The Confessional
“It’s called Mundanā,” Anthony cracked his neck one way and then the other way, and then let out a sigh of relief, “and it’s a sign of devotion. All monks have to shave their heads.”
“Are you sure it’s not just because you’re balding?” Patrick asked and rubbed his chin, in the process half-covering his widening smile.
“Yes. It’s not because I’m balding. And I’m not balding."
“Either way it’s pretty ridiculous.” Patrick’s own head was covered in tight orange curls, both his scalp and his face—all in all it gave his head a very spherical, dandelion-like appearance.
The bakery was fully seated; Saturday nights at Veniero’s were always near impossible to book, but Anthony’s uncle knew a brother of the owner and after a few weeks of bugging the guy Anthony managed to get a table near the rear of the place by a large, antique window. The ceiling of the dining area was a backlit, stained-glass depiction of a twisting Chinese dragon. The red fire coming out of its mouth cast the room in an orange glow. Waiters and busboys were hustling about between tables and the humdrum of regular conversation filled in the space not already occupied by clinking silverware and fine china. Sonically it was equivalent to the canopy of yellow leaves and branches that occupied the sky outside the window. Obviously, they were in the thick of Autumn.
“Well one, I didn’t ask you, and two, I’ve got the whole monastic tradition to back me up here. I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you.”
“I’m just saying… didn’t think you’d take it so seriously.”
“Oh I’m not don’t worry—to be honest I don’t take anything so seriously these days. Not really since I’ve taken the vows and everything.”
“Vows, huh… I thought you were Catholic?”
“I am.” Anthony smiled and reveled in his ambiguity, leaning forwards just ever so slightly across the table anticipating Patrick’s follow up.
Instead Patrick stared at Anthony’s freshly shaved head for a minute in silence, keeping his eyes trained on a bluish vein pulsating straight across his left temple. Babump. Babump. Babump.
After a few more babumps he indulged his counterpart. “How’s that work then?”
Anthony exhaled excitedly. He explained how one could believe in god and be Buddhist because Buddhists didn’t believe in god but they believed in śūnyatā, which meant emptiness in Pali, and śūnyatā, Anthony said, could be god if you said it was, and “everything just works out in the end if you do the math.” He ended with that last part.
Patrick was raised Catholic too but he hadn’t confessed since the sixth grade when he told the priest that he’d masturbated and the priest made him cry in that tiny little wooden cell full of sin and guilt and hell. He didn’t really believe in anything anymore.
“So then do you believe in free will? And what about the soul?” Patrick asked. By all observable metrics Patrick’s soul had been destroyed in the sixth grade. So he was on board with the whole ‘emptiness’ thing.
“Well that part I haven’t really figured out yet. But I don’t believe in free will though, no. Everything just happens, you know?”
Patrick grinned. “What do you want to order?”
“I’ll have the—” Anthony paused and considered his predicament. “I think I’ll ask the waiter what’s—” he paused again, “I’ll just get whatever, you know? Play it by ear.”
“I’ll get the carrot cake then. I heard it’s the best here.”
Anthony’s face turned red. “I’m just going to wash my hands real quick,” he got up and in turning around knocked his glass of water off of the table and it shattered on the tile floor. The room went quiet and Anthony jumped—“Fuck!” He blushed an even deeper red. But then a busboy came to clean up the mess on the floor and suddenly something like a wave of peace or forgetfulness washed over Anthony; his face returned to its normal hue. “See?” He was smiling now.
“Go wash your hands,” Patrick laughed, and his friend left for the bathroom. Meanwhile the waiter came by to take his order. Patrick pointed at the menu, “my friend’s in the bathroom but I’ll have a slice of the carrot cake and a decaf Americano.”
“Oh,” the waiter frowned. “We’re all out of the carrot cake.”
“Okay, then, I’ll have, um, the cannoli.”
“Hmm. Sorry, we’re out of that one too.”
“I’ll just get the almond biscotti then.”
The waiter shifted his weight between his feet and scribbled something down on his notepad. “That’s the Eucharist.”
“Sorry—what did you just say?” Patrick’s ears started ringing.
Babump. Babump. Babump.
“I said that’s so humorous. We don’t have the biscotti either!” The waiter's head was shaved.
“Well then what do you have here?” Patrick had to keep from yelling.
“You might like the Regina cookies.”
“Okay perfect. I’ll get that then.” The stained-glass flames on the ceiling grew redder and more intense and Patrick noticed the wooden paneling on the walls for the first time since he’d arrived. He was squirming in his seat and sweating beads from his forehead when Anthony returned from the bathroom and asked Patrick what he had ordered.
“I just let the guy order for me. Played it by ear, you know?”
“Nice.” Anthony sat back down in his seat and smiled. “Did you order for me too?”