Sun is out.
I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand; big hand is pointing to the eleven, little hand to the nine.
Gotta get up.
Gotta get up and go to church.
Every Sunday for the last eight years. Same routine.
Tell you the truth, I’m not excited. Not feeling it.
I wanna sleep some more.
That’s been my thing now; sleeping in.
I can’t get in the schoolyard until mass is over anyway.
Plus I don’t have any money to put in the collection basket. They stick the fucking thing right in front of my face and hold it there. I’m busted bro.
Got no money.
To be honest, I wanna snatch a five dollar bill out of the basket.
My girlfriend went to church last night at 5:30 – I should have gone with her.
She’s always bugging me to go with her and her father.
“Wanna come to five-thirty mass with me and my dad?” She asked me Friday night while we hung out on her stoop.
Nah, instead I spend my time in the schoolyard at that time playing ball.
“GET UP, GOTTA GO TO CHURCH!” My mother screams from her bedroom. It’s right next to mine. We live in a five room, railroad apartment on the corner of Windsor and Ninth.
Why do I gotta get up?
She’s not going to church, neither is my sister or brother, they’re sleeping.
Plus, I’m in high school now, I don’t go to Holy Name anymore. They can’t do anything to me. I hated Monday mornings. if I skipped church, they called me down to the office. How did they know I dipped out?
I ain’t going to church today.
“GET UP!” Mom screams again. She’s relentless.