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[TM] Religion
Jul. 14th, 2007 01:45 pmFlack liked constants. He liked for some things to stay the same, especially when the whole of his world was turning upside down. He ate certain places certain days, followed the same paths as he traveled throughout the city. He even called his mother at the same time every day (which while the fact that her son called her every day thrilled her to no end, it drove her up a wall that she had to wait until the same time every day to call her, even when she had left him a message three hours before), so it was safe to say that he was a man of routine. He wasn’t going to throw a fit if something happened that threw a kink in his daily schedule, but there were certain things he didn’t skip, not for anything. And one of them happened to be church.
He wouldn’t consider himself a religious person, and he wasn’t sure what the hell he believed in. He didn’t have the luxury of time or education to debate the existence of God in his mind, and figure out exactly which of the beliefs he could choose to adhere to or really sit well with him—in fact, the idea of doing that just made his head hurt. He left debates like that up to those with doctorate degrees who were getting paid to do so. He did know two things though: one—with the job he did, he had to believe that there was something out there trying to counteract all the hate and anger that seemed to be in the world today, and two—if he didn’t go, his mother would pour on the guilt. And he hated it when his mother poured on the guilt.
Every Sunday morning since he was five years-old, at ten AM, he would pull on his suit (“and with a tie that doesn’t make you look like a clown, Donnie—for me, please”) and make his way to Angels of Mercy for early mass. He would sit in the pews of the old Catholic church, and while the priest delivered his sermon, he wouldn’t really listen, just let his eyes wander over the faces of the other people assembled there. He probably should have grown up a little since he was five, and tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t help it. It was a habit he couldn’t shake, and he liked watching the people.
( If Sullivan’s was a cop’s bar… )
He wouldn’t consider himself a religious person, and he wasn’t sure what the hell he believed in. He didn’t have the luxury of time or education to debate the existence of God in his mind, and figure out exactly which of the beliefs he could choose to adhere to or really sit well with him—in fact, the idea of doing that just made his head hurt. He left debates like that up to those with doctorate degrees who were getting paid to do so. He did know two things though: one—with the job he did, he had to believe that there was something out there trying to counteract all the hate and anger that seemed to be in the world today, and two—if he didn’t go, his mother would pour on the guilt. And he hated it when his mother poured on the guilt.
Every Sunday morning since he was five years-old, at ten AM, he would pull on his suit (“and with a tie that doesn’t make you look like a clown, Donnie—for me, please”) and make his way to Angels of Mercy for early mass. He would sit in the pews of the old Catholic church, and while the priest delivered his sermon, he wouldn’t really listen, just let his eyes wander over the faces of the other people assembled there. He probably should have grown up a little since he was five, and tried to pay attention, but he couldn’t help it. It was a habit he couldn’t shake, and he liked watching the people.
( If Sullivan’s was a cop’s bar… )
