The True Confessions of Father Zorro

         “Go, the Mass has ended.”  The priest says these words at the end of a Catholic Mass.  According to official Church doctrine it is at this point the Mass is officially over.  For a Catholic it means the fulfillment of the obligation for the Lord’s Day.  Some people think they can leave after Communion but they are wrong.  A person who leaves before this point has not only broken Church law but has also been disrespectful.
         The Right Reverend Monsignor Daniel B. O’Rourke did not tolerate disrespect to the Church.  He took it personally.  An affront to God was an affront to himself.  On Sundays he’d stand in the lobby and greet the parishioners after Mass.  One Sunday a young couple came out early.  Mon. O’Rourke started screaming at them.
         “What are you doing leaving?  The Mass is not over.”  The couple froze, terrified that a man of the cloth, a large red faced south side Irish man of the cloth, was spitting venom and screaming bloody murder at them.  He kept yelling.
         “Who are you?  You’re not from here.  What parish are you from?”
         People in the back of church turned to see what was going on.  Some, also heading for the exit reversed and tried to look reverent, hunching down with their hands folded.  The man said they were from the next parish over.
         “Then go there,” the Monsignor said.  “Under my regime you stay till the end.”
         I loved that word: regime.  It was the perfect word for the Right Reverend Monsignor to use to describe his parish.  He ran it so.
         I was an altar boy in his regime.  To do so I first had to learn the secret language of the trade.  Every field of endeavor has its own argot that identifies members of the fold and signifies entry into the select.  This meant Latin.  The Latin consisted of two prayers, the Confitier and the Sucipiat, and some one liners strewn throughout the Mass.  The one liners were repetitive and easy.  The Confitier was hard because of its length.  The Latin itself was easy, almost familiar.  The trick with the Confitier was to know that the mea culpas arrive one third of the way through and are accompanied by breast beating.
    The Suscipiat was a problem of another sort.  Deceptively short, it is in Latin that must be pronounced in a precise and well annunciated manner.  The words twist the tongue to give the prayer sanctity.  I learned it and I learned it and I learned it.  Once I recited it and a nun signed off I never had to say it again.  We were supposed to recite it during Mass but all we did was say the opening words loudly then drift off into a prolonged mumble.  In my mind I said the whole prayer.  I had learned it too well not to.
         My favorite duty was torchbearer.  Torches were only used on high holy days that were full dress occasions.  Instead of black cassocks and white surplices we wore ivory white cassocks with a cape and sash.  They were trimmed with gold fringe and were the tuxedos of altar boy wear.  They wanted us to feel like miniature priests and be inspired to take holy orders.  I didn’t feel like a miniature priest.  I felt like Father Zorro in my fancy cape and sash.  All I needed was a sword.  If I stuck around long enough and joined the Knights of Columbus I would get a sword.
         As torchbearing Father Zorro I led many processions.  I was short and the nuns lined us up by height.  Two lines entered from the church’s rear doors, met at the center aisle, then up to the front.  Walk slowly and sway in time to the music.  We weren’t supposed to sway but did so anyway.  The torches had red votive lights mounted on gimbals.  I liked to sway and have the torch, sash and fringe moving in time as I marched up the aisle.
         On the Feast of the Holy Sepulcher I led one line and my friend Paul led the other.          The ceremony was major domoed by the head nun.  She’d stand in the back of church and give us our cues and direct traffic.  She was the only one who bothered to learn all the arcane whens and hows to get the thing done.  She was a hard nose and rode roughshod over everybody.  She even told the Monsignor where to go.
         She cued the music then nodded at me and Paul to get things rolling.  We torchbearers lit the way for a guy with a large crucifix, two guys laying smoke with censors and a dozen Knights of Columbus with swords a port, ready to slice the hell out of any goddamned heathens.  Thence came the holy of holies, the Monsignor.  He was decked out in shimmering robes with gold stitching of embroidered crosses and holy signs.  He wore capes and tassels and yards of extra cordage.  He was surrounded by the lesser priests and carried a Monstrance up for all to see.  A monstrance is a large gold disk on a short pole.  In the center of the disk is a glass compartment to hold a large size sanctified communion wafer.  It looks like the all seeing eye, gold with a white pupil.
         The church was filled with solemnity. A lot of solemnity.  Way too much solemnity.  So much solemnity that I wanted to laugh.  When a smart ass eleven year old is confronted by a situation in which total seriousness is required, the natural reaction is an uncontrollable desire to do the exact opposite.  I knew Paul wanted to laugh too.  I also knew just how to get him started.  Before the service we had been waiting around and were making fart noises.  Paul had a runny nose so he was trying to do them through it.
         “We should fart in there.  A nice big juicer when Big Daddy O’Rourke sits down.”  I did not think it funny at the time but now, surrounded by solemn people praising the Lord, the laughter was catching up to me.  I could be holy only for so long and my time was up.  We paused at the center aisle to turn.  I looked up and caught Paul’s eye and went,
         “Phht.”  He couldn’t take it.  His stifled laugh came out his nose along with a splash of grey snot and brown yuck.  He splattered the front of his white cassock.  The guy behind him started laughing and blurted out,
         “He got gook all over himself.”  The lines started bunching up.  Other guys were starting to laugh through their noses.  The head nun stepped forward and slapped Paul on the head.
         “Get moving and be quiet.  Don’t forget you’re in church.”  She gave me a dirty look which meant I was going to get shit from her later.  We put our heads down in reverence and swayed away up the aisle.
         After the service the head nun yelled at us and told us we’d have to go to Confession to atone for our disrespect to God.  True believers can’t stand the unfaithful being disrespectful.
         Confession was not a bad thing if you had the good sense to go to the Monsignor.  Being an important personage he did not have time to waste on the parishioner’s peccadilloes.  Plus he was older.  He had heard it all before and would hear it all again.  People went to Confession to be forgiven and redeemed.  If he was too arduous on people they would stop coming and not be redeemed.  When they were redeemed they felt good.  When they felt good they donated money.  No matter what a penitent said he always gave the same easy penance.
         “Five Hail Marys and make a good Act of Contrition.”
         “I shot the Pope.”
         “Five Hail Marys and make a good Act of Contrition.”
         “I rape nuns.”
         “Five Hail Marys and make a good Act of Contrition.”  I always went to him.  The other benefit there was the setup of the confessionals.  They were private and dark with soundproofing and opaque screens.  There was perfect solitude for divulging one’s failings.  The priest sat in the center chamber that had cushions, a fan and a tray with drinks.  Once, when no one was around I took a look and had a seat.  On either side of the priest were sound proof sliding trap doors.  Behind the traps were wire mesh screens covered by gray cloth.  There was total privacy and anonymity to encourage the confession of all one’s sins, no matter how embarrassing they were.
         When I went to Confession I’d kneel in the darkness facing the screen and sort out and add up my sins: Lies, disobediences, masturbations and bad language were the usuals.  The sound of the trap sliding open was the signal to start.  I’d rattle it off as fast as I could.
         “Five Hail Marys and make a good Act of Contrition.”
         One summer Saturday my parents took us down to the old neighborhood for a street carnival.  Part of the trip included visiting the old parish church to see old Father Luigi.  He was a formidable bantam of an old paisan, thin and ascetic with a stern jaw.  He patted me on the head.
         “They getta big.”
         We went to confession.  The confessionals were not private like I was used to.  They didn’t have ceilings and the doors were just black velvet curtains.  The trap door was an open square with a cloth hanging over it.  This did not inspire penitential confidence.  As I waited I could hear Fr. Luigi give the penitent on the other side a long lecture in Italian.  I understood why this was a poor church.
         When Fr. Luigi pulled back the cloth he looked me right in the face and said,
         “a’Vincenzo, maka you confess.”  I lied like hell.  I told him a few disobediences, six, no four, lies, two disrespectfuls to my parents and not a word about masturbation.  I didn’t want a lecture but I got one anyway.  He wasn’t too hard on little Vincenzo.  He told me to say a Rosary for my penance and gave me one to say it on.  He handed it to me through the opening.
         “This Rosary, it is a special.  The Pope, he himself has blessed it.  It has the earth, the sacred earth, of the catacombs in it.”  The catacombs are tunnels under Rome where the early Christian martyrs are buried.  Sure enough on the back of the Rosary was a little glass compartment labeled “Terra del Catacomba.”  I took the Rosary and went and said it.
         I still have the Rosary but I don’t remember how to say it.  I still remember the Suscipiat in Latin but I don’t know what the words mean.
         “Go, the Mass has ended.”  I went.