The scene opens in the middle of Union Square in Somerville, Massachusetts. In a city known for its many squares (Davis, Teele, Assembly, etc.) Union Square fit in perfectly with the rest. While less of a classy, trendy spot than Davis, Union held the blue collar, rough yet not too dangerous feel that was the typical for this city only a few train stops from Downtown Boston. An uncharacteristically cool, cloudy Tuesday morning in July, cars are filled with workers zipping past one another, making their way to work, many to tech, research, or academic locales in Cambridge, a mish-mash of small-office professional work in Somerville or Medford, or making the trek down Route 28 or I-93 to Downtown Boston for work in financial services, legal services, or other suit-and-tie 9-to-5s. Still working off their July 4th weekend hangovers, these folks were acting unusually tame for Massachusetts city drivers (affectionately termed Massholes by outsiders and locals alike).

Leaning against a closed sushi restaurant is Tony Santos. Long brown hair hanging over his face, Tony's wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt, sleeves which are rolled up to an inch or so below his elbows, and his typical tattered jeans. Cigarette in hand, Tony takes a puff, soaking in the joy that comes with smoking a butt on a cool morning in New England. While Tony rarely smokes, he picked up a minor habit in high school, since cutting class and hanging with his other dead end friends sounded like more fun than actually attempting to learn anything useful, and most of Tony's high school friends smoked. It was just something that was, while not expected, assumed to be done, and Tony didn't mind it in the slightest.

He'd kicked the habit about halfway through his first (and only) year of college, and now it was a go-to when he needed some time to stand outside and just reflect on whatever he considered worthy at that time. Taking a long drag of his cigarette, the cherry of the cigarette crackling, Tony turns to his left and strolls down the sidewalk. After passing the usual Union Square fare of cheap sit-down and take-out restaurants, he finds himself at the base of the front stairwell to St. Joseph's Church.



Santos: Fucking hell. This place is still standing.

Tony, while not a religious man in the slightest, has a history here. His grandparents (well, not really his grandparents, but two older, Italian Somerville lifers who all but adopted him as their own when he was a kid), who lived in Teele Square, did. Having gone to this church for decades before Tony was even a thought, they pulled him in to their Sunday ritual, taking the three-ish mile drive over to the parish every Sunday at 8am. Listening to sermons and music with a divine inspiration was supposed to infuse young Tony Sullivan with a sense of self-worth and move him in the right direction, but, honestly, the kid didn't actually care. He spent more of his time there throwing tantrums and messing with young girls' hair when he was a boy, then just blatantly nodding off in the pews as a young teen, and finally, even managing the roll cigarettes in the pews when the smoking craze hit him in high school. Hell, the kid made it through it all though, and he'd be flat out lying if he said that he didn't feel any sense of nostalgia.

Tony stomps out his cigarette and makes his way up the front steps. St. Joseph's was never tight on money, which was obvious by the large, seemingly brand new granite steps and ornate doorway. Tony moves hesitantly close to the door, presses on the latch, and is surprised to realize that it's unlocked.

Making his way down the aisle between a set of pews, Tony hesitates to soak in the place, which has definitely gone through some major cosmetic changes since he made his last stop there six years ago. Walking toward the turquoise stairs leading up to the ambo, Tony stops, jolts to his left and makes a beeline for the confession room, before realizing that he has to genuflect before going back the holy area. However, Tony manages to do it completely wrong, awkwardly separately his legs and bending down to his knees, looking like he decided to take a dump right smack dab in the center of the church. After holding the pose for what feels like an hour, he forgets to cross himself and makes his way over to the confession room. All of those years of CCD and church services really paid off.

Making his way to the door, Tony decides to knock.

Santos: Hello? Anyone in here? I think I need to tell you some sins or something.

Tony waits for about 20 seconds, but hears nothing. He peeks inside, noticing the empty confession chair and lattice. The room is dimly lit and quite peaceful, but to Tony it looks more like a perfect place for your body to get stuffed after getting your skull cracked for making a wrong turn at 1 in the morning.

Of course, that doesn't halt Tony's curiosity. He creaks the door open a bit more and proceeds to make his way in. Looking around, it's obvious that, for a church that really loves the money and improvements this whole god thing has given them, they've kept this Reconciliation process pretty bare bones. Just a chair, a screen, and someone on the other side, listening to you go on and on and on about whatever inane sins you committed.

Tony sits down and plays with the openings in the lattice, making out their patterns with his right index finger. He starts to flick the screen, just like a curious and immature child would, as he obviously likes the sound. Just then, he hears...

*cough*

Tony jumps back.

Santos: Holy sweet mother good god damn Jesus, man! When the hell did you get in here? Have you been in here the whole time?!

Just then, a lightbulb goes off in Tony's head...

Santos: Are, um, you, a, uh, ghost? Jesus?

The person on the other side of the lattice chuckles.

Priest: No, my son, I'm the Pastor here. Just doing my morning hour of penance for those in need. I promise you that I am not the Lord himself. He's a far, far greater man than I.

Santos: Father Kelly? That really you? Jesus, man, it's been too long!

Priest: No, son, Father Kelly passed away last November. I'm Pastor McHugh. Been here for a few years now. Are you new to our parish?

Santos: Shouldn't you know these things, since you're the man of god? Isn't that how this all works?

Father McHugh: No, no. I couldn't possibly have the same presence as the Heavenly Father. I work through him, but there are most certainly limits.

Tony lets out a disappointed grunt. Even after all of these years, his belief that priests were these wizards who could read your mind, know everything about you when they first met you, and could predict the future, still stuck. As a kid, Tony even had the audacity to ask a priest for the score of the Red Sox game that was playing that night when he went up for the Eucharist. His grandparents banned him from their house for a month for that gem.

Father McHugh: Did you come here to confess?

Tony brushes his hair back and rolls his sleeves back up to his elbows, as they'd begun to sink toward the middle of his forearms from the walk, awkward poop kneeling, and the like.

Santos: Well, yes, Father. One thing that's been on my mind, and which has been nagging at me for a few weeks now.

See, my father died from a heart attack recently. I had the chance to see my family, and was forced in to making my way to the funeral that next week. He and I never had a good relationship, trust me, but I was supposed to do this for my family. Father, I didn't make it to the funeral. Haven't heard from my family since.

Part of me thinks it was because I always hated my old man, but part of me thinks it's because I don't feel like I'm actually a part of my family. Just some guy who shows up once every few years, eats your food, has an argument or two, and leaves.

So, Father, two things: Is what I did a sin? Not showing up to my dad's funeral?

And two: What the hell's wrong with me?

If Tony could see Father McHugh at the moment, he'd see a man who, while patient, is clearly getting uncomfortable with the streams of blasphemy spewing from Tony's mouth. However, being a man of the cloth, he took this in stride.

Father McHugh: Son, what you did certainly was not the most favorable of choices. You should always love and care for your family, especially your parents, in both life... and death. It's unfortunate that you and your father never saw eye-to-eye, but it would have been beneficial for you, your family, and especially your father, to have you there.

Here's what I want you to do: Repeat after me...

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

Tony, clearly forgetting what the priest had just uttered, stays silent, nervously moving his eyes from left to right, instinctively trying to avoid awkward eye contact, which, obviously, isn't there in this case.

Father McHugh: Son?

Santos: Um, sorry, I forgot what you said. Something about blessings? Can I just say "bless me?"

Father McHugh: Repeat after me...

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

Santos: Got it this time! Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

Tony and Father McHugh proceed through the rest of the sacrament, finishing with the Act of Contrition. The Father prescribes a bunch of Holy Marys, some Our Fathers, and then blesses Tony for the final time.

As Tony gets up to leave, there's one simple but necessary question that he needs to ask the priest.

Santos: Father? Sir?

Father McHugh: Yes, son.

Santos: Do you think that I'm a failure?

Father McHugh: Oh, of course not. No one is a failure. We're all working through God's plan. Whatever path that leads us on, it's the right path. Follow God and you cannot fail.

Santos: Ah, good. Thank you, father.

Tony, exhaling with a much needed feeling of validation, props himself up, smiles, and turns toward the door. Just then, the priest speaks.

Father McHugh: Oh, son? One thing that I'd like to clarify.

Santos: Of course, father. Anything.

Father McHugh: Well, you're not a failure. You're a god damn embarrassment.

Tony, taken aback by Father McHugh's language, sits back down, believing he misunderstood.

Santos: Um, I'm sorry, father?

Father McHugh: Of course you're not sorry. You've never given a shit about anyone but yourself. You heard me. You're a god damnembarrassment. A waste of good Sullivan blood.

Just then, the lattice and separating wall morph into a large hand, a bulging, almost Hulk-like forearm as its anchor. Father McHugh, the man attached to this forearm, is simply a dark shadow, a silhouette of a man. A smile overcomes this shadow, with nothing to be seen except an open mouth. Just then...

*pthu*

A wad of mucus, propelled by the mouth of the shadow, lands in Tony's right eye. Just then...

*whack*

The hand smacks Tony.

*whack*

Again. Tony tries to fight back, but realizes he's in his dank basement, a puny 13-year-old with arms the size of baby twigs. Pinned in a chair against the wall, Tony curls up into a ball and takes a beating. Slap to his left and right ears, over and over. Closed-fist hits to the top of his head. He screams for help, but no one can hear him. He'll just have to take this beating until it finally subsides.

His crime? Drawing male genitalia on the school chalkboard and getting suspended for the day.

Shadow: You stupid ass, god damn moron! A disgrace to our family name, and a disgrace to yourself! Now get in the corner.

The figure, now taking on a more normal, human form, whips off his black, leather belt, ready to lash Tony's back good for his crimes. Just then, his ear, which was already ringing, now feels like a siren is blaring right over his ear drum. The sound gets louder, the pressure more intense. All of a sudden...

*pop*

The noise has subsided, the pain gone. Tony, curled up in the corner of his Brighton apartment, slowly unravels his fragile body, squinting as he eyes the room. Just his bedroom. To his left, Shannon. The sound? Shannon yelling into his ear to wake him up from what was a violent and truly frightening nightmare.

Shannon: Babe! Are you okay?! You were rolling around the room for a good five minutes, and completely out of nowhere! Let's get you to a hospital! You must get checked out.

Tony, wiping his face with his hand from top to bottom, stands up and stumbles toward the kitchen.

Shannon: Babe?! Hospital? Anything I can do??

Tony stops, his back facing Shannon, and he simply raises a hand.

Santos: No, no, uh, no hospital. Go back to bed. I can't sleep. Gonna sit in the kitchen and read for a bit.

Shannon tries to interject, but Tony has made up his mind. She sits on the floor, heart pounding, mind frantic with worry.

Tony, in blue boxer shorts and a plain, white t-shirt, makes his way into the kitchen and grabs an ice cold beer from the fridge. He goes to open it with the bottle opener magnet on his fridge, but hesitates. Nope, this wasn't going to do the trick. He re-opens the fridge door and places the beer back inside. Slamming the door shut, he makes his way to the kitchen cabinet, rummages around the back, and pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Planting himself back at the kitchen table, he stares straight ahead, cracks open the bottle, and takes a hard swig.

Santos: Fuck you, Dad.

The scene fades to black.