My friend Kevin said this would practically write itself. “You don’t have to do anything. Just pick the football up and walk it into the end zone. No one can touch you.”
Yeah, well, the only part that ended up writing itself was my quote from Kevin above.
In short, a weekend visit from my Mom took an unexpected turn. She likes to go to Sunday Mass and we went with her, to the Mission Dolores, where one thing led to another. And another. And another again.
Okay, first, a little about Mom: She lives across the Bay Bridge and once in a while she comes to our apartment for dinner and a show or a walk or both or neither and spends the night. These are rare occasions. In fact, I can count on one hand Avis's visits in the last 30 years. At least the overnight ones. She’s got her scene out there in the East Bay. Her Bible Study and bridge with the ladies. She’s getting on in years, but she scoots around something fierce. Still drives. Takes BART. And “gets her steps in,” as they say today. The women in my family are petite, but they’re like little action figures. Walking the hidden staircases of San Francisco (all of them) is their idea of a good time.
My sister, who lives in the City, organized some activities this time around. She’s good like that. On Saturday night, our old friend Randall led Stephie and me and Mom and sis on a Neon Tour through the Mission. (Randall and her husband Al Barna have written extensively on neon and run a not-for-profit organization, San Francisco Neon. They’re all about the preservation of the artistic legacy of neon signs. Doing god’s work if you ask me.)
We started the tour at the former New Mission Theater (now the Alamo Drafthouse) and a couple hours later ended up at the still-kicking-after-all-these-years Roxie Theater on 16th Street (near where the Albion used to be). After a killer meal at The Monk's Kettle, we took in a movie at the Roxie. The movie was The Lady from Shanghai; much of it was filmed in San Francisco. Released in 1947, co-starring Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth, written and directed by Orson. What’s not to like? There are even scenes that feature some neon cameos. Signs that are still around today. The scrumptious Li Po sign on Grant Avenue in Chinatown for one. (Will these sad new LED signs survive 70 plus years? Humph. I doubt it.)
Everything went according to plan. The night ended uneventfully.
Next morning, as alluded to above, by special request from Mom, we headed to Mission Dolores for Mass. Which has become a tradition. (If you can call three times a tradition. Which I guess I just did.)
We got there early. It was sparsely attended. The four of us were sitting together in a pew just quietly taking in the grandeur of the church itself. It is awe-inspiring. Me, I had my eyes on the choir director (as you do), who was addressing the choir while the singers shuffled papers around on their music stands. Then. Everything. Changed.
Out of nowhere, a very well put together gentleman decked out in black, except for a white sports coat with 80s shoulder pads and a good deal of jewelry, approached us. He fixed his eyes on you-guessed-it and proceeded to kind of subpoena me. Or draft me. Call it what you will, when he said, “Would you like to be a king today?” I was caught off guard and just kind of looked back at him blankly and gave him my customary “Wha?" by way of response, figuring he would move on to his next victim. But remember, the service was sparsely attended. He could see that too, and he didn’t give up so easily. He repeated himself with some add-ons, straight up and out:
“Will you be one of the three kings in the procession today?"
By this time everyone in our pew (Stephie, Mom, and sis) was leaning in as he pressed on: “Yes. You are definite king material, and we have a robe and a crown for you in the back.”
I still thought I was going to wriggle out of it. “Yeah,” I said vaguely, “I don’t know. I’m just here with my family.” People, can you feel me? I wasn’t really in any mood to be paraded around on a donkey. But he kept at it. Trying to get to yes. So I finally said, "You’ll have to ask my Mom." And gestured toward her. Naturally, Mom threw me under the proverbial bus. She looked at me with those Mom Eyes and said, “Oh, you simply have to!” I turned to Stephie. She was grinning ear to ear, clearly enjoying herself. The die was cast.
Then the Talent Scout looked over the pews and spotted a couple other prospects. I could see them there with their families. He sauntered over and chatted them up. They didn’t seem to put up much of a fight.
Then there were three.
A trio gig! With that in mind, I went to my fate. He led his Three Kings backstage (known as the “sacristy” in the Catholic church, I think). It was a little chaotic back there. Children in altar boy garb. A young girl with an Afro holding a big candlestick taller than her. I half expected someone in face paint to come around the corner on a unicycle juggling. There was a closet full of robes. And someone coming across the room toward us carrying a wooden-hinged treasure chest with Mardi Gras beads spilling out. A chalice and other religious artifacts. Sacred objects are on a shelf. Then it got real real fast, when the Talent Scout handed me the chalice.
Next he picks out a robe. It’s purple. And there’s a clasp at the top. The Talent Scout drapes it around me, straightens me out in the front as if he’s straightening a tie and I’m the tie. Then he stands back and squints at me. And repeats until he’s satisfied.
Then came the crown. It fit really snug. I checked myself in the mirror holding that chalice.
Not bad, I had to admit!
By now even more people were milling about. Notably, a guy who I took to be the priest. And the choir director too. They started giving us directions. Talking over each other. Beginning to—I wouldn’t say argue—but yeah, maybe there were disagreeing with each other. Hard to tell. Going on about how the service would go down.
Showtime is approaching, and the choir director delivers some do’s and don’ts. Such as, “Be sure to take your crown off after the Glory to God in the highest song.” Then the priest himself starts in: “So, you’ll approach the Nativity from the left. You have to go to the left… I mean to your right… And then…“ I look to the Talent Scout for encouragement. He nods along at everything the priest says: “Mmmhmmm… that's right.”
I was confused. I couldn’t really picture it all. But I tried not to let on.
The priest continued buzzing around like he was in charge or something! Duh! I realized he WAS in charge! (And who else?) This was his gig, his stage, not mine. He reeled off moves from his playbook faster than I could listen. The other two Kings were on board, nodding along in unison, and King Charles followed their lead.
I was looking down, studying one of the other King’s shoes. (Classic blue Van’s slip-ons.) When the priest asked our names. I said Charles. He seemed pleased with that and pronounced me “King Charles,” instructing me to tell my family that I’m a King. He winked and warned, in a confidential tone, that they might bite back and say: “In here maybe. But not out there. Out there you’re just plain Charles.”
The Talent Scout escorts us to the back of the church. Mass begins. When the time comes, he dramatically gestures for us to walk slowly down the aisle. We place our gifts on the altar and file into the front pew. We don’t really look at each other. Nothing awkward here.
During the sermon, the Father gestures toward us and announces, “We have Three Kings with us today with their offerings. And they have come a great distance.” (Our apartment is about a mile from the church.) “One came from the East Bay, the other from the Marina.” Working the crowd for laughs. Large and in charge. I don’t remember him asking us where we were from, but whatever. At this point I started to relax. It’s a gig.
Then there was the whole body-and-blood-of-our-Lord Holy Communion part of the service.
After the Holy Communion, we took another lap around the church while they worked the donation baskets. Passing their pew, I avoided eye contact with my family. They did the same.
We Three Kings stood at the back while the parishioners with the donation baskets gathered back there, I noted that the basket money got poured right into a security deposit bag that sealed. Kind of like one of those crime scene kits. I guess that would make it difficult for anyone to tuck the bills inside their cummerbund like the guy with the stolen passport and the prostitute’s wig in that Warren Zevon song, right?
My mind drifted. I pictured one of those tip jar blues gigs like The Saloon in North Beach. And how I might show up with one of these security bags someday. [INSERT: “It places the lotion in the basket" voice here]. “It puts the tip jar money in the security bag”. Not that I don’t trust horn players with soul patches who live in their cars or anything.
ANYHOO, we were told to stick around after. That people would want to take pictures. I resisted making any merch table references. About how I’m kind of an old pro at this stuff. But it was true—people wanted their picture taken with the kings. Families. One at a time. Very serious, in fact.
When that was over and we were returning our robes in the sacristy, the other two Kings and I just kind of looked at each other. At a loss for words. One of the Kings—not the one with the Vans—reached out and shook my hand, smiling with a “So, that happened. No one got hurt” look. King to King. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t have to.
Just another Sunday in the Cool Gray City of Love. Amidst all the doom scrolling and chaos, homelessness, crime. and fentanyl, there's the Mission Dolores. I've walked past it a thousand times. Glad I finally went in there. Check it out if you get the chance. Whatever your persuasion, you can’t help but feel closer to your Higher Power once you step inside. Trust me.
Once again it would seem you’ve made it this far into the great Substack experiment. In which case, why not become a paid subscriber today if you’re not already? It would mean a lot to me. Or you can just carry on with the free model. Either way, we’re happy to have you.
Onwards
–CP
Next up: Tales from my Catholic Youth.
Certainly one of the more enjoyable posts! Love the photo...
3 times is a tradition!