May 20: Saint Bernardine of Siena

Okay, so I'm sitting at a table in Big Boy writing this. It is Manly Man Poetry Night, but I'm the only manly man here tonight. As I said last week, my friend is at his denomination's annual meeting downstate. I came here by myself because our favorite waiter--a young, college-age guy with black, spiky hair and enough swagger to put George Clooney to shame--is leaving the area to move back home (Grand Rapids). His plan is to work, pay off some debts, and then return to Marquette to finish his degree in a year or so. Tonight is his last night, and as I've been sitting at my table, I've already seen customers at another table give him a Hallmark card and hugs. He's going to be missed.

Of course, tonight seems just a little off because I'm here by myself. I'm not a person who goes out by himself very often. If I see a person sitting alone at a table, reading a book or working on a laptop, it depresses me a little. I feel sorry for the person, imagine the loner has no family or friends and comes to Big Boy in the evening to vicariously enjoy the fellowship of the other patrons. Of course, tonight I am one of those pathetic loners. I'm sure people are looking at me right now and thinking, "Who is that handsome writer in the back of the restaurant? He looks like someone important and famous. Maybe I should get his autograph." That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. In actuality, they're probably thinking, "Who is that poor retarded man at the back table with hot fudge smeared all over his chin?" (I had the chocolate chip cookie, hot fudge sundae again.)

I can never resist imagining what it would be like to be a famous writer like Stephen King or J. K. Rowling or Wally Lamb or the guy who writes the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books. I like to picture myself scribbling away in my journal and people around me wondering if I'm writing another masterpiece that will win me yet another Pulitzer Prize or, perhaps, a second Nobel Prize in Literature because the Swedish Academy loves me so much. (Hey, it's my fantasy, so I can take it as far as I want to take it.) Here I sit in the local Big Boy in Marquette, Michigan, at my customary table, letting the public bask in the glow of my creative brilliance. Everyone is trying to act nonchalant, stealing furtive glances in my direction when they think I'm not looking. I'm used to it, however. I can't even pick up a pile of dog crap off my lawn without some paparazzi snapping my photo. It's the price I pay for being so talented, smart, and photogenic. I'm the first writer People has ever chosen as its Sexiest Man Alive.

I know. I know. "Thou shalt not covet.... yada, yada, yada." In reality, I have a beautiful wife, two great kids, a (mostly) loving family, and friends who put up with my monstrous ego and jealousy. I have a house, a couple jobs that pay the bills and provide me enough money to go out to Big Boy once a week. I'm a lucky, blessed guy.

The saint for today was pretty blessed, as well, and he was fairly famous during his lifetime, to boot. Bernardine of Siena was known far and wide for his skills as a preacher. Think Billy Graham in Italian. My book says that he "was followed by honors and applause" wherever he went. Crowds thronged him. He turned down the position of bishop three times during his life, preferring to travel through Italy, meeting people, spreading the Word of God. Eventually, in 1435, he became vicar-general of his religious order, the Fathers of the Strict Observance of the Order of Saint Francis. He resigned after five years and returned to preaching. He spent the rest of his life traveling/preaching in Romania, Ferrara, and Lombardy. He died in 1444. Only six years later, he was made a saint. That's right. Six years. He couldn't turn that one down, obviously, without rising from the grave and becoming the world's first Catholic zombie priest. That's a twist even George Romero hasn't thought of.

So, once again, I am put to shame by a saint. Had I been Bernardine, I probably would have accepted the first bishopric that came along. I would have been like, "Pass the cool hat and call me 'your eminence!'"

Had he been a writer in the 21st century, Bernardine would probably have turned down the American Book Award, Pulitzer Prize, and Nobel Prize for Literature. Instead of sitting at a table at the local Big Boy, letting patrons ogle and whisper about him, he would have been the waiter getting hugs from grandmas and bringing refills of Diet Pepsi to beret-wearing wannabe writers. He would have been happy working for less than minimum wage and living off tips. He would have been happy driving a rusted Pinto and living at a half-way house for indigent drug addicts and drag queens. And he would have counted himself blessed.

Our favorite waiter just got another hug from a departing customer. He's saying, "No crying, no crying." He's a loved person, rich in every way but economically.

I'm going to tip him well tonight.