That salted it. Daddy would be clearing snow and Corky had a date with a priest.
5
The days passed, just like always. Daddy would grunt his monosyllabic morning weather report before heading out to read meters. Mommy would fret in the kitchen sending up her novenas to Mrs. Folgers and the Virgin Mary. And Corky, well you would find him parked in his usual spot glued to the tube. Although things seemed the same, there was something different. Had Corky known the word he would have identified it as anticipation. He knew that a momentous occasion was upon him. He understood that someday he was going to see the priest while daddy shoveled snow.
With that in mind, he no longer confined his time for playing church to the half hour of Casey and his cartoon friends. Church frequently replaced marbles during the afternoon soaps and even a few of the studio audiences got a dose of redemption during the evening variety shows.
Corky took great pains with his preparations. Especially right before Casey. He pulled out every ‘cyclopedia’ from the bookshelf to build a reasonable likeness of an altar. Another book, a fat Webster’s dictionary that had gone fuzzy along the edges, served as his bible. And most important, at a place of great prominence, atop ‘cyclopedia’ volume ‘M-N,’ was the chalice.
Until this week Corky’s chalice had been whatever random drinking glass he had retrieved from the dish drainer for the day. But after the encounter with the priest, mommy had splurged and bought him a cheap dime store goblet for less than dime store price when she happened across it at the Salvation Army. Corky was thrilled. The goblet had an off-white hue and the outer bowl was adorned with raised bumps and lines that vaguely resembled grapes on the vine. And the chalice was about to be put to use. The toot-toot of a train whistle meant that it was time for church!
The standard opening sequence for Casey and his cartoon friends showed the great man himself, out in the train yard hopping across several sets of tracks in route to the depot. A tinny instrumental chugga-chugga train melody (clearly part of the public domain) ushered Casey to his destination. Slowly, deliberately, Corky placed the palms of his hands in front of him. As the pre-taped version of Casey reached for the depot door Corky gently unfolded his hands like opening a book. Casey stepped inside. Corky spread his arm in welcome. And as the TV image segued from the canned intro to a live Casey entering the studio Corky leaned back and raised his arms upward in the now famous touchdown Jesus pose. “Hi kids!” Casey bellowed. “Amen!” Corky dutifully replied.
The show progressed and Corky fulfilled his obligation to his congregation. As the engineer passed his mic to coax names out of each studio audience youngster, Corky pantomimed the act; placing a Eucharist on each extended tongue. When Harry the Happy Hobo recited the list of birthday names: ‘Lisa… Charlie… Peter…’ Corky traced a finger along an open page of the bible according to Webster, his inexperienced lips trying to replicate the names as uttered by the glib-gifted drifter.
And when the cartoons rolled Corky chose random parts of the Catholic service to compliment the antics on the screen: An opening or closing Merry Melodies theme got him strutting around his altar in processional and recessional mimicry. A Yogi bear pick-i-nick basket adventure would send one of mommy’s pie pans among the parishioners for their offerings. The lighting of animated TNT fuses signaled the time for lighting of the votive candles.
Currently Yakky Doodle and Snaglepuss were discussing something of great importance. Corky still didn’t understand all of the dialogue of his cartoon friends, especially these two: A duck that obviously took voice lessons from a rotted cellar door hinge and a lion that uttered highbrow phrases like: “Heavens to Murgatroyd!” and “Exit, stage left!” But they did funny things. Snagglepuss suddenly became alarmed at the sound of a falling anvil. He leapt high off the ground, his feet churning and churning while the rapid-fire staccato of a tom-tom drum kept cadence with his pace if not his progress. Yakky Doodle watched emotionlessly as Snagglepuss opined: “Exit! Stage right!”
Too late.
The anvil found its mark, Snagglepuss did not find stage right, but stage squashed, and Corky's hands reached for the cherished chalice.
As Yakky waddled in to survey the damage, Corky lifted his goblet reverently toward the screen: “Double-dee-day” He breathed. It wasn’t the Latin that Father Milliken used each Sunday, but to Corky it sounded just fine. “Double-dee-day!” To the left, to the right and again back in the middle, louder and stronger with each pass. “Double-dee-day, Double-dee-day, Double-dee-daaaaaayyy!” Meanwhile, Yakky had tipped the anvil upright with his foot (a remarkable achievement for a diminutive duck) revealing a clotted mass of mangled limbs and fur, his foible, Snagglepuss.
Corky, delighted, hoisted his chalice to the pinnacle. “Double-dee-day!”
Chapter 2
1
“Coat.”
Corky looked at daddy who was looking at his keys. “Church. Shovel snow. And -- see the – priest.” Corky immediately understood. Anticipation was obliterated by excitement. Another new emotion! He launched himself with more exuberance than he had ever displayed toward – what? The coat closet; of course. Daddy had told him to get his coat because he was going to see the priest! The young papal wannabee was experiencing new feelings at a dizzying pace. Who knew what other magical things would be discovered after the brief drive to St. Mark’s.
At some point during the day daddy had come home and the winter solstice sun had set. However for little boys who exist in a world illuminated by vacuum tubes and serenaded by laugh tracks, the arrival of early evening had gone unnoticed. It was 6 o’clock. Corky couldn’t tell time but he knew that ‘Hogan’s Heroes’ was about to start. Stalag 13’s tunnel diggers and radio operators would have to wait for another night. Corky was going for a ride.
An evening drive was not unheard of but was exquisitely rare. Even more so, mommy’s absence meant that Corky was standing in the front seat! (The priest had been clear – daddy cleared the walks; Corky would be tutored. To her relief mommy had not been invited). He took in the dim glow of the Ramblers dashboard. He watched as daddy’s massive work shoes stomped the three pedals below. Daddy white-knuckled the steering wheel with his left hand and with his right cranked the gearshift lever down, then up, and then down again. It was a mysterious pattern of motions, known only to big people, designed to make the car go. The front seat view should have better but the darkness blotted out all of the familiar landmarks. Swirling snow on the roadway reflected the headlights for perhaps 50 feet. Beyond that it was darkness save for the distant streetlight or the glow of a picture window from a homeowner tardy in drawing the evening shades.
Even without the advantage of light and landmarks (a matter of some awe to Corky) daddy still found his way to St. Mark’s. The parking lot was vacant but daddy did not take advantage of this luxury. Instead he rolled past the church toward a curious little building that sat off to the side. He parked right on the street! The headlights went dark, the engine was relieved of duty, and Corky reached for the door handle.
Outside, and with the headlights off, Corky realized that he could see a little better. Perhaps it was the novelty of this new destination. Maybe his anticipation had heightened his otherwise underused senses. Regardless he now could see much more of the detail of the rectory. Smaller than the church, but still like the church with its red-brick exterior and ornate trim. Unlike the church, it had plain old windows and a storm door entry just like at home.
Without the slightest sense of protocol, daddy reached for the rectory door and let himself in. As a meter reader he often let himself in to back porches, cellar doors and even in certain cases the home itself in order to do his job. Besides, this was church – you always let yourself in.
The rectory parlor was gently-lit and empty. Vastly under-used high-back chairs sat stately between a pair of sofas. Daddy didn’t sit. He stood stupidly. The hailing words of ‘meter reader’ nearly escaped his lips but that wasn’t right. He assessed the
room looking for clues like a snow shovel or push broom but found none.
It was Corky who eventually declared their entrance: “No TV?” He looked around the parlor corner and came up empty. Then he saw a promising light down a long hallway and moved toward it with the unabashed innocence that is reserved for inquisitive youngsters. Daddy let him go. His boy would resolve the awkward necessity of introduction.
And that he did. Near the end of the hallway Corky found not a TV, but the broad smiling face of Father Milliken. “Well, look who’s here.” The good father absolutely beamed with pleasure. Corky caught his breath and took just the slightest step back. He recognized the face, but this was not the same man he saw every Sunday decked out in robes and ropes. Father Milliken was dressed in black from head to toe. The only exception was a rectangle of white just below his chin on his stiff upturned collar.
“And where might your father be?’ Queried the smiling priest. Corky had no words. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to turn and point. His mind was awhirl with so many images! Sunday church! His chalice back at home! (why didn’t he bring his chalice!) Distributing communion with Snagglepuss! But mostly he was left without words because once again this man, this man of great importance, had looked him square in the eye and acknowledged him.
The moment passed but the feeling lingered as Father Milliken looked down the hall and spotted daddy who was still standing at the front door. “Oh do, come in. And thank you for agreeing to help with the snow.” The two-part statement left daddy momentarily confused. Was he supposed to come in or was he being directed to go out and shovel. Shoveling would be his preference. It did not include human interaction. But he did ‘come in’ and the twosome of father and son became a threesome of father, daddy and son.
“These are my quarters.” Father Milliken said expansively. He waved an uplifted palm across the breadth of his room, a gesture not unlike the ones that punctuated his Sunday sermons. The room was cerebral with books, tabletop sculptures and a polished globe. Perhaps a few too many paintings of religious figures broke up the monotony of the stark walls. But what else is a priest supposed to hang, a pennant for the Minnesota golden gophers? A poster extolling the honey-brewed flavor of Grain Belt beer? A bachelor he may be, but a bachelor’s life he did not lead. At least not in the traditional sense.
The furniture matched the pieces that occupied the parlor, although these pieces were used with a bit more regularity. There was a TV, which to Corky’s astonishment was not on (maybe a god damned glass of water had fallen on the priests TV too). “And here in the corner is my prized worldly possession, if priests are allowed to have such a thing.” He looked to daddy for validation and was not surprised in the slightest by the vacant response. “My telescope.” He went on grandly. “Our religious analogies between earth and sky, man and deity, have existed since the creation of the garden of paradise. If not even a few days before.” He laughed at the joke and then laughed again when he realized the joke was totally beyond the grasp of the only other adult in the room.
He continued in a more condescending manner. “So your boy wants to be a priest.” With the look of a man trying to resolve some complex matter in his head daddy replied: “Yes.” Father Milliken nodded sagely. “And you want to shovel snow.” It worked the first time so daddy repeated his answer. “Well good! We have an arrangement and an agreement. I’ll keep---“ The priest flushed slightly. “Why forgive me, I don’t even know your name. What do they call you young man?” Corky had neither the wind in his lungs nor the savvy in his social to contend with the question. He stood mute, still staring at the gregarious giant before him. Father Milliken turned toward daddy who also flushed but far more than slightly. “Boy – uhh …Corky. Call him…Corky.” A pregnant pause permeated the room before the priest suddenly brightened: “Oh well yes, of course, a nickname! Then Corky it is!
And with the introductions made Corky was left alone in the room while daddy and the priest went off to retrieve the shovel and discuss (although discuss is a generous term, Father Milliken talked, daddy listened) the procedure for clearing the walks of snow.
Corky was not unaccustomed to being alone. But being alone in a foreign place was a whole ‘nother matter. He hadn’t been offered a chair so he stood fixedly in the spot where the two men had left him. The priest’s voice and daddy’s heavy footsteps occupied his ears as they drifted down the hall. The rest of his senses he opened to the world around. His eyes landed on a large desk. It wasn’t the desk itself so much, but the objects upon the desk that caught his intrigue. There was a thick black-bound book splayed open. A cluster of colored strings emanated from the top of the book and from there they separated and hid among the pages. A bible he thought. He knew the word and he knew the significance. Perhaps Father Milliken would hold the bible high and read to him just like he did in church. Also on the desk were scapulas, tassels, and even a small bell like the kind the altar boys rang during mass. Diminutive crystal vessels of holy water and anointment oil displayed varying levels of each clear liquid. An incense burner, smaller than the one swung back and forth during mass, but an incense burner just the same (Corky could now detect the lingering aroma, that and furniture polish) held a position of prominence at the head of the desk.
He could barely take it all in. He looked the room over and over again, each time his eye would find something it had missed before. The anxiety of being in a foreign place all alone tried to lift itself up the back of his neck. When he found that happening he turned his attention to his personal pacifier; the silent TV. Hogan’s Hero’s was on right now. He didn’t dare be so bold as to turn on the TV, but its mere presence alone meant comfort. And who knows? Maybe the priest would come back, turn on the TV and they could play church together.
There was one item in the room that both intrigued and unnerved him. It was the telescope. It intrigued him because the name was so close to ‘television’ that it must be good. But the sight of the device itself; a gangly, ominous contraption; with spindly legs, mysterious tubes and slinky cables was not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. It reminded Corky of the terrorizing spider from the show ‘The Incredible Shrinking Man.’ And so he turned his attention away and looked at other things of interest until Father Milliken returned.
And return he did. “Well, Corky it is, right? Let’s get started.” He beamed. Father Milliken entered the room and closed the door.
2
At some point in a young man’s life a spiritual awakening occurs, triggering the desire to pursue a career in the priesthood. Gustavus Milliken had experienced a calling. But it was a calling of a different nature. The fact that he was a priest was a matter of convenience not of calling. For him the vestments of priesthood were an effective cloak to his real calling as a pedophile.
As a young boy Gus had been repeatedly abused and molested by the steady stream of men who did their own calling on his alcoholic mother. Many times little Gus had been lured by the promise of an ice cream treat or something special from the candy store, only to be driven to a secluded area and savagely raped by yet another gristly ogre. His mother may or may not have known. She cared little, save for the fresh bottle of vermouth delivered upon their return. Once refreshed, she would head to the bedroom and spread her legs as the boyfriend of the week labored furiously to fire off yet a second load within the course of 20 minutes.
Little Gus learned quickly to bury these experiences (and his feelings) deep, deep inside. His only attempt to tell his mother occurred shortly after an especially vicious encounter with one of the ogres. With teary eyes and a small voice he began to tell her about the indignity and then; WHAAPP! A vicious backhand caught him across the face and sent him tumbling over the coffee table. A snifter of vodka shattered on the floor. His mother screamed in anguish and unleashed kick after brutal kick to his midsection. “Don’t you ever!” -Kick- “Ever say anything!” -Kick- -Kick- “Ever let me hear you say anything like that again!” -Kick- Finally, she kneeled to the floor; not
to comfort her broken son, but to lament the loss of her elixir.
And so Gus spoke of it to no one.
As he approached puberty Gus followed the lead of the friends he hung with. He participated in the juvenile and vastly uninformed discussions that young boys engage in about virility, pube hairs and training bras. He learned about fags and queers and shared in the vocalized disdain of such activity while in the presence of his buddies. To suggest that he felt otherwise would have been suicide. But as he grew and as his body developed, Gus could no longer ignore the wiring within his brain. His wet dreams were not of Julie Lawry the buxom high-school cheerleader who lived across the street. He dreamed of boys. Naked little boys. One night as he played pocket pool in an attempt to bring on sleep, his mind brought up images of Dondi, the orphan boy from the Sunday comic pages. He imagined that it was Dondi’s hand stroking his pecker, that Dondi was lowering his head to have a taste of his throbbing member. That Dondi was bare-assed, and lowering his bottom to receive a good thrusting. There came a fantastic sensation. His balls contracted and suddenly there was a jet of hot fluid. Gus panicked. He had rubbed too hard and the sticky substance on his hand was blood. He threw off the bedding and held his hand before the glow of the alarm clock. No, not blood, but jizz. His jizz. The jizz that his cretin friends at school had talked about. It had been brought on by the innocent face of the orphan boy Dondi. And in the months and years ahead it would be the face of this comic strip caricature that would become his go-to image for achieving a successful session of whacking off.
Alter Boys Page 3