“Okay.”
We shook hands, and then he left.
As I watched him walk down the block I kept thinking that Father Hachette looked relieved—like he was floating, almost.
Why?
“What did the old man say about me?” Father McNamee said once I was inside, which was strange because he and Father Hachette looked about the same age.
“He said you have a bipolar disorder,” I said.
“And I should be on meds, right?”
I nodded.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Whether or not I should be medicated.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do I seem crazy to you?”
“No,” I said, because I knew that’s what he wanted me to say. “But I’m not a doctor.”
“You know Jesus was most likely bipolar,” he said, nodding with great enthusiasm. “Preaching love your enemies one day and then flipping over the money changers’ tables the next. Turn the other cheek, and then it’s all swords and righteousness.” Father raised his right hand and said, “‘These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace,’ John 16:33. ‘Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword!’ Matthew 10:34. Seeking out multitudes to heal and feed and awe—and then escaping on boats to quiet places, praying alone in gardens. What if Jesus had been medicated?” He raked his fingers through his beard. “Do you think he would have been so eager to give his life for the world? That’s not a reasonable, rational thing, after all. People don’t volunteer for crucifixion when chemicals are placating their minds, hearts, and souls. No one would want Jesus taking mood-altering pills, right? And as Catholics we’re supposed to live our lives as He did, right? Right?”
I nodded because what he was saying seemed logical.
Father McNamee nodded back once, said, “Besides, this is why God gave us whiskey,” got on his knees in the living room, and continued praying.
I decided to skip Mass for the first time in my life, because I didn’t want to see Father Hachette again. I didn’t want to have another confusing conversation. And Father McNamee and I were having Communion on a daily basis—three times a day, at every meal. You, Richard Gere, appeared to me several times, ghostlike in the darkness of my bedroom, and you told me that it was okay to skip Mass, that I could pray and talk to God anywhere—but as you are a Buddhist, I’m not sure I can trust you on these matters.
Father McNamee prayed and prayed and prayed, and nothing else really happened until I went to the library on Monday morning. The Girlbrarian was working. I thought about the goals I had made with Wendy. How I wanted to have a beer at the bar with The Girlbrarian.
There is nothing I want more than to speak with The Girlbrarian.
I prayed for strength.
She was wearing black military-style boots, jeans, and a long white sweater that looked like a dress and covered everything from her shoulders to her knees. For an hour or so I watched her push her cart in and out of aisles as she returned the books to their homes according to the alphabet. She would study the spines of each through her long brown hair, and then she’d scan the shelves, her eyes zigzagging the rows.
Whenever she found the proper place she would nod once and push her lips together as if to say, “Yes, I do believe I have found your home, Mr. or Mrs. Book.”
Then she would kneel or climb the little ladder attached to the cart before she made a space for the returned book. She’d slide the book back onto the shelf, make sure the spine was even with all of the other spines, and then give the top a little tap with her index finger, as if to say, “Perfect.”
The whole time I watched The Girlbrarian I pretended that you were speaking to me, Richard Gere. You kept saying, Look at her, Bartholomew. She’s perfect for you. Go over and speak with her. Ask her what she likes to read. Ask if she likes looking at the river flow behind the art museum. Tell her you like her outfit. That she does her job with precision and efficiency, both of which you value highly. Ask her to have a beer with you. Why not? What do you have to lose? There she is. Go! It’s as simple as walking fifty feet and saying ten words, big guy. Come on!
When you spoke to me at the library, you kept calling me “big guy.”
Come on, big guy. She’s right there. And I’ll be with you the whole time. I’ll be telling you what to do in your mind. Come on, big guy! We can do this. Trust me.
It was nice to hear your voice in my mind—even if I was only pretending—especially since you are so confident and good with the opposite sex, both on and off the screen.
Each time The Girlbrarian climbed to the top of her ladder, I thought of that line you say to Julia Roberts at the end of Pretty Woman.
“What happens after he climbs up the tower and rescues her?” you ask.
And Julia Roberts says, “She rescues him right back.”
I wondered if maybe The Girlbrarian and I would say something like that to each other after we had gone on so many dates, and in my mind you said, Sure. Sure you will, big guy. It’s easy. Just go over and say hi. Listen to what I tell you to do, and failure will be impossible.
But I didn’t listen to what you told me to do.
I didn’t say hi.
I didn’t do anything.
And I want to thank you for being patient with me, Richard Gere, because you never once yelled at me or called me a retard. You said only positive, encouraging things in my mind, and you were so nice, I almost wanted to cry. I understand why Mom loved and admired you so much, although the little man in my stomach was not amused. He kept yelling, Hey, stupid! Richard Gere is not speaking to you! It’s only your imagination! What type of a grown man pretends like this? Only retards! With every sentence, he’d give a little kick or punch, and my insides started to feel sore.