St. Michael’s overflowed with soup kitchen volunteers, bumping into each other, spilling things, trying to find something, anything to do.
Father Jerry tried every year to make Thanksgiving orderly, but simply had too many bodies because he had a difficult time saying no to people.
One couple argued in the corner.
By the glint of the man’s watch Father Jerry knew they were volunteers and not patrons.
“Everything okay?”
“Our daughter Jessica said she had to help someone out back and hasn’t returned,” the woman said. “ No one is out back. Roman, I think. Is there a Father Roman?”
Father Jerry swallowed.
Roman.
“He’s uhhh…not technically employed here…or whatsoever, but I know him. Let me see what I can do.”
The priest headed for the door.
“I’m going to follow you,” the man said.
Father Jerry wanted to say “no, let me handle it,” but could not.
Waite Elliot followed the priest out the back door of the church community center, through the back yard, under a hole in the fence and out into the alley.
They made a right down a smaller alley.
“Is this church property?” Waite Elliot asked, as though he might be appraising the place.
Father Jerry shook his head no, and beyond the shake Waite Elliot saw the collar of his daughter’s cashmere coat.
She sat at a table with three much older, disheveled men.
“Roman,” the priest called out, a broth of admonishment in his voice.
At closer glance, they were not at a table but three oil barrels with a warped piece of plywood board on top.
A man next to Jessica sputtered out a warm laugh.
“Awww, Far, is young lady sposed to be workin’?”
Waite strode forward past the priest. There were playing cards on the table, well over a regulation deck.
Waite said “Jess,” softly, though Father Jerry heard an angry rumble behind it.
“Hey,” Jess said. Waite thought she looked embarrassed that he showed up.
“We’re supposed to be volunteering, Jess, not ummm, playing cards.”
One of the men looked at Waite and looked absolutely guilty of something. As Waite took a step forward the man scurried off like someone who had heard a stove timer.
“Bye Thiago,” Jessica called out.
The man waved with a gloved hand without turning.
Waite’s daughter was relaxed, seemed content.
Nothing nefarious had happened to her, Waite was certain. Still…
He motioned for his daughter with one finger.
“C’mon, we gotta go.”
“Roman, was our guest treated with respect?” Father Jerry asked.
“Utmost, Far. She jus asked me what my hobbies is, so I showed her.”
Waite Elliot saw the priest’s nostrils flare.
“I apologize,” Father Jerry said to Waite.
Jessica snorted. “For what? I made new friends, learned a new game. I had a blast.”
The Ladywood Gymnastics Freshman of the Year bounced from her chair, a bar stool with a chunk of brick for a bottom leg and hugged Roman.
“Carolina Flurry, Deuces always wild, Lady in Red pays double. I’m gonna teach all my friends. Thanks, Roman. Bye Click,” she said, bouncing to the other man who looked like he might die of old age right at the makeshift table, hugging him, then skipping toward her dad.
The Elliots drove north up the freeway.
“Carolina Flurry, huh?” Waite said. “I never heard of it.”
“So much fun,” Jessica said. “Miri and Gemma are gonna love it, but I think we’ll only play for like a quarter a hand, not a dollar.”
Waite Elliot pulled to the shoulder.
He looked back at his daughter, eyes on fire. Carla Elliot grabbed her husband’s wrist.
“Those men took your money?”
“It’s the rules of the game, Dad. I never played before. Of course I lost.”
“God. Damn. It.”
Waite Elliot sped down the shoulder and got off at the next exit.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
Carla Elliot backed her daughter up.
“Waite, really. What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna go get my daughter’s money back from those bums.”
“No, Dad, no you’re not. They won it totally fair.”
“Honey, Carolina Flurry isn’t a real game, no card games are played with that many cards. They screwed you out of your-”
“My money, Dad, mine. I had so, so, so much fun. Better than dipping a ladle in weak ass broth from that cheap ass church.”
The wheel jerked to the side and the car partially rolled a curb.
Carla said “Waite, we should forget it.”
She looked around the neighborhood, seemingly worse than the one St. Michael’s was in.
“Let’s go home, Waite, seriously.”
“Those SOB’s cheated my daughter out of…”
“No, Dad, no they didn’t. I asked the man what he liked to do and he showed me. Introduced me to his friends. Just because you don’t know their game doesn’t make it not a real game. It was the most fun I’ve had in forever. Worth every penny. I’d rather play Carolina Flurry than do ballet, and I know ballet costs a shitload.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady.”
“You watch my mouth dad. I… hate… ballet. It’s stupid. It doesn’t help my gymnastics, Eloise is a bitch, and…and…and… “
“And what, Jessie Bear?” Carla asked.
“And those guys aren’t bums. They’re sweet. Funny. They’re the first friends I’ve made in five years who didn’t kiss my ass because I’m good at gymnastics.”
***
If you like this one, or any of my stories, you can buy me a coffee at the link below. I’ll take a single scoop of ice cream too.
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Photo by Klim Musalimov on Unsplash
Fun story. Good lesson. Well done.
Wonderful lesson in there. And, by the way, “As Waite took a step forward the man scurried off like someone who had heard a stove timer.” Is brilliant.