DOYLE, PART III
an Autobiography
by CHRISTOPHER CURRY
We last left our Hero the beneficiary of bail money and a ride from the police station from his uncle, Father Sean Doyle. See Doyle Part I and Doyle Part II.
Doyle always liked his uncle Sean. In a business littered with queer baits and foreigners Sean was a good Irish-American priest. Having spent half his life escaping reality in movie theaters, Doyle saw his uncle in terms of On The Waterfront as Brando’s tough ex-boxer Terry Malloy implanted in Karl Malden’s Father Barry.
When Doyle was four it was his uncle Sean who accompanied him on his first trip to Florida. It was a year before the family moved to the state for good, and they were flying Pan Am from New York to watch Martin Doyle in spring training with the New York Mets. It would be the "all glove and no bat" utility infielder’s last season with the feeble club before he was diagnosed with cancer. As the plane approached Tampa International, Father Sean Doyle explained the workings of a Boeing 727 to his young nephew.
"He’s banking for an open runway, Ryan" he said as he leaned toward the window, caressing his scotch. "Now the wing flaps are raising to slow us down. And that sound is the pilot lowering the landing gear…"
"Uncle Sean," young Doyle said
"Yes?"
"I could give a fuck."
Compared to that plane ride twenty-one years ago the car ride from the police station was tense and quiet until Father Sean succumbed to his rumbling bowels and tried to slip a one-cheek-sneak past his nephew. The stench of sulfur and rotting eggs overtook Doyle. His eyes watered and burned like the time his senior prom date maced him. He fumbled for the window controls of his uncle’s ’99 Lincoln Town Car only to find the passenger window locked. The bastard had ambushed him.
"Jesus Christ, roll down the window you merciless prick," Doyle said. The electric hum of the lowering window was followed by a needed blast of fresh air. "Did a sewer rat bore up your ass to die?"
"Toughen up, you panty waste. That’s just a little something to cut the tension," Sean said.
"Jesus, that’s rancid, haven’t I been through enough today and now this." Doyle said
"If you’d prefer to hitchhike, keep blaspheming," Sean said, and he let go again with a loud steady "thhhpt."
"Fuckin’ A," Doyle growled as he threw off his seat belt and hung his body out the window. "See a doctor, buy a cork, perform an exorcism on your ass, do something," He shouted into the wind.
"Look for a Radisson or a Ramada Inn, I need a nice hotel lobby toilet to desecrate," Sean said.
"We’re passing an Amoco and there’s a fucking Chevron."
"A gas station? I’d rather shit in a third world airport," Sean said as beads of sweat formed along his brow. "You know, there’s no feeling quite as helpless as shitting your pants. The only thing that compares is when your dog gets knocked wide on the first turn and you just have to stand there and wait for him to finish last with that losing ticket clutched in your hand."
And again he farted loud and wet and the smell came like the wind from the county dump.
"Oh, that’s horrid," Doyle said.
Read Part IV here.
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• • •
Past Tense: May 16- May 22, 2001
The Hell You Say
BY JOE CANNON
A Sampler of Taglines and Headlines I've Been Paid to Write in Chronological Order, or Why I Wish I Was A Cowboy
BY ADAM KLINE
Manchild and The Chop
BY RYAN D. AND HOODY P.
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