All In Passing

Do nuns wear those funny outfits out of habit or do they wear them to intimidate? Experience tells me nuns were not chosen to serve God but to antagonize those who believe in God so that His job in determining who’ll make it to heaven will be easier. 

I’ve had nuns rap me on the knuckles, yell at me for bad enunciation, chase me into a  closet because I refused to kiss a dead nun, yell at me because I took my gay (although closeted) gym teacher’s name as my confirmation name, and hit me head-on while drunk. Yes, drunk. 

Sister Perpetua Reeske (dubbed Sister Perpetual Risk by my father) was on her way home from God-knows-what, literally, when she hit my mother’s car head-on. I’d begged to borrow Mom’s new champagne-green Rabbit and after a one-hour fight won the keys, but on one condition: I had to avoid the highway and drive through the city. For once I actually did as I was asked and as I sat at a light in front of the hospital, in the city, I saw the nun, full-on penguin suit, sweep wide into my lane and smash into me. I wasn’t hurt, although on-lookers were convinced I was paralyzed because Mom’s new 1979 VW Rabbit had the new locking seatbelts that restrained me into the seat so well, I couldn’t move. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” I lit a cigarette. 

“You don’t look fine. I’ll check the nun.” 

Soon cops were strewn around the street scratching their heads at why I wouldn’t move and briskly working to get the holy-drunk out of her car and into the squad car. Freed at last, the cop, Flanagan or Callahan or some-other Mick name (I’m a Mick too) told me to go into the lobby and call for someone to pick me up. Being 18 and conflicted over my anger towards the nun and the cop, I stepped into the lobby to call my Dad. I had one dime and, thus, was allowed one phone call. 

“Dad, you better pick me up. I’m at St. Peter’s Hospital.” 

“What? In the ER? Where’s the car?” 

“No, in the lobby. The car’s out front getting towed. A nun hit me. She’s  blasted.” 

“How blasted?” 

“Uncle Philly blasted.” 

“OK, hold tight.” 

I walked outside to wait by the car but when I approached, the road was cleared, except for some poor guy left behind to sweep up the glass and hose down the vomit (not mine.) 

“Hey, where’s my car?” 

“I dunno.” 

“Shit.” 

Twenty minutes later Dad pulled up and I got into his car. 

“I swear it wasn’t my fault. I was just sitting at the light and she turned the corner and hit me. She puked all over and the cop couldn’t get her into his car fast enough. I came out and my car was gone!” 

“Your mother’s car. You’re dead meat.” 

“I know.” 

He drove me home and let me go in first—he hadn’t told her a thing. When he came in he said “we’ll sue. I can’t wait, finally, I can sue the Church.” 

“Jesus Christ Jim!” 

“Him too!” 

Dad chuckled the whole way back to his room and I sat at the table as Mom pushed me over her pack of smokes. I hated menthol but I wasn’t complaining. 

“Nuns do drink, a lot.” Mom said. 

“I know. How many have you had here anyway? Any who didn’t drink?”

During the ’70’s Mom took it upon herself to offer refuge to unhappy nuns. She liked the idea of converting them to lesbians more than she liked the fact that they lived together, married to God and forced to live a life of celibacy and general denial. My mom had a Masters in Religious studies and still read passages from the Bible at mass so her rebellious streak at stealing the nuns away never quite made sense.

“There was the one, the one who asked to live with us?” 

“Oh, Godddd. Her. She SHOULD drink.” 

“Yeah, maybe.” 

Over the next week my Dad negotiated with the diocese to pay for all the damage as well as provide a loaner; seems Mom’s metal-flake mint green paint required added drying time. Mention of Sister Perpetual Risk was not to be made by us to anyone and the entire incident was to be forgiven—maybe by God but by Mom? 

And I, well, let’s just say I should’ve stuck with my gut and taken the highway because following my mother’s wishes only reinforced those things I already knew: No one, not the Church, the Police or my parents are dependable or there when I think they should be, and nuns are always meaner and drunker then they look.