'You don't look it though it don't mater nohow long as yuo with the fawdah. Right, Fawdah?
Right. I'll keep an eye on him. He doesn't know a soul in New York and I'm going to settle him in before I leave.
The priest drinks his double martini and orders another with his steak. He tells me I should think of becoming a priest. He could get me a job in Los Angeles and I'd live the life of Riley with widows dying and leaving me everything including their daughters, ha ha, this is one hell of a martini excuse the language. He eats most of his steak and tells the waiter bring two apple pies with ice cream and he'll have a double Hennessy to wash it down. He eats only the ice cream, drinks half of the Hennessy and falls asleep with his chin on his chest moving up and down.
The waiter loses his smile. Goddam, he's gotta pay his check. Where's his goddam wallet? Back pocket, kid. Hand it to me.
I can't rob a priest.
You're not robbing. He's paying his goddam check and you're gonna need a taxi to take him home.
Two waiters help him to a taxi and two bellhops at the Hotel New Yorker haul him through the lobby, up the elevator and dump him on the bed. The bellhop tells me, A buck tip would be nice, a buck each, kid.
They leave and I wonder what I'm supposed to do with a drunken priest. I remove his shoes the way they do when someone passes out in the films but he sits up and runs to the bathroom where he's sick a long time and when he comes out he's pulling at his clothes, throwing them on the floor, collar, shirt, trousers, underwear. He collapses on the bed on his back and I can see he's in a state of excitement with his hand on himself. Come here to me, he says, and I back away. Ah, no, Fathe, and he rolls out of the bed, slobbering and stinking of drink and puke and tries to grab my hand to put on him but I back away even faster till......'
- Debolina Raja Gupta