Waxing Poetic
An excerpt from a story I've been working on.
Author’s note: It seems like Tuesdays are becoming my post days, and should probably be when you expect a new post from me from now on. Also! It really helps me grow my platform if you like, restack, and/or comment on my posts! I would really appreciate it. Thank you all for the support, and I hope you like this piece of creative writing. This being the first creative piece I’m posting, I’m keeping it free, although some future creative posts may be in the paid tier.
Waxing Poetic
The Shady Grove Spa in Missoula, Montana opened in the early post-war era as a retreat for those intellectual types who had become disillusioned with the faculties of their careers. Founded by a disgruntled former news writer, the spa catered to the mental and physical necessities of the exotic clientele — deviants, communists, intellectuals, civil rights leaders, and the occasional politician.
I put down my pen for a week of rejuvenation at Shady Grove, during which I had four intriguing conversations. These are reproduced here to the best of my ability.
After awakening from my late-night arrival to the spa, I trudged downstairs at an ungodly hour to retrieve some tea and company. The restaurant was mostly empty, save for the scattering of early-rising patrons sitting alone and waiting for their parties to arrive.
I watched the waiter, looking to catch his eye and get served before I fell asleep at the table. He was serving a couple: the man was much older, the woman much younger, and both clearly foreign to the American way of food service. I recognized them as friends of mine, a couple of German professors whom I’d interviewed when the war started.
The waiter left, eyed me, and began walking across the room. When he believed he was out of earshot, he let out a strong sigh in dread of serving the Germans again at dinner, where he would be forced to hear their orders and receive a lackluster European tip. He took my order, bergamot tea.
My tea was burnt and over-steeped, as I’d grown accustomed to in America, and I drank it with lemon. My addition cut the bitterness, but exacerbated the astringency of the beverage in a way that mingled poorly with my sleep-fogged mouth.
I sat and continued people-watching.
A priest who I’d read about, but had not been formally introduced to, was nursing a cup of coffee two tables down. He’d been on a special trip to Russia to recover the remains of a colleague, a trip which culminated in time for the rise of the witches.
He was not an old man, but the cassock added years, the cincture added more, and the oversized knit hat did not affect his age but made him look as if he were concealing a small melon on the crown of his head. I wandered over.
I asked him what he was doing in a place like this, a man of the clergy, and he responded that God was not here and that he was here to remedy that. I asked him if god walked with him wherever he went, to which he said yes, and I then said that he must be here and thus the priest’s job had been done already. He responded that it was not done, as he was off duty and therefore God was off duty.
I poured the man a cup of tea as we made our introductions. He said he recognized my name, and didn’t I write that story about the Germans before the war. I said that yes I did, and I asked him if he liked it. He did, but the Germans did not like that I was honest about the man’s drinking.
I asked him next the question I asked all priests at that time. Why do you hold your faith? He said to me that he had seen a miracle. I pressed him, even though I was familiar with his story. He was verklempt, but began to speak:
When he was a young man, he went on a mission trip through Spain, a modern day non-violent crusade. While walking with his companions, he witnessed a large ball of light, more beautiful than he’d ever seen before, rise through the heavens and elucidate the very nature of the universe.
It brought him to the floor as a young man, blinded him temporarily, and he said he’s been unshaking in his faith since.
At this time, he said that he must be going. For curious readers, it’s come to my attention that his story has been reproduced in a pamphlet by the Diocese of Helena.
“Thank you, Father”
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