Mass

If I was going to somehow wrap this black tie around my neck I needed to fasten the very top button of my shirt. It had been some time since that button had known the closeness and intimacy of its rightful home, but my neck had not quite grown fat enough to prevent the reunion, though it should receive some recognition for the effort. I typed the words “how to tie a tie,” which has become a semiannual Google search, and eventually managed a fairly tight knot.

The parking lot was packed with clean sleek cars. I locked my doors out of habit and habit alone. The man at the entrance was shaking hands with the men and nodding his head at the women. His bushy eyebrows seemed acquainted with most everyone. I walked up the steps and he said, “Hello, young man. Welcome.” He leaned on a cane and wore beige orthopedic shoes. He will count the days until he can do this again, I thought.

I slid into a pew. The little pencil and book holders in front of me made me think of my grandparents. They took my brother and me to church when we were young. It was the last time I had been.

I always hoped we would sit behind the lady with candy in her purse. I would draw on scraps of paper and wonder why there was no eraser on the small pencils. During the songs I would stand, and my grandfather’s voice would boom, deep and penetrating. My grandmother’s falsetto was soft, and I would stare down the line of shoes and purses and hands holding hymn books, singing so no one could hear me.

Everyone was seated and quiet – even the bushy eyebrow doorman, who was with his wife in the second row. A group of young pony-tailed girls walked slowly and purposefully down the aisle carrying crosses and other artifacts. They wore soccer shoes under their white robes. A tiny man in an over-sized colorful draping sash followed along. He wore a headset microphone like Madonna singing "Like a Virgin" in ’86 to a crowd of shrieking look-alikes.

The small man took a seat in an exaggerated throne of a wooden chair. Its back stood two feet above his head and each of its arms could have supported another chair on its own. But instead they just supported his little arms, peeking out from the robe.

After an introductory reading from a man in a gray suit, the priest rose from his chair, took his place at the center of the stage and began. He spoke in a chunky Spanish accent. Certain words seemed rehearsed. But it wasn’t a struggle, he was smart and witty. His people laughed at his jokes. He was self deprecating and sweet, sincere. “Peace be with you,” he said. “And also with you,” his people said.

Everyone knew the routine, the ritual. They stood at the same time, knelt at the same time, recited mantras at the same time. It was a collective mind, a collective body.

Some of the men had hair growing from their ears, and a good bit. The young ones had an urgent look, waiting to become their fathers and uncles. The children squirmed in their mothers’ laps until communion time. The prospect of a snack kept them from a complete loss of control.

Row by row, everyone was asked to stand and approach the altar. I stayed in my seat. A few men and woman stood placing little crackers or wafers inside the mouths of everyone in line. They were a symbol of Jesus Christ’s body, the priest explained. The priest had an over-sized goblet filled presumably with wine or grape juice. This was a symbol of Jesus Christ’s blood, said the priest. They took a sip and handed the goblet back to the priest. He would then wipe the rim of the glass and hand it to the next person. After everyone had their turn, the priest cleaned up, drinking the rest of the contents of the goblet. This was my first communion.

Twenty more minutes of kneeling and praying, and the service was over. The priest stood at the front gate that led out to the street wishing his people well. They seemed pleased to see him close up, one last time. I walked around the back of the church to see the view. Walking through a small winding path, I made my way to a gate that led to the beach. There was a small lookout tower with two flights of steps. I climbed them and watched the waves roll in.

I thought about my grandparents' church. Its yard was not sand and beach; it was grass, and my grandfather had the key to the lawnmower on his keychain. Every Saturday, my brother and I would take turns sitting on his lap, steering the machine. We worked our way in progressively smaller squares.

Here there was no lawn to mow, no candy-woman, no booming voices. I drove home and imagined fast slicing blades below by car. I had my own set of keys now.