John Pinto ~ Corduroy Loveseat

The pas­tor scrubs her rash. It’s been spread­ing. There’s red under every crook of her. Something in the cas­sock, she thinks. Dry clean it.

She’s in the church house show­er, peek­ing out an eye lev­el win­dow that’s open an inch and vent­ing steam. She sees the chapel and the yel­low tree shad­ing the chapel dump­ster. The bank beside the chapel has pump­kins carved by tellers. Between the church house and chapel, Boy Scouts ham­mer apart a piano.

Loudest moment in world history.

After her show­er, she has to air dry. Towels aggra­vate the red. The red is aggres­sive and tetchy. The pas­tor pass­es time draft­ing notes for Sunday’s Children’s Sermon:

• flu sea­son = don’t play with your teeth
• when we are david vs. when we are goliath
• did jesus like school?

and also tak­ing in the ruckus. These boys are Troop 251. The piano is fin­ger­paint­ed and from the pre‑K the church runs in its base­ment. The pas­tor watch­es nude and ducked beneath the sill and think­ing kids nev­er played the thing, it’s kosher to scrap it, the boys need their out­let. The boys liked lug­ging it out of the pre‑K and up to the dump­ster, and demo­li­tion? They’d have done it if she hadn’t asked.

Six or sev­en boys out there, a patrol, with no grown Scoutmaster super­vis­ing. The boys toss bro­ken keys and wood bits in the dump­ster. They lift the upright’s lid to destroy from with­in. They chant: “Nutsack Patrol! Nutsack Patrol!” Pre-destruc­tion, they’d told the pas­tor their patrol had no name.

Like if she knew the truth, she’d tell them to scram. Piano’s got­ta go and the pastor’s got no extra volunteers.

The pas­tor does every­thing her­self! She’s doing chores naked now. Hair’s stuck flat against her nape and there’s open win­dows but also all the lights are off and who’s look­ing in any­ways? There’s trash needs tak­ing out. Recycling’s over­flow­ing. Youth group left two piz­za box­es. The red itch­es worst when the pas­tor eats some­thing toma­to saucy with her hands. She’ll eat piz­za and feel rug burn inside her lips and gums and sor­est red patch­es. No way there’s sci­ence or med­i­cine explain­ing this. But she has felt it.

Something’s slid­ing around inside the bot­tom piz­za box. The pas­tor checks. It’s chewed gum and crusts and tis­sued bloody snot.

The pas­tor bags it all with­out dis­gust. Youth group’s run by Vern, excitable fel­la, smi­ley, unor­dained, kids like him more than her. No time to dis­ci­pline Vern. An hour with Vern lasts an eter­ni­ty. He’s always just read some­thing. Sitting and lis­ten­ing, the pas­tor dreams of swat­ting him with a rolled mag­a­zine. Sitting that long is hell on the red.

She does a lap of the emp­ty offices, where the trash cans are petite. Looks like Vern’s been chomp­ing Nicorette. The dea­con with the framed flag does origa­mi. His trash is crane after fold­ed crane in every col­or of the Post-It rainbow.

The pastor’s got the office with the loveseat and the minifridge. She eas­es onto the cor­duroy loveseat. She must lie very par­tic­u­lar. She must avoid the red and the boys, who are back in view. The pas­tor stares out her office win­dow at Nutsack Patrol. No way they see her, the way they keep swing­ing. That piano is bare­ly there. The pas­tor yawns and wish­es she could sleep with­out rolling onto the red and into a dream that her bed is infest­ed with ants.

Her cas­sock waits draped over her desk chair.

This cas­sock was her least favorite even before the red. Her good one tore when she turned too fast to shake a hand at Easter and stepped on the hem.

The sem­i­nary lady’s scab­by hands come to mind.

No one ever want­ed to shake this poor lady’s hands. She’d wan­der the divin­i­ty quad try­ing to greet peo­ple and it was like watch­ing a sheep­dog work its herd, the way she drove stu­dents away. This was at an insti­tu­tion where hand­shakes were course­work, and you had to prac­tice, and greet­ing your con­gre­ga­tion wher­ev­er you found them was a learned skill they grad­ed you on, and for some devout or bust­ed souls a hand­shake was the only way to touch flesh. Everyday she was alone out there.

Some said the scabs were con­ta­gious so it was kosher to stiff her. Others said her hands got that way from meet­ing too many peo­ple, or from being born before lotion coat­ed the world. The pas­tor can’t remem­ber what she believed. Probably genet­ics? Seminary was embar­rass­ing. Everybody so sure, brit­tled with absolutes. There was a stu­dent move­ment to con­duct all class­es in Latin. There was anoth­er to expel all the women, the pas­tor went to their meet­ings. Anything to ignore the lady look­ing for handshakes.

Sun’s going down. The pas­tor shifts on the loveseat. She drags bare raw red along the cor­duroy and the burn trans­ports her years. She’s in the sem­i­nary lady’s office. She’s look­ing for a let­ter of rec. Those are very valu­able, appar­ent­ly. They can lead to what leads to a bet­ter life. The pas­tor is smil­ing polite­ly. She is say­ing the mag­ic words.

When the sem­i­nary lady stands up, her height bare­ly improves.

“Child.” She grins and extends a hand.

And the pas­tor stands for­ev­er with her hands stuffed down the pock­ets of an Army sur­plus coat.

Piano demo­li­tion brings her back to right now.

Plong plonk plong goes the instrument.

Star Wars laser sound effect and a husky Scout rears back like a whipped horse.

He’s clutch­ing his eye. All the ham­mers fall silent. Pastor’s frozen on the loveseat. Her red tin­gles like sta­t­ic. A snapped piano wire stands straight up in the air and shivers.

Pastor’s up and run­ning. She kicks over her trash can on her way out the office. Then she stum­bles on noth­ing halfway down the hall­way and skins her knee bad on the low car­pet tiles. Later she’ll press frozen peas to her knee and a wash­cloth to the red and not remem­ber where this bloody bruise came from. The pas­tor will only remem­ber throw­ing the church house door open. She’ll remem­ber stand­ing in the door­way and hol­ler­ing for 911.

And Nutsack Patrol star­ing back at her. The boys do not pull out their phones. No one employs what they learned for the First Aid mer­it badge. The husky Scout’s hands fall away from his face. The boy’s eye is fine. The snapped string missed him. False alarm, basi­cal­ly mirac­u­lous, and the pas­tor is still stand­ing nude in the doorway.

She takes an extend­ed leave of absence.

This is at the urg­ing of her col­leagues at the church. They are kind but insis­tent. They say she’ll look down and look up and be back again. A few skin­care prod­ucts are recommended.

While off-duty, the pas­tor keeps a list of what she assumes she is missing.

A garbage truck lifts up the chapel dump­ster and the dri­ver hears pianos…

Youth group boys car­ry fold­ing chairs…

The pastor’s minifridge is unplugged and emp­tied, and it’s agreed some­one should take her cas­sock to the clean­ers, but no one will come forward…

Early sun­set turns the chapel’s stained glass black…

Everybody brings donuts to the Winter Oratorio dress rehearsal…

Whispers between hymns that in the seclu­sion of her smelly one-bed­room, the pas­tor goes days with­out wear­ing clothes…

Indigo rock salt on the chapel steps when it snows the sec­ond Sunday of Advent…

The meet­ing where they rec­om­mend the pas­tor extend her leave from two to four months…

Christmas Eve divvied up by the old chapel bell every hour on the hour, and no one’s hair catch­es fire at the can­dle­light service…

The New Year begins every­where, even the pastor’s emp­ty office…

Yoga, Bible study, and the food pantry suf­fer sea­son­al mem­ber­ship fluctuation…

The cas­sock col­lects dust on the pastor’s office chair…

Vern audi­tions bassists and drum­mers for a praise band…

The dea­con sits in his office late on a Friday after­noon, a tan­ger­ine crane in hand, and decides once again to not call the pastor…

Indigo Fabuloso on the floor after gal­lons of Italian Wedding spill at the Super Bowl potluck…

At a post-Sunday ser­vice recep­tion, there are whis­pers over crumb cake that a pack­age for the pas­tor came to the church house by mis­take, and inside the box was a sam­pler of indus­tri­al skin­care shit…

This year’s Confirmation class learns about pre­des­ti­na­tion and sur­vives a near-mutiny…

The meet­ing where they rec­om­mend the pas­tor extend her leave from four to six months…

Vern’s got the praise band play­ing at every ser­vice, even the 10 a.m. Sunday…

Nutsack Patrol mis­in­ter­prets an emer­gency pre­pared­ness drill, chas­es imag­ined ter­ror­ists into the ceme­tery, and knocks over headstones…

A guest pas­tor from the coun­ty seat admin­is­ters ashes…

Quilting Club and AA press on strong as ever…

Youth group learns the deacon’s secret and soon he’s fold­ing requests, not just cranes but throw­ing stars, space­ships, tanks and for­tune tellers…

Whispers that the pas­tor was seen at the Y, at the der­ma­tol­o­gist in the strip mall on 22, at the high school spring musi­cal, at the adult book­store in the strip mall on 22…

The weath­er turns nice for good and after every Sunday ser­vice its lemon­ade out­side and lots of handshakes…

The guest pas­tor returns to the chapel for Good Friday but not Easter—for the year’s biggest ser­vice, he’s need­ed by his own congregation—and everyone’s ter­ri­fied Vern may need to man the pul­pit, but then a pas­tor emer­i­tus comes out of retire­ment for one last job…

The youth group lock-in ends in tears…

The meet­ing where they rec­om­mend the pas­tor, y’know, con­sid­er­ing the cir­cum­stances, and con­sid­er­ing her own com­fort and the com­fort of the con­gre­ga­tion, and this is in no way an indi­ca­tion of the pastor’s own faith or devo­tion, but out of fair­ness to every­body involved…

The cor­duroy loveseat is wrapped in plas­tic, put in storage…

The cas­sock nev­er makes it to the clean­ers and is thrown in the dumpster…

Vern insists every praise band per­for­mance be livestreamed and uploaded to all platforms…

The pastor’s name van­ish­es from all church bulletins…

Every oth­er faith state­ment by this year’s Confirmation class is deliv­ered in the form of a song…

The dea­con gets the pastor’s minifridge, and some nights he dreams his skin is fold­ing into new shapes that every­body loves…

Weddings, funer­als, bap­tisms, bap­tisms, baptisms…

And in ear­ly July, the youth group ser­vice trip. Everyone meets at dawn to load the bus. Coffee and donuts make the vibe very tail­gate. Lots of easy laugh­ter. Every kid packs a sleep­ing bag and a ham­mer. Every chap­er­one packs a sleep­ing bag and pow­er tool. Vern packs an air mat­tress and acoustic gui­tar, and though he sees the stranger after every­one else, he will lat­er say he noticed them ear­ly but didn’t want to make a scene.

The stranger does gin­ger lit­tle steps like their skin’s on too tight and walks until they’re sur­round­ed by the crowd. Then the stranger stands there, doing noth­ing. They do not talk, and every­one who sees the stranger shuts up too. Silence takes the park­ing lot. The bus dri­ver, curi­ous why there are no more thumps of duf­fle bags drop­ping into the car­go hold, peeks out a win­dow, dis­likes what he sees, and ducks back inside his vehi­cle because who is this stranger, stand­ing there and wear­ing red from head to toe? Red boots, red gloves, red cov­er­alls over a red ath­let­ic turtle­neck, but the head is where peo­ple are pre­tend­ing not to look. The stranger’s head is hid­den by a skintight red hood, no eye holes, pos­si­bly mesh, unknown vis­i­bil­i­ty and more than a lit­tle fetishy. Most par­ents are not fans. Some pull their kids into the safe­ty of a locked car. Vern stands tall and calls the police. He tells the dis­patch­er that the stranger hasn’t made any demands. There’s a wet spot on the hood where the stranger’s mouth must be.

But the dea­con will approach the stranger. They shake hands.

~

John Pinto is the author of the zine Bill Kiss, out now from Tree Trunk Books. His work has appeared in Scaffold, Little Engines, X‑R-A‑Y, HAD, Back Patio Press, and the sec­ond and third Bullshit Anthologies. He is a film lab tech liv­ing in Philadelphia.