Pennies from Heaven

Charles Caracciolo — Pennies from Heaven

So, I’m from Flushing. It’s my neighborhood. Every neighborhood has a hub or a center point, right, where all the action is. Sometimes it’s a building like this, like a town hall. Other places it’s a bar or a cultural hub, like a restaurant or something like that. For me, I grew up Catholic, so for me it was the church was where almost every significant event in my life, in my young life, happened at church. Right down the road, it’s about a mile down the road here, St. Ann’s. And when I was in fifth grade, the pastor sent around a leaflet saying that he needed new altar boys, and I was the first kid to sign up.

Because I needed to be in the show. I wanted to be under the bright lights in the production. And it mostly stemmed, I wanted to make my classmates jealous. You know, I’d be up there pouring the water on the priest’s hands and then handing them the towel like I was his roadie. And I’d get to ring those bells, those good humor bells, three times during the Mass. It was glorious. And then, you know, what 11-year-old boy doesn’t want to wear a dress, right, to church? That black and white robe combo with the frilly lace, right? I wanted to wear that. I know that sounds like enough perks already, but there was more. There were paydays, and a payday for an altar boy was a funeral or a wedding.

You could make serious bank on these. It was crazy. I averaged about 25 bucks at each. But at one really raucous, not raucous is the wrong word, but a big Italian funeral, I made 50 bucks. And I was ecstatic. And I know, you know, they were so sad and I was so happy. And I felt bad, a little bit. But, you know, it was terrible because they lost this pillar of the community. The loved one, and they were sobbing and carrying on. And the priest had that Aladdin’s lamp thing with the incense. You know, the incense made it sadder. It smelled sad. But when I smell incense today, I think of one thing. Cash money. That’s what I think of. I feel terrible. I can go to confession, though.

So after about 6 months, 12 months, I was making, you know, my bank account was bulging with altar boy money. And it went to my head. I got very jaded. You know, the new altar boys would come on, and I wasn’t helping them remember prayers or telling them when to ring the bells or when to bring the wine over. They were in my way. These amateurs were standing in my way. Me and these paydays. And I coveted these. I think the priests got on to me, though, because they started to… One guy withheld… One guy. One priest withheld the tip. I did a funeral, and I’m waiting by the door like, you know, hey, hit the… And he didn’t tip us. And I was like, what? I was pissed. You know, but what was I going to do? There was no local union that I could file a grievance with, right?

So I went to a higher power, my own mother, and she gave me the double-barrel truth. Like, what? You’re not there to make money. You’re there to make your neighborhood a better place and make yourself a better person. Think about that. And I said, well, I didn’t join just to make money. That’s why I’m here now still, but, you know, it wasn’t the main reason. So whatever. I blew that off. So next Saturday, my mother drops me off at church because I have a wedding, and I get robed up. I’m all ready. I’m backstage in the sacristy. I’m waiting to go on. And the groom and the best man come back with a big, fat envelope of cash.

They lay it on the priest, and I, like Norma Rae, right? I’m like, this is my moment. I seize the opportunity, and I stand up, and I say to a man of God in front of all these people, I say, Father, are we going to get the tip today, or are you going to keep it like last week? Yeah. No. More confession. Whatever. And so as soon as the bridal party leaves, this old Irish priest, he’s gritting his teeth. He’s like, you! Get out! You’re finished! Beat it! Right? And I know I did. I know I’m in trouble. I’m just, you know, I’m thunderstruck. Not in the good way that they talk about at church. Like, he was thunderstruck in the Old Testament. Not like that. But, you know, I was in trouble, and I knew it. So, like, I wander out the door, the side door, and my mother is there.

And she’s talking to a friend. She just dropped me off. She’s like, what are you doing out here? And I said, you know, I was busted, so I was like, I should just confess now. And I burst into tears, and I blurted out, I just got fired from the altar boys! Yeah, so she was laughing. I was blubbering like a baby. And I’m like, all right, maybe Jesus and the church don’t call it fired, but it felt very much appropriate right at that moment. All right, so anyway, I don’t go to church much anymore, but when I do, I just, I watch the altar boys. That’s all I do. And they’re not, a lot has changed. Their altar service, boys and girls, right? And they’ve relaxed the dress code. You can wear sneakers on the altar now. Two years ago, I was at Mass, the kid’s wearing Air Jordans under his robe. I almost fell out of the pew. Anyway, they don’t ring the bells anymore, and they don’t let you play, they don’t let you partake in the communion ritual, which I took very seriously. It was the only thing that I took seriously.

You’d have to hold a dish right under people’s chins, right at their neck level, to catch, you know, this was a symbolic thing. This was the body of Christ. It can’t touch the floor. So you’d get ready to catch it. But there was always some wise-ass who wanted to roll his eyes at me on the line or stick his tongue out to make me laugh and get me in trouble with the priest. I wasn’t having that, so anytime that happened, I would drive the metal edge of this plate right into their Adam’s apple, right? Like I was Jesus’ own henchman, right? And tonight, this is my confession. Amen. Thank you very much. Trout Crascioli. Ah, my goodness.