps pushing back his hair all the time. Rags says, not to worry, it won't be a problem opening night because he'll have a Roman crew cut. Murphy gets to give the famous “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” speech. Rags goes over the opening with him again and again, because the way Murphy speaks, it sounds like “Friends, Romans, Cunt-tree-men.” The first time Murphy delivered the speech, Rags stopped him dead in his tracks. He put his hand over his eyes and kept repeating, “Omigod! Omigod!”

As Murphy delivers today, we are crowded in the wings directly in his line of vision, mouthing each word, trying to get him to screw up or crack. When he says, “Lend me your ears,” we all grab our ears or someone else's and mime handing them to him. All except Bug, who reaches for his dick, which cracks us up so much that Ryan falls to the floor in fits as Rags yells, “Quiet in the wings,
puh-leeze
.” Bug's as foolish as a capelin, but Murphy doesn't waver. He stares straight ahead and rattles away, moving about in the pulpit. Only once does he almost lose it. Each time he says Brutus is an honourable man, Bug drops his pants and moons him. We crack up, but Murphy doesn't miss a beat, which is really quite amazing. He's a really good actor. He delivers a perfect speech. “Terrific, Murphy! Fantastic! Well done!” Rags is clapping his hands hard from the back of the hall. Murphy is beaming with pride as we all roll on the floor in fits of laughter.