Eight weeks of this crap. There must be a better way to get off the grid. Genius idea, Kunkel, you ambulance chaser. Next time I skim $2 million, remind me to go with a white-shoe firm.
Just hear me out: It’s old school, vow of silence, the whole works. Dye your hair, shave your beard. Perfect spot for you to disappear a while and not have to answer questions. Don’t I always do right by you?
Right, no talking from me but I have to listen to endless chanting. And getting up at 4 a.m. every day, whose bright idea was that? Then the head guy, the abbot, tells me my constant use of Post-it notes to communicate was “not in the spirit of things.” You’re lucky I’m not talking, bro. You wouldn’t like it.
The food, it’s like they had God remove all the taste. Thought I could at least game the system here. I was picturing a Goodfellas-type arrangement where someone smuggles in steaks under his robe, duct-taped to his body. I pitched the idea to Brother Marchetti. The look he gave me, like I slapped his mother. I had to pretend it was a joke. Same thing with the Red Bull remark: Stone faces everywhere.
I spun out a hard-luck story. You’re a vet with PTSD and they are opening their arms to you. I’m telling you, this place is like a different century. They don’t even have electricity.
Quite an endorsement, Kunkel. Ice-cold baths put eternal joy in my heart. Listen to me, I’m starting to sound like them. Three hours a day gardening. My knees can’t take it anymore. I’d murder someone for a sip of whiskey, but then I’d have to hide in a different monastery.
Not feeling the serenity and quiet contemplation. I about peed my pants when I saw the Sheriff talking to Brother Franklin in the courtyard yesterday. Did I somehow botch it when I was trying to wipe the search history from my work computer? And I saw the abbot give me a dirty look when he spotted the John Grisham paperback peeking out from my robe during morning prayer. Other monks asking a lot more questions while trying to act casual, like they’re only concerned for my soul.
I have to watch myself. I know the bald one could smell the cigarette smoke in my room when he paid me a visit Tuesday afternoon during rest period. That was stupid. Chewing Skittles during the a.m. chant-fest was also reckless. They don’t miss a thing.
Just a bit longer, though. Two more days and I bounce. The van picks me up by the highway 500 yards away and I’m gone. Just in time, I’m down to three Tabasco packets, and I’m pretty sure they’re getting wise to that mealtime slight-of-hand. I can deal with being a Walmart greeter for a few months until Kunkel comes through with the account numbers. Bless you, Caymans.
My saving grace was smuggling in the iPhone and portable chargers. The fantasy team is keeping me sane. Lester pitching again today and cruising 4-0 through eight. That side bet on the Cubs could net me $5,000. Just enough to grease the right wheels when I drop out of sight.
Now vespers. Who’d think something that sounds like an Italian scooter could be so lame? It’s endless. But I figured out how to bow my head at the right angle and keep my hands inside the robe during the songs so I can kill it at Candy Crush. Yes, right there. Eat it, purple.
Great, another guy staring at me. Come on, brother, what are you looking at? Get back to singing. Why are you worried about the mote in my eye when you have a… what was it – log? Some kind of lumber.
Everyone closing their prayer books. Finally. A quick peek on MLB.com and then off to choke down one of my last meals. I don’t see how prison could be worse than this. Still, can’t say this didn’t pay off, letting me slip below the radar just long en —
“GODDAMNIT LESTER! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? JESUS FUCKING CHR —”