West End Kid by Chris Laing

Author:Chris Laing
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: short stories, hamilton, ww2 fiction, adolescent adventures, childhood adventures
Publisher: Chris Laing

The Surplice

Walking down Broadway Avenue toward Gus’s Confectionery, Charlie Greystone lit one of his mother's Sweet Caps but he didn't offer me a puff. That’s because he was a big guy and I was just a squirt. Oh, and a big guy kept his cigarette in the corner of his mouth even when he talked and the smoke curled up and made his eyes water.

He blinked away the small tears and said, “If ya wanna be an altar boy ya gotta know the Pope's phone number.”

“What?”

“Ya heard right. Don’t ya know the Pope's phone number?”

A grade four kid always believes a big guy in grade eight, especially when he's senior altar boy. Sister Theresa told us it would be a great honor to serve God as an altar boy but she didn't say anything about phoning the Pope.

“Dunno, Charlie. What's his number?”

“Vat 69.” Then he slapped me on the back, laughing so hard he almost swallowed his Sweet Cap.

I didn’t get it. Figured it must be a big-guy’s joke.

At home, my mother studied the blurry blue printing on the mimeographed notice sent home by Sister.

“It says here that it’s a great honor to serve God as an altar boy.”

“Yeah, I know, Ma. Can I go out now?”

“And only two boys from grade four have been selected for training.”

“Yeah, I know, but the guys are waitin’. It’s my turn to pitch today.”

She gave me her world famous strained-patience look and sat me down at the chipped enamel table in the kitchen, tucking my baseball glove under her apron.

“Look here, young man, this is serious business.”

By her tone of voice I knew that Lipinski would pitch that day even though it was my turn. And, like it or not, I had been chosen by Sister and my mother and maybe even by God to become an altar boy.

The next day after school, while the other guys were playing baseball, Sister Theresa marched us up the back stairs to the chapel located above the two classrooms on the first floor. According to the floor-plan pinned to the notice board beside the entrance, the chapel would become classroom space when the parishioners of Canadian Martyrs’ could afford to build a new church. During his sermons at Sunday Mass Father Flaherty explained how contributing to the church building fund would earn us the same merit for heaven as the missionaries who were saving souls in China. When Father visited our class room Frenchy Lalonde asked him how giving money was equal to enduring the hardships of being a missionary in China, and Father said, “Like many things in the Church, it’s a matter of faith, my son.”

Entering the chapel, we dipped our fingertips in the holy water font and made the sign of the cross. Jonesy, walking behind Sister, had dipped his whole hand in the water and, turning sideways, flicked his fingers in my face. We were always bewildered at how Sister could see backwards through her black veil and in two seconds she had Jonesy by his ear and sat him down – hard – in the first pew.

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