I often wonder what is the driving force behind old school shitiness.
I bring this up mainly because I found an old picture of me as an alter boy and I was reminded of what a better person I am than most. (I was an altar boy for a total of 10 days and then I was dismissed as part of the “Sacrificial wine scandal” of 1976. I was a victim.)
And then I came to Starbucks and just got in line in time to catch the tail end of a “How hard is your job?” berating of an irate dick head directed at my favorite barrista.
I was about to say something when the nun spoke up.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”
She was loud, she was angry, she had the most delightful jersey-girl accent.
And she was in full habit.
Nothing more intimidating than an angry nun in full habit.
Like a pitbull armed with a straight razor.
Bad memories, like PTSD, come boiling up from my past.
If you never went to Catholic school, its a lot like being a former resident of hell.
But going to Catholic school that is taught by nuns it like being in a prison and wearing a pretty sun dress that shows off your legs.
You know you are getting screwed at some point.
And its your fault.
Before you ask “What is my fault?” understand that EVERYTHING you do in Catholic school is a sin and you are guilty!
Nuns are married to God, and it looks like a bad marriage.
Now, before my mother weighs in on this subject, let me state that I am a deeply devout man, or I am at least close.
But nuns have a general hatred of anyone with a spark of excitement for life.
And that is when I met them.
It started in first grade and continued to 8th grade graduation.
I had nuns continually riding my ass like a chronic hemorrhoid in a black habit and rosary beads.
First grade was when I was first expelled for accidentally stabbing someone in the neck with a pencil.
And blood is one of those things that cranks up the screaming.
You can apologize all you like on that one, you are not getting away with a slap on the wrist.
3rd thru 5th grade was the hayday of silly reasons to expel me.
There was the gambling ring, the extortion ring, truly innocent slave trading, and a misunderstanding involving a game of show and tell in the girl’s room. (All excuses are ignored when you have no pants on.)
My mother was a slick horse trader and alternated between being the school nurse and substitute teacher for 8 years, never being paid. (The penguins even had fact teaching credentials made up for her that evaporated when I graduated.)
The deal was understood.
Shut your mouth, tow the line and we will let that little bastard stay.
Not bad as far as back room deals go.
Back to modern day Starbucks and Sister Mary-Goomba.
She followed Mr. Rudeness over to wait for his coffee, glaring at him like a mad woman the whole time.
If anyone else pulled this kind of shit, they were either homeless or dealing with a different type of crazy.
Nuns get away with everything.
I got my coffee and began writing this, delighted at finding a solid blog subject.
They can be hard to come by.
This little muttered tidbit came from the guy sitting next to me.
I took out my earbuds, I had nothing playing, and turned to look at him.
Stir the pot.
“I know, right?” Apparent agreement is the quickest way to find out what makes someone tick.
He looked at me, maybe for the first time, then nodded slightly.
“They have a whole fuckin agenda!”
I sipped my coffee and tried to figure out if he was homeless or not.
Crazy was already a gimme at this point.
Some days you rack your brain trying to figure out a subject to blog about.
And then some days, they fall out of the sky, like some sort of literary coffee cake, to be paired with a delicious roast.