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<br><br>It’s raining and Jack’s bored. He can’t see out the window for the raindrops and even if he could, no chicks will be out in this storm.

I have no idea why he entertains thoughts of the priesthood since it involves celibacy and he spends most of his time staring out the window at girls.

But then again, I have no idea myself why I’m studying theology in a coed Catholic college and to make matters worse, his angst is making me question my whole existence.

<br><br> “You know, this is getting to be a real drag.”

I put down my copy of Aquinas and give him an open-blink stare.

“What?”

“You don’t get body language?” I growl. “I’ll tell you what’s a real drag—sitting here day after day watching you at that bloody window.”



<br><br>It’s his turn to stare and he gapes slack –jawed at me. “Wadda ya mean?”

“I mean, why don’t you get the hell of here? Go to the pub—meet a few girls—get drunk, get laid.”

“Hey now, Stevie, boy—you okay?”

“Sure. Why?”



<br><br>He fidgets with the window blinds, trying to adjust them just right so it’s not too apparent that he’s eavesdropping on the street.

“It’s not like you to talk like that,” he croaks, “you’re not like the rest of us.”

“I’m exactly like the rest of you.”

“No you’re not.”

“Aw, hell—how would you know?”

“I know—I don’t spend hours in the chapel praying.”

<br><br>I pitch my book at him—it misses and sails out the window.

“Aha—see! Just like Martin Luther when he threw the ink well at Lucifer—who does that?”

“Somebody who’s pissed at having a loonie for a roommate.”

I go over and stick my head out the window. Raindrops pelt me.

<br><br> “Lose something?”

Father Tom’s standing on the front lawn below, fishing my copy of Aquinas out of a rain puddle.

—See what I mean? It’s a conspiracy.



<br><br>Later that evening, I’m back from chapel, grumbling and slamming doors—looking for anything to get in my way, so I can slam it.

“Someone take your book?” Jack drawls.

I waver between slamming the drawer and smashing my fist into his face.

“Let’s go The Pig,” I sigh.

<br><br>His face lights up and he’s wearing a crooked smile. “You’re kidding, right?”

I’m not and my expression tells him.

The Pig’s short for La Place Pigalle, the local campus watering hole and a notorious pick-up joint loaded with chicks—and they're not the kind who read Aquinas.

<br><br>He reaches into his jeans and pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill and gives me a sheepish grin.

“I’m buying,” I reassure him.

He’s out of the chair and to the door faster than a bellhop spotting Donald Trump.

<br><br>*Hey, big spender!*

What the hell! Who said that? It wasn’t me and it sure as hell wasn’t ole Jack, looking like a hound dog on a scent.

I choose to ignore it.

I am a free agent. Who am I to resist the universe?

<br><br><center>© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><br><center>[Photo]( https://www.edvardmunch.org/the-scream.jsp#prettyPhoto[image1]/0/  )</center>
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