Vow of Silence

Everyone in the world has a phone. I can call Fenway's mom in Thailand and Mam will pick up the phone on the other side of the world. Service is complete for Antarctica and many parts of the USA. Millions of cellular calls and SMS messages intersect millions of angled signals searching billions of destinations. We are so close, yet so far.

No one had called me on the phone in hours.

I look out the window of my Fort Greene penthouse. Not a soul visible behind our brownstone. The rooftops are devoid of humanity. I could be the Last Man on Earth, but I'm not Mada, Adam's dead end. AP, my landlord/friend/architect, is downstairs with loving wife and two adorable children. AP and I moved a set of headboards from the 3rd Floor to the penthouse landing. They were heavy. Neither of us hurt our back.

"Thanks," AP said, walking down to the 2nd floor.

"No worries." I ascended the stairs to my apartment.

Those three syllables were my last spoken words.

50 minutes of no communication with another human.

I've gone longer.

A day, maybe two without opening my mouth, except for nourishment. My favorite day of silence has long been Sunday. That day of rest was spend watching football or basketball, reading a book, luxuriating in the bath or all of the above. I'd check the phone to see there was a dial tone.

The phone was in perfect working order.

No one wanted to speak with me, until I started dating Ms. Carolina. She liked talking.I couldn't blame her. Ms. Carolina lived in a redneck community way south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Some of her neighbors entertained funny thoughts about the intermingling of races and religions. She lived in the wilderness of progressive politics. Sunday mornings the telephone would ring at 11am. The service at her husband's church lasted two and a half hours. Baptists wasted the entire day trying to save their souls. Her congregation was very advanced for the area. They believed blacks had a soul.

Ms. Carolina would recount the preacher's ranting sermon in accent. She was originally form New Jersey. Her family was Old Yankee same as half mine. We had more than those genes in common. I knew her husband. He was a gun freak. She kept the conversation low and ended with the wish, "Good luck with your vow of silence."

Luck wasn't part of Sunday's silence.

My ravaging hangover silted the mouth. I hadn't really spoken with Ms. Carolina. My function was to listen to a woman's yearning. I was good at it. As a junior in 1968 one weekend was spent on a spiritual retreat at a suburban monastery. My buxom girlfriend, Kyla, wanted to join the sisterhood of the god. My best friend, Chuckie Manzi, feared losing me to the priesthood.

"I'll be okay." My mother's uncle was an arch-bishop. We prayed at church for a priest. I was her choice. Kyla was a threat to my avocation. Her mother was an agnostic. Her divorced father Opus Dei. The church was in our blood and on Palm Sunday Weekend a score of similar couples were bussed into the deep woods to shuck the temptation of the flesh. We were met by an equal number of priests and nuns.

"Purity is the one true love." Kyla and I had never gone all the way. Our sex was blunted by her unwillingness to be naked. A pastor had convinced the 17 year-old cheerleader that our wanton behavior was Satan's work.

"Pure as snow." Kyla's skin was whiter than baby powder. The 10 Commandments skipped over dry humping and the pastor asked if I wanted to be his altar boy. I had stopped believing in his god at the age of 8. Saving Kyla's soul meant my damnation at his hands, for I loved the girl with the green eyes more than the loss of my masculinity. The Nuns of Chastity escorted the girls from the monastery to a nunnery hidden by tall pines.

"See no evil." The Pastor led us inside.

The weather was warm and the sky free of clouds. The pastor and his friends indoctrinated their young charges with the ways of god. Boys and girls were separated upon arrival. The priests spoke about the fulfillment of God's love. They denied access to Kyla.

'A woman will steal your precious fluids."

I had already spilled my see in sin. I did so twice in the novice barracks that Saturday evening. Other boys joined my one-handed prayer. Several boys refrained from touching themselves. They were scared by the flames of forever.

On Sunday morning they celebrated the ancient mass and the pastor preached about the eternal satisfaction of serving the Church. The climax of the weekend was the grand one-on-one session with an unknown priest. 1 PM in the basement. I was thinking of selling my soul to their god. The love between Kyla and me was untainted by penetration. The trinity would absolved our trespasses. Sweet surrender was on my agenda.

"We will never talk about this day. This upcoming moment. Silence shall save the soul."

Chuckie walked through the doors at 12:40. He had Led Zeppelin's first album in his hand. The stereo was off-limits to the boys of retreat Chuckie placed the LP on the Zenith stereo and turned the volume to 10.

DAZED AND CONFUSED.

Bass and guitar. High-pitched vocals and then the avalanche of drums.

6 minutes and 25 seconds later I went upstairs and packed my bag. Chuckie put on HOW MANY MORE TIMES The rest of the boys acted in unison. The priests tried to stop Chuckie from playing the album. He had a knife. A Boy Scout knife. It was more than enough to fend off the soft palms of the church. The invitees stormed across the lawn to the nunnery. The girls were already to go. We walked to the road. Chuckie had somehow organized enough cars for escape. He was a good friend. None of us went to Mass after that weekend. We defied our parents' deity. Our Sundays were centered on breakfast at the local diner. I celebrated the Sabbath with simple words.

"Bacon and eggs over easy."

Kyla and I made it as far at the Senior Prom. Our love was a death sentence to my ambition. She married my best friend. Chuckie and she made a good couple.

My present vow of silence has endured into the darkness of night. I don't have to be anywhere until 10:15pm. I'm going to SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE with a young friend. A 20 year-old rock fanatic. The Strokes are the musical guests. Milie Cyrus the host. I'm heading in town. The vow of silence will die in Manhattan. It's a city which doesn't like silence.

And neither does Milie Cyrus.