Violence at The End of Time

There was very little blood shed in the old movies. When John Wayne punched it out with some desperado, they pounded each other in the face with abandon yet never produced bloody noses or blackened eyes. When they got shot, there was rarely evidence of life fluids escaping from the wounds. Even the victims’ shirts remained holeless.

Not so with me. Alan only hit me once, square in the face, but my nose bled copiously and my lip swelled up like an overripe squash. If I would have hit my head on the cement when I fell, I would have blacked out and missed all the little birdies twittering around my head.

It wasn’t like I didn’t see him coming. I was sitting in my booth at The End of Time and saw Winnie outside the window, walking toward the front door. She stopped suddenly because this big guy approached her from the opposite side of the street. I had never seen Alan, but I knew it had to be him. He was not only a big guy, but he also looked angry. And Winnie looked scared.

I never thought that I would consciously put myself in harm’s way, but then I’m not sure I was fully conscious at the time. I felt deeply protective of Winnie, and I don’t even remember leaving my seat and exiting the café. My last memory before Alan knocked me stupid was of me grabbing his shirt from behind and ordering him to back off. He looked at me like I was a pile of cow ploppage and then threw just one strategic punch in the middle of my face.

Even though I was on the ground bleeding to death, I heard Alan yell at Winnie.

“They fired me, you bitch! What did you say? WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

Alan sounded like an enraged bull when he yelled. I wanted to get up but I couldn’t seem to find my feet. I could hear Winnie begging Alan to go away and leave her alone, and then I heard leather shoes slapping the sidewalk from down the street.

When my eyes remembered how to focus, I looked up to see Father Gene standing between Alan and Winnie. In contrast to the rage that emanated off of Alan, Father Gene had an aura of calm. He had one hand raised at the level of Alan’s chest, either in a gesture of cessation or of blessing. When the priest spoke, it was with the same tone that he might say, “The body of Christ, broken for you.”

“You will not harass this woman,” he said. “You’ve injured a man, and now you must leave.”

“Get out of the way, priest,” growled Alan, “or I’ll take you down. Your collar won’t protect you.”

“I know it won’t,” said Father Gene. “If you have to inflict more violence, then you will do it to me, but not to her.”

Alan hunched his shoulders and seemed to grow five inches taller. I thought he was going to hit Father Gene, which would leave Winnie defenseless. Father Gene remained the portrait of a man at peace, one who didn’t fear violence.

“Your life will not be better if you follow this path.” The priest’s hand moved closer to Alan’s chest. “Already you have committed an act of assault, and there may be consequences for that. If you go now, you can think about what you want your life to be like. This will not end well as it is.”

Alan’s entire frame started to vibrate, his fists clenched like fingery anvils. Then he abruptly turned and stormed across the street, spitting invectives as he went.

As lousy as I felt, I didn’t mind having Winnie fuss over me and press her fingers lightly to my face as she cleaned off the blood. We relocated from the sidewalk to the inside of the café, where the ministrations of care were performed for my benefit. Father Gene kept asking Winnie if she was all right. I guess he hadn’t noticed that I had been nearly bludgeoned to death. After a while, he turned to me.

“If you would have dodged left, he would have missed you, Max.”

I was in the process of checking to see if all my teeth were still in my mouth. His comment caused my investigation to cease.

“How do you know about things like that, Father Gene? You’re the poster boy for non-violence.”

“I fought Golden Gloves for two years after high school,” he said. Even Winnie looked surprised at that. “I know my way around a street fight.”

“But you didn’t even act like you were about to throw any punches,” I said. “You looked like the Pope out there.”

Father Gene smiled. “My fighting days are long behind me, Max. My vocation calls me into the way of Jesus, and because of that I have to be willing to allow the forces of violence to have their way with me, if circumstances demand. This was one of those circumstances.”

In my mind, being a priest was a perplexing life because of the vow of celibacy. Now it seemed even more complicated, with the commitment to non-violence, even at one’s own detriment, trumping a life with no sex.

I tried to ponder Father Gene’s words, but my face was starting to hurt in spite of Winnie’s tenderness. I wondered what it would be like to willingly take such pain without resistance. I just couldn’t find a place for that.