19 Sin in the parish

Monsignor Quinn blew on his coffee and smacked the morning newspaper with his free hand. When he finally folded it to fit between his cup and the cafe table gewgaws, he relaxed, sipped, and gazed around. In his bountiful valley parish, San Anselmo and Ross, religion was a tough sell. Home ownership in the two towns conferred a cosmological non plus ultra. Everyone believed they’d already arrived and the world arrived around them. Why should souls so favored by Providence flood the St. Anselm’s rectory, as if they were at risk? They felt they could die happily just as they were, were there not so many toys still to buy. Even Monsignor was gobsmacked – despite his vow of poverty – by the current, glorious Mercedes SL but wondered and worried over its next iteration.
Although it was not the greatest time in American history to put it like this, and perhaps unChristian as well, he told himself that by entering the Plip Plop Coffe Shop he was bringing Mohammed to the mountain. And there they were, the sinners of Ross Valley, before ten in the morning, the haute bourgeoise who must have their coffee in public, dressed quite like their children, only less imaginatively. They looked like gutter rats, too, but without interest. Slobs, rather. Complacency Chic, Monsignor had heard it called, “. . . strike the chic.” Understatement ad absurdum.
In walked a toddler in fashionable cabana clothes with an uncannily sexy minder. It was Aunt Kar and her precocious charge.
“Oops,” Monsignor muttered. The surface of his coffee became choppy, as if a sign.


One Response to “19 Sin in the parish”

  1. Peter Smith Says:

    This is cranking up! Or ramping up, as cool people dressed like children fashionably say.

    Monsignor Quinn as Mohammed for that instantaneous mental burp is wonderful.

    More. More.

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