"Hurry, they're expecting you."
It was Chloe's voice.
"Hurry, dammit."
Her plea came at me from all directions.
The lamp on my nightstand crashed to the floor, right where I left the priest's clothes.
I looked around. Nobody was there. But a new painting had been placed next to the door that leads upstairs.
So I gave it a look. I shrugged. And I opened the door.
A short old man with a pink necktie and a marble for one eye poked me in the gut.
"You're late," he said, "and I haven't got all day. 'Specially not for your kind. But she tells us you're our Father now. And I've got shit to confess. Lord, you know I do."
As I looked behind him, I noticed a few more old parishioners starting to make their way down the stairs.
"Give me a minute," I said.
"No." The old man tried to shove me. "Lord have mercy, you're gonna do it now. Even if you've gotta be naked doing it. Not like I never seen a black man's waggler before."
Just then, three of the other parishioners, all women, barged their way in, grabbed the priest's clothes from the floor, and started pushing me toward the stairs.
I stopped resisting.
Once in the confessional, I threw on the clothes, which were at least two sizes too small and littered with broken glass. I heard a few rips.
Then I heard the old man.
"Well, Father, it's been 40 years since my last confession. I've pissed on two wives, stolen a dump truck, burned down a neighbor's house, and mailed a cooler of dog shit to the I.R.S."
He paused to blow his nose. Then he continued in a more whimpering tone.
"The Lord has given me no more time. He gave me cancer. Started in my balls and took up residence everywhere else. Well, he gave it to me, no doubt, to give me a head start on where he's sending me. But I thought maybe you could give me the penance to get me out of having to go there."
"Jesus," I said.
"What? Pray to Jesus, you mean?" The old man sounded hopeful. "What do I say?"
I cleared my throat and sat silent, trying not to laugh.
"Well?" the old man pleaded.
"Okay," I said. "This is what you're going to do."
My mind went blank.
The old man grew desperate. "How 'bout I just send myself there right now since you won't help me?"
I could see he had a hunting knife, and he was gently stroking his wrist with it.
"Wait," I said. "Here's what you do: Go to the corner store. Purchase two boxes of Junior Mints. Bring one back to me. Then go home, find a football game to watch, open your box, and say a Hail Mary each time you suck on one of those goodies. The Lord himself told me about this loophole."
The sinner with a pink necktie and a marble for one eye was out of the booth before I could tell him about the tequila shots and Our Father chasers.
Bummer.