When We Were Catholics: Chapter 1 - Thomas is Dead

Thomas is dead. 

-

The probability of someone being dead while still alive and being alive while still dead, of existing in two opposite states while in a single state of being, is, well, to put it simply (adj. without complication)

Zero. And One.

At the same time.

I mean it’s quantum mechanics. You’re in the same orbital and you’re managing to contain two electrons with two completely opposite spins based off the mere precept that opposites attract,

Which, by the way, is very, very sad, because, when thinking about it, wouldn’t you rather be with like-minded individuals than with someone or something that completely disagrees with you,

And I said it already, the steak was way too rare for my sensitive stomach to handle, please, honey, a little more well done?

It’s kind of like finding a gay fat priest in the middle of lower east village holding on to his coveted brown bag of bagels (scallion cream cheese, hold the everything bagel seasoning, and I want fried eggs or no tip) or meeting him again in a sandwich shop in chelsea where he chomps on his favorite fried chicken with gochujang sauce slathered all over the buttered chicken (the best fried chicken sandwich in manhattan, but unfortunately it’s closed now because of scaringly high rents), dribbling hot sauce all over his messy, untrimmed blonde beard.

Bagels and fried chicken sandwiches aside,

I’m a straight woman. I’m a straight Asian woman. And I’m a straight Asian CATHOLIC woman.

What’s the probability of my existing in NYC? In America?

That’s offensive.

To doubt the state of my existence is an existential crisis that I go through approximately three times every two weeks. And that will approximate to 78 times a year, if doing math the Republican way.

Does that equate to the number of times I contemplate suicide more than the average number of suicidal attempts of young adult professionals under the age of 35 in the united states?

Is that any of your business?

Point made.

But, as of late, I do find my depressive state mitigated by the amount of saintlike intervention I’ve been receiving of late. While lighting a candle in the greatly esteemed St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan and offering a prayer to the great St. Anthony of Padua, I’ve noticed that the biggest bang for my buck can be found in the dimmest of places. Specifically, in the Rockefeller Plaza during the holiday season where tourists crowd the streets, holding up their smartphones to capture the glimmering lights of the rather ponderous and prestigious Rockefeller tree.

Do you know how many brand clothing stores are in this area?

Do you know how much money I’ve spent on donuts after mass in this area?

Do you know how much money I’ve given up for tithes to the many catholic churches I’ve been attending in the last 3 years?

You do not want to know.

Why?

Let me walk with you on my memory lane…

-

It’s 7pm. That means what you think it means.

In Vino Veritas.

I’ve wondered on the meaning of this phrase. Dominican friars are known for quoting Latin in their homilies, and for explaining what their Latin verbiage means in laymen’s terms. But no one has bothered to explain to me what In Vino Veritas means.

With my rather abundant imagination just spilling out of my brain, I’ve contemplated the meaning of this special time of the Holy Day of Obligation…

“A Truth in Wine.”

“A Truthful Alcoholic.”

“A Very Truthful Drinking Game.”

Indeed, there is a rather sentimental, nostalgic truth to be found in getting drunk with a Dominican friar at the alehouse several blocks away from the parish I visit most Sunday nights. And when I mean nostalgic, I mean that in the most purest form.

Not of the diabolic, satanic variety in which sex and stripping is involved.

But where there is alcohol, there must be good times.

“Let’s talk about Thomas Aquinas.”

Fr John, a short, strapping, handsome man in his late 30s who sports a trim dark beard and is always clad in a white habit (noun. A white robe that Dominican friars wear) saunters around the room, surrounded by an army of young/catholic/atheist/protestant/agnostic/satanic young professionals sitting on armless plastic chairs of an insignificant color.

There is a breeze, a whiff, a colour surrounding him. He emanates a raw aura, reeking of charisma and passion and personal magnetism, and, dare I say it, of Holy Spirit. As the fulcrum, he functions the room. All eyes are drawn to him, admiringly, lustfully, lovingly, passively, reluctantly. The room revolves as we revolve around him.

An exposition of sorts.

I briefly picture the last scene of Gladiator in the colosseum with Russell Crowe, which Fr John bears a slight resemblance to.

But then, he stops and turns around, his revolution around the center of the room slowing down as he reverses the tidal force.

“Thomas is a good guy. Who knows about him?”

A question. Is it rhetorical?

“Wasn’t he the guy that said… evil is necessary?”

Laughter fills the air. A quizzical look or two. A smirk, a shake of the head, a pose of questionable posture.

“The guy who said what goes up must come down.”

“Wait, wasn’t that Galileo?”

“Close. Newton,” Fr John waves his hand, his sleeve falling to his elbow, revealing his white alabaster flesh. As if it was made of marble, the colour of purity, of things unstained by sin.

Is he sinless?

Or…

Is he….

Gay?

I briefly entertain the thought.

Hope he can’t read my mind.

But as if he could read my mind, he stops sauntering and stands right in front of me.

Eyes lowering to a point on my forehead, on my pineal gland, beneath my third eye where there’s a chakra center,

except, let’s not go there because we’re not

Satanic.

We live in a fallen world, ruled by Satan, the prince of air and darkness.

Was it this, a Cassandra Clare young adult fantasy novel?

Close.

But not cigar, not even the kind my parents import from Shanghai, the expensive kind that costs $20 a cig and exudes a customizable fruity aroma, quite reminiscent of the jolly rancher candy I had when I was a toddler.

Except we don’t smoke, do we.

Not anymore, at least.

I take out my hand sanitizer. Bath and body work, strawberry pound cake, I got it for $1.99. I flip the lid open and inhale, closing my eyes. The aroma fills my nostrils and I am calmed.

Nerves. Can’t kick it.

Without opening my eyes, I say,

“Thomas Aquinas was a Dominican friar, possibly one of the greatest theologians to have ever lived.”

“And…?”

I open my eyes and see Fr John in front of me. He points a finger to his temple, cocking the trigger.

“He’s dead?”

Laughter, again.

I’m dead?

No,

But definitely Russell Crowe is dead, he just exhaled his last dying breath, lying down in a field of flower petals next to the woman who never could be his wife.

Forbidden romance,

Good grief.