Today I went to visit a priest to talk about his congregation and all the problems they have in this downbeat part of Brooklyn. We sat in a large quiet dining room. The table had a plastic tablecloth and a bottle of A-1 steak sauce. I felt like I was in Father Brown investigates a runaway horse or something. Father Lou Maynard was very tall and kind but said that really when they started telling him all their problems he found it a little difficult because you see he was a manic depressive too. Very jolly. It was a Catholic church and we were in the rectory which I guess is where all the Catholic priests live together because they don’t have wives or anything. There was a piano with a book of music called the “Big Band Songbook,” I could imagine Father Lou and the other boys just kicking back for an evening and a big singsong.

Then I went to a tricky city public high school – just another way of saying of chaos or long corridors or cops or teenagers with long looks in their eyes. I wanted to see the principal and waited in the general office. While I was there it was quiet at first with Greg unpacking all the post and a bit of conversation among the secretaries. Then a pack of sixteen year old girls sort of kickslouch in, whipping over the floor with their braided hair and my god they look you straight up and down. I saw one lean right forward into the face of one of the teachers that was passing through, just leaned right forward as the teacher came past, HI!, just made the teacher jump it was direct. “Yo, where’s my metrocard? It’s not here why not! The third floor? She gone home? Whacha!” Another girl grabbed a pile of rubber bands, “put them down,” said Greg meekly, she looked at him with one of those looks and then put them down. Then Michael, a fat older guy comes in with a young girl who’s crying softly with an ice pack on her head. Michael puts her in a chair, “See you later, I’m going home!” He yells happily. Through the far door I can hear the principal’s enormous voice. She’s making a conference call. “What’s that, what? Yup, yup, okaaaay… Yeah we need to talk to them to…. Sure…. I’ll get him on the line… no wait that’s my direct line… hold on one second how do I… how do I…. Uh… I did it…. Yup…. I have to go and speak to my sixth grade now…. Yup….. Bye….” The crying girl starts to stamp her feet. A cop comes in and tries to pick her up. She falls over. She says she’s dizzy. I get to talk to the Principal, who is very charming, one of those gravelly, smoking powerful women, who says she got stung the last time she spoke to a journalist. Then just as we’re talking and the whimpers from the stamping child go up a knotch she breaks off, “CAN SOMEONE GET A WHEELCHAIR AND TAKE THAT CHILD BACK TO HER SCHOOL!” There are three schools in the same building you see.