Monk In The Cellar

[dave]

189. Don't Know


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“I didn’t recognize you in that get-up,” Raiser began. Bert’s eyes darted down in Raiser’s direction for a split second, as if he noticed an unruly pet on the rug and decided to ignore it.

“I haven’t thanked you for arranging the service,” Bert said to me. “I had to leave immediately afterward. Pressing business.”

In truth, Bert had left just before it was over.

“I wanted to meet you,” I said, meaning it. “We Brothers seldom know much about each other’s lives before living together in the monastery and I hoped you could tell me a bit more about Jesse as a child and …”

“No,” he interjected, “I didn’t know him very well.”

I was at a loss as to how to respond to that. They were brothers, after all.

“I thought you grew up together,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, “but we seldom spoke. Different interests and he was … well … he was different.”

“How so?” I asked, willing to try this angle.

“He was a pain in the ass,” said Bert.


You Don't Know Me - Michael Buble

[dave]

190. Hero





I waited a moment, hoping Bert would expand on his judgment of Jesse. But he offered nothing.

“I suppose,” I finally said, “younger brothers appear that way and …”

“No,” he interrupted, ”he really was a pain in the ass.”

Clearly, Jesse’s brother Bert did not think much of his sibling’s abilities. I wondered what he thought of his choice of vocation.

“Were you pleased your brother joined an order of monks?” I asked.

Bert looked down toward the floor at Raiser as though the young monk was a child in need of supervision. Then his eyes came back up to mine and he smiled. “Of course,” he said.

Certainly this wasn’t the first time I or any other monk had had to suffer a presumptuous know-it-all who felt we were wasting our lives.


"So, I'm afraid I can't help you ... with my brother's childhood."

“Wow,” said Raiser, “I know everything about MY brother and sister.”

“So you evidently think, young man,” said Bert, glancing down at Raiser as he addressed him. The large man crossed a leg and shifted his weight in the chair. He then made a stunning announcement.

“Jesse, as you call him, was an inveterate letter writer and in fact wrote me incessantly.” He brought his gaze back up to me.

“And you kept them,” Raiser piped, “because you knew he was a genuine hero.” I never realized Raiser felt that way about Jesse and I was surprised.

“He hasn’t been dead long enough to be called a hero,” said Bert. “I kept his letters from the time he left for college because our sainted mother asked me to take care of him. I was unable to do that, of course, and so I saved his correspondence for whoever might come along in the future to take care of him. Alas, he joined the Ardent Brothers and I was no longer needed. I offered your Order the letters from college some years ago. They declined. And of course there are those he wrote afterward from Africa and from West Saugerties.”

"The letters," I said. "Do you still have them? Could we see them?"

"Yes, you certainly may," said Bert. "You can have them."



We Need A Hero – Bonnie Tyler

[dave]

191. The Far East





“My younger brother was always going to grow up and do something better than anyone else,” Bert continued. “He was the most over-confident knucklehead I have ever met. The schemes he dreamed up as a teenager would put Thurber’s Walter Mitty to shame. And the stories he came up with!”

“But,” I interrupted, “you’re speaking of Jesse as a boy. After all, he did grow up and from what I knew of him he was a man who reached a good portion of his goals.” As limited as they might be, I thought.

“I wasn’t about to dally at home to find out,” Bert said. “I left for the Barbary Coast at the tender age of 18.”

“I thought Jesse said you went to the Far East,” I said.

“The Far East is a bar down on outer Broad Street,” he said. “I manage it. Have, for some years.”

There was a moment of silence while I considered what I wanted from this man, other than possibly the letters. I could not think of anything.

“That’s a nice jacket,” I finally said.

“Kangaroo,” he replied.

“A shame,” I said.

“Yes, but he died of old age, so … “

“You knew him?” I said.

“How can anyone really know a kangaroo,” he said, airily.

“Or a brother,” I added.

"Yes," he said. "It's sad."

“Well, maybe ….” I began.

“Willie,” he said. “The kangaroo. He was like ... a brother to me.”



Everybody Hurts - R.E.M.

[dave]

192. Belle-Lettres





Bert stayed to visit another ten minutes. He gave us directions to the Far East Club on Broad Street out past Culver Avenue and said to drop by any time we wanted to pick up Jesse’s lifetime of letters.

“What kinds of things did Jesse write about?” I asked.

“I really don’t remember,” he answered. “I tired of them and stopped reading them some years ago. Must have been when he was in Africa, because when I happened to notice an American stamp on a letter one day I read it and realized he was in Saugerties, which I believe is down around New York?”

“In the Catskills, on the river,” I said.

Neither of us had much of anything else to discuss. I was puzzled over why he dropped by, because I doubt if his reason was to thank us for organizing Jesse’s memorial service.

Raiser walked down to the lobby with Bert, a gesture I thought odd. When he returned to our living room, he again seated himself on the floor.

“You may rise, oh little one,” I chuckled.

“Oh, no. I like sitting at your feet, master,” he said.

“Did you call Bert a cab,” I asked, “or were servants waiting with his sedan chair?”

“I asked him for a job,” Raiser said.

“You vocation is to pray for us,” I continued in a sarcastic vein. “Not tend bar at the Far East bar and grille. Why the hell did you do that?”

”I asked about employment at O’scuggnizio’s, too,” he said. “Bouncer, we’re going to need to do something about income and I’ve broached the subject with every business owner I’ve run into since the fire.”

“We need to get the Brothers together this afternoon,” I said. “We have an offer of employment from Lance we need to discuss. And Raiser, since we are a group of monks, don’t you think we should do this as Brothers?”

“I’m glad you want to keep us together,” he said. “I wondered if you did.”


Momma, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys - Waylon Jennings

[dave]

193. Everyman Monk





There were ten of us, nine from the original eleven with Julio now added to our number. We assembled into a group, most sitting on the floor, in the small sitting room where Raiser and I had spoken to Bert. The well appointed interior was easy to get used to. I could feel like a bishop surrounded by the pomp of my office as my toes dug into the thick lush carpet. Country scenes of the English variety with lots of pale women and muscular horses hung on the wall in ornate golden frames. A wide striped wall paper ran from the ceiling’s egg and dart molding to a chair rail deep enough to hold a goblet of wine. A lot of money had gone into the restoration of this hotel, but I’m sure profits were maintained through ransom-like rates.

Yes, I took charge and frankly I’ll tell you why. I think I’m the only one with enough wits to lead these men. I don’t mean to imply they are stupid. Far from it, most have wonderful powers of logic and intuition. But they’re not street smart. Of course, one could argue that neither was Jesse, but that man was blessed, as though someone followed him around and fixed his mistakes before they were noticed.

I brought the Brothers up to date and announced the existence of Jesse’s letters to Bert and the latter’s offer to us to come and get them.

“As the senior member of this group,” said Harpo, “and as your priest, my dear Bilhild, I respectfully request that I might retrieve Jesse’s letters at the Far East Club.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he’s never been to a titty bar,” laughed Izzy.

“Oh,” said Harpo, visibly embarrassed. And then he laughed, “I thought it was a Chinese restaurant and I haven’t had sweet and sour pork in ages.”

“From the way Bert described it to me when he left here,” said Raiser, “it’s not a titty bar.”

“That’s too bad,” said Cat, “I have this vision of ten monks entering and asking for a table down front.”

“In all seriousness,” said Harpo, “I thought possibly another face might surprise Bert into revealing more about Jesse.”

“Look, folks,” I said. “I am not speaking ill of our late Brother when I say we need to get on with our existence here on earth. I’m not even sure we want the letters.” I looked around the room, waiting for someone to give me a reason why we should spend any amount of time reading Jesse’s lifetime of letters. I was open to procuring the letters, but idealizing a Brother is certainly not monk-like. And making a saint can be dangerous. Dead saints are tough to get rid of.

“I think,” said Harpo, “Jesse represents what many of us have felt and what we have dealt with as religious brothers. He is not unique, certainly, but his provision of a written record could be an important legacy our little band might leave to those who also pursue the spiritual path. In fact, his words might be more readable to laymen than anything we might write. I have been thinking about this since Raiser mentioned it to me earlier. I would like to read the letters and possibly edit them into a book.”

Harpo appeared quite serious. And since he would have little physical labor to do in whatever became our new life, I saw no reason to dissuade him.

“Have you thought of a title?” asked Izzy.

“No, I haven’t,” said Harpo.


Lost In The Woods - Taproot

[dave]

194. Shovel Ready





We decided Harpo and I would travel to the Far East after supper to retrieve the letters. I then apprised the Brothers of Lance’s offer. I told them all I knew at the moment. We would have a house to use as a monastery, we would be field and barn help, guided in our chores by a professional herdsman who would run the show.

“So our jobs,” I said, “ will NOT be to correlate the protein content of the feed against the rolling herd milking average, but rather to move a pile of cow shit from point A to point B when so directed.”

“Sounds like our previous work,” said Raiser.

“This will be a good deal for Lance,” said Izzy.

“Maybe true,” said Cat, “but only after the first year, while we’re getting ourselves back into good physical shape.”

“And none of us will grow younger,” said Harpo.

“We get a house and food,” I said, “and most of us will have to work half days. I think we’re not being cheated.”

I believed what I said. Lance wasn’t cheating us by any means. But I wondered if we would be cheating ourselves. I didn’t know if this venture would take us away from our spiritual purposes or not. But we had little in the way of an alternative if we wanted to stay together and not starve. For mendicants with vows of poverty, I realized none of us were quick to suggest we just go out begging as Francis and others would have.

Make Me A Channel Of Your Peace, The Prayer of St. Francis.
A different melody. I like this, by Sarah MacLachlan





And by someone who herself is different, Sinead O'Connor with the standard melody.

[dave]

195. Money, Money





The rental car had a luxurious new smell. I drove while Harpo held on to the arm rest and the seat belt strapped across his chest.

“Do you have to drive so fast?” he asked.

I slowed down to 45 as we headed east over Oriskany Boulevard.

“I have a secret to tell you,” I told him.

Harpo sighed. “I already know it. We’re rich.”

“You don’t sound happy, but I can guess why,” I said.

“I didn’t become a monk to get rich,” he said. “Any inclination in that direction could eventually turn us into a St. Anne and his ilk.”

“It’s a lot of money, Harpo,” I said.

“I know,” he answered. “Lance told me so you wouldn’t have to bear it alone.”

“He doesn’t trust me, probably,” I said.

“A hundred thousand? Two hundred? I don’t remember the amount,” said Harpo, “but it’s a windfall. And Lance says there may be something from Agnes’ estate.”

“I didn’t know that,” I admitted. “Should we tell anyone else?”

“We're Brothers, Bouncer! How could we not tell them,” he said. “We can only hope that as a group we do the right thing.”

"If you were to become our abbot," I said, "then you could simply edict what is to be done with the money."

Harpo sighed again, this time more deeply.

"The same is true for you," he said. "The Abbot Bilhild would be totally free to dispense with the money as he sees fit."

I looked over at Harpo and he was smirking.

"You know I'd build the most monastery I could with the money," I said.

"And lose your peace in the process," he said. "Poverty, dear Bilhild, is a very underrated state of bliss."


Side By Side - Martin & Lewis

[dave]

196. Out Broad Street


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The sun was setting as we traveled out Broad Street east of Utica on a thoroughfare that according to a history book I’d found that afternoon in the hotel’s small library was one of the oldest in the city. It could have at one time even been an Indian path, but by the 1700’s the road carried goods along the side of the river in the winter when the Mohawk was frozen over. Trade took place when the beaver and otter pelts were ready for harvest, not just when transportation was the easiest. Men who want to make a fortune seldom wait for sunny days.

The industrial buildings we passed looked old, but most had one business or another operating within them. There wasn’t much late rush hour traffic to contend with, however. Following Bert’s directions, we slowed down when we saw the high tension wires loom up on the right and soon spied a low squat building surrounding what at one time had probably been a substantial home. The entire assemblage was painted a dark brown, or so it seemed in the waning light, and a neon sign blinked “Far E t Club” in a manner that appeared to not be purposeful.

“Bert is missing his “as,” remarked Harpo.

“He seems to be,” I agreed.

The parking lot had a kind of surface at one time, but now was marked by deep undulating pot holes and rounded over ridges as it returned to simple dirt. Our rental car bobbed and bottomed as we careened in from the street and I tried to quickly slow down and swerve around the deepest of the craters. We parked next to the front door. Ours was the only car in sight.

A wave of stale beer odor and cigarette smoke greeted us as we pushed open the door and walked into a barroom. The door scraped against the concrete floor as it reached the end of its arc and stayed open. I had to pull hard to get it to close.

Bert sat behind the bar.

“Welcome to the Far East,” he said, without a hint of humor in his voice. “Why don’t you fellas sit down in the booth in the corner and I’ll bring us mugs of beer.”

“None for me,” I said quickly.

“Do you have a very, very dry white wine,” asked Harpo, surprising me a little.

“I’m not sure how dry it is,” said Bert, “but I can squirt some vodka on top of it.” His huge laugh filled the room.


Margaritaville - Jimmy Buffet

[dave]

197. Fools





“I came back here from our meeting this afternoon, “ said Bert, “and realized I would no longer see my brother’s letters after tonight.”

I didn’t know how he might come see them in the future, or even where we would be for sure, so I didn’t offer anything, instead remaining quiet. But Harpo has a larger heart, although sometimes he doesn't think ahead.

“You can come and see the letters anytime,” said Harpo, magnanimously. Of course, the very, very dry white wine may have been hopping around in his brain, flipping on little brotherly love switches. For all I knew, Bert may have indeed poured a little vodka into Harpo’s glass. In fact, expecting even a dry white wine would still have some color, I noticed the liquid in Harpo’s rather large wine glass was quite clear, as if he was drinking either plain water or 180 proof Russian jet fuel. It occurred to me that if Bert had poured vodka in a wine glass as a joke, Harpo would probably not object. It never occurred to me until later that I might be the only person at the table who didn’t know what the phrase, “very, very dry white wine” really meant.

“And so I’ve been reading one letter or another,” said Bert. Just before the two of you arrived, I read his first missive from West Saugerties. He was quite disappointed.”

Again, I said nothing. I could sense Bert leading somewhere and I wasn’t going to help him. If he was preparing an insult, I would not hold his coat for him. Harpo, on the other hand was now ready for convivial discourse.

“Oh, I’d just love to hear his first thoughts of our home in the woods on that glorious mountainside,” said Harpo, and I thought I detected a slight slurring of his speech. I had never before wondered if vodka might affect an older person’s Pacemaker.

“My brother didn’t think much of any of it,” replied Bert. “He said he felt he had landed among a company of fools.”

“That he had, certainly,” said Harpo. “It is our tremendous fortune to be fools for Christ. Who are you a fool for, Mr. Robert Gaffney?”

“I am a fool for no one,” archly replied Jesse’s brother.

“Then you fool yourself as badly as your very, very dry potato wine,” said Harpo.

Bert smiled. “But the imposter warms your belly, if only for a while.”

Not my belly, I thought. All it did for me was almost ruin my life.


Sunday Morning Coming Down - Johnny Cash

[dave]

Monk In The Cellar continued at

monkinthecellar.blogspot.com


198. An Open Book

[dave]

205. Orders

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Cat was visibly annoyed as he flopped down on the floor in the tiny room with only two chairs we used for our meetings in the hotel.

“Does anyone know if Mucky Run has more than 2 chairs?” he asked with sarcasm.

“Some monk you are,” kidded Headless. “Your spiritual ancestors slept on beds of nails.”

“Well, so did I back at Our Lady’s, or it felt like that,” replied Cat.

“So are we gonna take this gig at the farm?” asked Izzy.

“’The Farm?’ said Kickstart. “You mean like ‘The Farm’ in those CIA movies?”

His joke fell flat, because except for our self-dispensation regarding Harry Potter movies, none of us were as young as Kick and hadn’t seen any movies in quite a few years.

"Is Mucky Run a town?" asked Beep.

"I think it's in Frankfort," I said.

"Is Frankfort a town?" asked Kick

"Lance said at one time it was a center for the manufacture of farm implements," said Harpo.

"You mean like Dubuque?" said Beep.

"Probably, if you're talking horse-drawn," I said.

Kick wanted to know if a horse could pull a corn harvester. I tried to get us back on track.

"I think I'd like Dubuque," said Beep. " 'We're from Dubuque,' " he said a few times. "It's our new home town."

“OK,” I said. “I presume you’ve all been discussing it, so what say you? What’s the group’s feeling about taking Lance’s offer?”

Not a sound came from them.

“Well?” I persisted.

“We’re waiting for your thoughts, Bouncer,” said Cat. “We would like to know them.”

I sat back and looked around the room. These men were definitely in need of leadership, but I didn’t consider myself to be the right person to give it. I was good in a foxhole, mostly sensing when to get out and in getting everyone out, but beyond emergencies we needed a thinker, a planner, someone who could make decisions without emotion. I thought of throwing the ball to Harpo, but guessed he would be too smart to catch it.

“I am only one of us,” I finally said. “And if you want my opinion, I’ll give it, but it is the opinion of only one monk.”

“OK, so let’s have it,” said Headless.

“Well, then I guess I’m for taking Lance’s offer,” I said. I don’t know of any alternative for us if we expect to have a roof over hour heads.”



Our Town - James Taylor