HOW TO STAY DRUNK
Time is an inexorable creep, always
running on. The way this one guy
did, Charley Price, I think his name
was, came from daily trips in early
morning light, to church - as the
sexton. The communion wine, stored
like anything else, by the crate in the
storage room, was always there to open
another day. It worked. Some days,
there was a six o'clock mass, but
everyday there was a seven AM. The
same few elderly ladies from around the
decrepit town, or what passed for it.
Prayers and promises, the whole pissy
load. They squirm up to the communion
rail and smile. I was most often the altar
boy kid they'd see. Yeah, me. This Father
Egan guy, he'd speed-read the Mass and
rip through the whole thing in twenty
minutes. That'd leave some more time
for the sampling. All things happen
fast under the most holy sun; and
daybreak always came soon enough.
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