Forgiveness 4 You Page 3

  My head was beginning to throb again, and finally, in a supremely unprofessional gesture, I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled down the neck hole of my white T-shirt to show him the large black cross with its thorns and three scarlet drops of blood tattooed just above my heart. “Do you see?” I asked. “Now, do you understand?”

  It was a ridiculous question, of course, because no one could. As a young man I’d had florid ideas about penance, submitting my coward’s chest to Sol’s ink gun and believing this would somehow help compensate for my crime. Showy self-indulgent displays are the opposite of atonement, of course, but it took me more than a decade to figure this out. And the tattoo did have its uses. It was evidence of the person I once was, the user who was still curled up inside me. Also, in this case baring it actually worked. The old man paid hurriedly for his copy of No Exit and left me in peace.

  Finally, I dialed the number I’d copied down from Madeline’s message. “Can I ask who’s calling?” a young woman piped in a cartoonishly high voice. When I gave her my name, there was an intake of breath. No card player, she. “Would you mind holding?” she asked. “I’m gonna page Madeline right away.”

  I waited, holding the phone, wishing ardently for five o’clock. This was Wednesday, when the store closed early, probably in deference to church night, though Oren had never said. He’d left my check for me. Small as it was—especially after the subtraction of taxes I had never given a thought to until the age of forty—I had plans.

  “Gabe!” Madeline said when she arrived on the phone. “I’ve been hoping you’d call. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

  This was not what I’d been expecting. I stopped kneading my forehead and straightened, the teenager inside me stretching and waking up. There’d been that moment last night—it appeared now in my memory, indistinct but real—when Madeline had rested her hand on my leg, and I’d longed for her so fiercely that it had become all I could process or understand. Perhaps that’s why, today, I had no recollection of any meetings “as per our conversation.” My gin-soaked mind had been focused on trying to be covert when I stared at her breasts.

  “I’m hoping we can get you in for a download,” Madeline was saying. “I’m so grateful for everything you said to me yesterday. And I think we can help you reach more people, people who are hungry for your kind of wisdom. There’s some real potential in this concept of ecumenical forgiveness.”

  “Potential?” I hunched over the counter, my body aching and wizened again. “Potential … as in?”

  “Commercial value, Gabe. And the potential to help more people, of course. We discussed all of this last night. Remember?”

  “Barely,” I said, and she laughed deep in her throat.

  “Oh, that’s cute. You’re a lightweight. Hold on, I need to shut my door.”

  I held the receiver and stared at the shop door, praying (literally, I’m ashamed to say) that no one else would come in.

  “Okay, I’m back. Listen. I know it might have seemed like one of those drunken conversations you forget all about the next day.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But I was serious, Gabe. I thought about it all night. I even talked to a few people. I believe we have a chance to create something completely groundbreaking. Like, you know, the iPod back when Apple introduced it. Think Different, right? Here’s to the crazy ones.”

  My lust was dissipating. I’d been captivated by the blunt, mournful woman in front of the fire, but now everything seemed cheapened and flimsy. As if it had already happened somewhere and been translated to shorthand. Perhaps that’s why Madeline was speaking in code.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know …” I needed water again and also, not coincidentally, to urinate. The clock showed 5:01, and I was desperate to lock up so no late customer would take advantage and rush in.

  “Just a meeting, Gabe, okay? That’s all I’m asking. One meeting. We’ll provide lunch. Or, tell you what! You come in and talk with the team, and I’ll take you to lunch. Au Cheval, perhaps?”

  “On horseback?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You just asked if you could take me to lunch on horseback, which sounds great but a little chilly this time of year.”

  She chuckled again, more warmly this time. “You speak French, too?”

  Too? What did she mean “too”? In addition to being a down-and-out drive-by-confession priest? But my headache was gathering force quickly—I knew from past experience that what I needed was water, food, and sleep, in that order—so I decided not to ask.

  “I was in Montreal for a year, ministry internship at the Basilica. Couldn’t help but pick up some French,” I said, imagining for a moment the cool glory of that church, the quietly suspended golden Jesus, my sober, pious, long-haired self.

  “Huh.” I could hear Madeline’s pen scratching on paper, and the sound carved painful lines in my brain. “Too bad it’s not Spanish. More people here speak that. But we might be able to make something of the French.”

  I started to ask what she planned to “make” of my fifteen-year-old Canadian French but decided against it. At this point, I was willing to do whatever it took to cut this conversation short.

  “So how’s your Thursday?” Madeline asked, businesslike again as if she’d heard my thoughts. “Say, eleven o’clock? We’ll meet with the team then have lunch around one. Do you want to check your calendar?”

  “Ah, hold on,” I said, putting the phone down gently and rushing to the front door. I turned the bolt and put out the ancient cardboard CLOSED sign. My head had taken up a steady beat. There were old ceramic cups under the desk, from back when Oren served midafternoon tea; I grabbed one and filled it in the bathroom with tap water. Then I stopped to check the schedule, which was the closest thing I had to a calendar of my own.

  “Thursday is fine,” I said when I returned. Then I gulped tinny water from the cup until I was breathless.

  “Excellent,” Madeline said. “We’re at 220 North Wells Street. If you give me your email address, I’ll send out a meeting notice.”

  Where is the weeping woman from yesterday? I wondered. Or the merry, incredulous, hard-drinking one from the bar? It was as if Madeline had superpowers, like those comic book characters that can recover from stab wounds in thirty seconds. Or else, I was just that good.

  “No need for an email,” I told her. “I have it down, I’ll be there.”

  I did not have it down, of course. But I hardly needed a note because other than work, this meeting was my only event for the next month.

  Over the years I’d counseled many couples through divorce (which inevitably became annulment for the sake of the Church), and in nearly every case someone would end up the loser. Men told me about the loss of family: their children off living with an ex-wife and some other man, their new apartments empty and silent at night. Women seemed to suffer most from the absence of friends, the less frequent invitations to dinner parties where everyone else would appear two-by-two, the gentle withdrawal of the social life they’d enjoyed as a couple.

  All that time and I’d never for one minute put myself in their place. Yet here I was, divorced from the church and going home to my desolate middle-aged bachelor’s apartment, no longer invited to the holiday meals, elegant parties, and family tables where I once was celebrated like some sort of demi-god. Being a priest had had its lonely moments, but it kept one busy.

  Being an ex-priest—and I failed to consider this when I left the Church—meant infinite time to dwell on the past. It was a purgatory with no end.

  I locked up now from the outside, huddled against the wind. Chicago was always fierce, but this had been a longer winter than most. And it was my first since childhood—when my mother would send me out for milk or hamburger—of actually walking to buy groceries. The sun was sinking rapidly, leaving only a thin golden glow along the western horizon. I zipped up my Carhartt jacket (durable and cheap, I’d been told) and headed east into grayness.

  It
was six blocks, mostly downhill, to the Jewel. My eyes were stinging and leaking by the time I finally saw it, a sanctuary with steel window grates. The automatic door whooshed open in its egalitarian way—just as it did for families and gang members and old ladies. It had never occurred to me before what a welcoming sign this was.

  Inside, the Jewel was tropical. Mist sprayed from ducts trying to revive the already dead vegetables. Steam and the smell of wet coats hung in the air. I removed my scarf and placed it in a green hand basket. Then I walked slowly through the store, down every aisle, though I knew exactly what I would buy. Some nights, I stretched my shopping to an hour, but tonight, somewhere in the canned goods, the heat turned my headache sloppy and green. I hurried through the rest of the store, picking up an extra bottle of water ($1.89) for the walk home.

  At the checkout counter, I unloaded the water, along with my cheese, apple, sliced turkey, canned pineapple, and package of pre-seasoned rice.

  “Sack?” the cashier asked, and I nodded. She added ten cents to my total and handed me a tissue-thin bag. Our fingers met briefly, and she looked at me quickly, her eyes wary. I saw the outline of what she might say—the story of her sick baby, feverish this morning, now drugged up on Benadryl and comatose at daycare—if our circumstances had been different: if there hadn’t been five people jostling in line behind me, a security guard rousting a drunkard who’d fallen asleep by the door, the overhead speaker playing a synthesized version of “Can’t Fight This Feeling.” I tried with one nod to convey my understanding to the woman, but, obviously, I failed.

  “You need to get moving,” she said as I stuffed my things inside the bag and it split up one seam. “I got other people here.”

  “Of course.” I reached for another bag. “I just need …”

  “You only paid for one,” the clerk said.

  “I know.” I spoke slowly now, forcing her to look up from the beer and chips she was scanning. She watched as I reached into my pocket for a quarter and placed it on top of the twelve-pack of Old Style she’d slid my way. “It’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t give you change. I’m in the middle of another purchase.” She was a woman used to fighting. A girl, actually. Tough and scared, dreadlocks coiled heavy on her head, and maybe all of nineteen.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, holding her gaze. “Knock fifteen cents off this guy’s bill.” I tapped the beer with two fingers.

  There was the barest glimmer of a smile, which I interpreted as success. I re-bagged my groceries and headed toward the exit, which did not open ceremoniously the way the first door had. Only entering was automatic here; in order to get out I had to back up, hurl my body at the glass, and push against the wind with all my weight.

  Outside, I stopped at a trashcan with a smeared, rounded top and set my groceries there. Most of the remnants of gold sky had disappeared while I was inside, leaving only a gleaming rim against the thick gray night. The city around me was still and cold and dark, and I took a long breath. This was the winter hour I’d feared and avoided for years, holding five o’clock services even if they were attended only by me and the acolytes in their miniature white robes—anything to distract myself.

  Tonight I made myself face it. I looked at the backs of passing strangers, salting my own wound, seeking out the tall, thin forms that walked hunching forward, hands in pockets, as Aidan once did. Specters outlined against the setting sun.

  The sky was different in Chicago, which was one reason I’d lived here for years. There was a wideness I’d never seen before coming to the Midwest, a leaning down of the heavens as if the clouds and stars were a covering, lowered by God. But the sharpness of the air was the same as New England’s, minus the tang of seawater. And occasionally, when I was tired and facing dusk, it all washed through me. The shame.

  “C’mon, Gabe.” I could hear Aidan’s voice, high and wavering like a child’s violin, anxious even at the best of times. “Please! Don’t leave.”

  And I was back there, feeling trapped by his weakness, growing rough, snarling, mean. My breath, then and now, more than twenty years later, came fast. Leaning against a bus stop outside the Jewel, I opened and chugged my entire bottle of water despite the aching cold. This helped. Now, my head hurt only when I turned it, so I stood ramrod straight while tying my scarf and pulling on my gloves.

  Then I picked up my groceries, taking care this time with the fragile bag, and began to walk home. The voice still spoke to me but whispered now, desperate. Six blocks, mostly uphill.

  Mason & Zeus Advertising, LLC

  Statement of Work: Forgiveness Provider

  Date: February 25, 20--

  Client: Gabriel McKenna

  Job Number: 48011

  Overview

  Branding project for a sole proprietor, former clergy, who offers expert forgiveness and absolution in exchange for a flat fee that ranges from $2,000–$5,000 per sin. Business is largely word-of-mouth and relies heavily upon the character and charisma of its principal. Name, tagline, and mark should convey both dignity and accessibility with a touch of humor to reflect Mr. McKenna’s personal style.

  Scope

  Strategist will prepare brief based on interviews with Mr. McKenna and satisfied clients, attaching comp analyses of religious and psychological approaches. Naming exploration will proceed simultaneously, focusing on “Forgive” as the primary message. Core creative and PR needs to be determined after client has reviewed initial findings and approved a name.

  Goals

  • Establish Mr. McKenna as the founder and originator of privatized confessing and absolution

  • Build a brand that is associated with trustworthiness and relief of burden, similar to life insurance

  • Triple customer base in one year and begin expanding outside the Chicago area to both coasts

  Audience

  Ranges in age from 21–75 but concentrates heavily in Gen X (37–53) and young Baby Boomer (54–63) sectors, especially among former Catholics. This is our primary target and will be easily expanded with digital billboards, bus covers, and interstitial ads on sites that lead to feelings of remorse (e.g., porn, swinging, Canadian pharmaceuticals). Great potential for growth in the Baby Boomer market but will require awareness campaigns to promote the concept of “guilt,” which 53–68-year-old respondents to a survey reported they are “less likely” or “unlikely” to experience.

  Opportunities

  Research shows people in transition trend toward worry and regret. Future growth opportunities may include the recently divorced (or remarried), empty nesters, retirees, people grieving a dying or dead parent, and unemployed professionals. Client feels strongly about avoiding markets under 18 (consent issues) and over 70 (dementia). Substantial growth opportunity exists in online forgiveness, which could be offered as a low-cost alternative to face-to-face. Explore building an interface that would serve a multi-national audience on the Web.

  Competition

  At this time, there is no privatized forgiveness industry. Public and nonprofit competitors include the Catholic Church (Mr. McKenna’s former employer), other religious organizations, and some psychotherapeutic disciplines.

  Competitive Advantages

  First and only concept of its kind. Requires nothing from customers except payment—no penance, church attendance, or personal growth. Caters to today’s overworked parent or professional, allows for multi-tasking. May be seen as one of a suite of paid services (e.g., housecleaning, personal shopping) that busy people need.

  Special Considerations

  • Client dislikes/is sensitive to blasphemy and church-based humor.

  • Priestly background both positive and negative; tread lightly with this.

  • Cheerful, upbeat tone extremely important to ensure acceptance.

  • Project top-secret due to possibility of intellectual property theft.

  • Possible backlash from religious groups on both financial and spiritual fronts.

  • Potential
PR pitfall if business is made to look ridiculous (e.g., parody on SNL).

  Team Members

  Scott Hicks, Creative Director

  Joy Everson, Strategist

  Abel Dodd, Copywriter

  Lori Inman, Public Relations Specialist

  Ted Roman, Interactive Media Specialist

  M. Madeline Murray, CEO & Acting Account Director

  Timing

  ASAP

  Go team!!!!!!

  From: Scott Hicks

  To: Abel Dodd, Lori Inman, Joy Everson, Ted Roman

  Cc: M. Madeline Murray

  Subject: Priest project

  Hey team—

  Kickoff for the Forgiveness job isn’t till next week, but I met Fr McKenna today and I had some ideas I don’t want to loose. I’m seeing a white/black thing, very simple, with lots of open space and small type. Make it simple and humble and maybe a foto of McKenna off to the side. The camera’s gonna like him, but for Christ’s sake, we need to dress him better. (Ted, could you get on that?)

  Our competition uses a lot of color, staned glass, and pics of nature. So we gotta differentiate. Joy is going to do her information thing, of course, but it’s pretty obvious we’re going after fucked-up people with $$. I’m thinking Kubrick. Dark but sexy, like that movie where everyone dressed up in animal heads and had orgys. Just a thought. What say you guys?

  SH

  From: Lori Inman

  To: Scott Hicks, Abel Dodd, Joy Everson, Ted Roman

  Cc: M. Madeline Murray

  Subject: Re: Priest project

  Love that you’re thinking ahead, Scott! A couple watch-outs for this project. The comp issue is complicated. Joy is making a spreadsheet of businesses and organizations that touch the forgiveness space, and there are a lot more than we thought. So let’s wait for the creative brief before we start talking concept or design.

  Also, be careful of descriptors like “fucked-up.” That’s not going to fly with our client, and I sense he’s a little reluctant as it is.