A Dream

I was in an office. The walls were old-fashioned stone, there was a large window through which stood a giant tree. There were calendars and posters of flowing words on the walls. It looked like a tiny church office. There was an older woman sitting at a desk in front of a computer. I stood there, it was as if I were talking to her.

Suddenly, in walks a tall man. His head was nearly bald, his hair greying. He wore a deep purple dress shirt. The material wasn't quite silk, but it looked near new. His slacks were dark grey, charcoal. Then, I looked at his face closer. This man looked familiar. He had a great big smile on his face and when he spoke his hands went everywhere. Every once in a while a finger would push his glasses back up his nose.

He started talking about rehearsals, apparently he was involved in some production, he never said how. He only said, "I hope strike for 'Anna in the Tropics' goes well. That set was a hassle to get up. I'll be glad when it's gone."

The older woman at the desk stood up and pointed at me. "This is Chris Leyva." The man shook my hand, his grip was strong, he jerked my hand down once or twice and smiled. "He's writing a play about the church." The handshake slowed. A funny little grin swept over the man's face.

"Is he?"

The old woman turned back to me, "That's Father Couturier."

My mind couldn't comprehend this information. This? This was the man from my play? I hope he doesn't want to read the play... He might not like the way he's portrayed.

"I suppose you want to see the church?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I said. He finally lifted his grip from my hand. We found a car, my car, and he asked if he could drive. Who was I to say no to Father Couturier.

It was awkward for awhile as I searched for a question to ask. Here he was, I could ask him anything, unravel any mystery about this man. Finally, I turned to him as we were driving across a modern bridge, "So. Are you still a priest, Father Couturier?" What a stupid question! Why would I ask that? Then, I heard the answer, "No."

There was silence for a long time between us. I looked out the window and saw that we were stopping. "I'm hungry," he confessed. "I love this place." So, Father Couturier and I had some Chinese food in a nice restaurant. He offered to pay and ordered as much as he could, he wanted as many courses as possible.

And as I sat there, watching him order this food, something struck me. This was an ordinary experience. I thought that meeting this man would be something earth-shattering, but here I was in this Chinese restaurant just having a nice lunch with the man. As the food started coming, I decided to tell him about the play.

"Father? Is it okay to still call you 'Father?'" I wouldn't know what else to call you."

"That's fine," he chuckled with his mouth half full.

"Father Couturier. I wanted to tell you about--"

Then my bastard alarm rang. And the peaceful moment was lost. Who knows when or if I'll ever have lunch with Father Couturier again. Or, if I'll have to pay next time.