apologia pro elegies mea

Sun shining.
April in the universe.
In fine fooling, I wander into the pharmacy on Main Street.
It is the pharmacy owned by my Uncle Scutch.
It is also the pharmacy where the once renowned actor John Coleman, formerly famous for playing vampire hunter Jock Stroggart in one of my plays, now fills in the hours earning mega bucks for not acting at all.
Yes folks, he was the one who got to proclaim the greatest line of  in theatre history:
"Dracula! Put down that wee virgin! Or I'll ram this stake up your arse!"
Ah memories.
But I digress.
Today the pharmacy is full.
A congenial countrywoman in the queue asks how my father is.
"He's great," I reply cheerily. "I got some women from a local prayer group to sing for him last week. There's nothing like three hours with a few religious maniacs to make you realise how lucky you are. He's ready to face life again. Not afraid of anything. Pain, starvation, tsunamis. Nothing bothers him. After three hours with the praying loons he realises things could always be worse."
All this I said loud enough to be heard anywhere in the shop.
I never spiel except for publication.
At my seeming excoriation of religious mania, a local worthy, famed for his anti clericalism, approaches all smiles.
He is a man with a reputation for engaging citizens on the street in interminable conversations about how unfair life is in general and how rotten God is in particular.
Visually he is a shaggy enough Hills Have Eyes type.
He has a mild drug problem and deals drugs in small quantities to youngsters in the town in order to supplement his social welfare income.
Interestingly enough, although sharing a propensity for social welfare, we are not pals.
As he heaves abaft of Heelers he seems awfully pleased about something.
For the first time in forty years sharing the same town with me, he hails me as a fellow traveller.
"Do you hate those religious maniacs too?" he enquires conspiratorially.
I shake my venerable head.
"Ah no Raymond," sez me, "the only reason I can talk about religious maniacs like that is because I am one."
"Keep it down," sez my new friend.
He is mildly alarmed by the loud voice in which I am broadcasting my one liners.
(If only they were all one liners. - Ed note.)
"Praise the Lord, Raymond," I cry. "Praised be the holy name of Jesus."
Heads turn.
Even those heads pretending not to be listening to me.
"Will you keep it down?" pleads the drug dealer in some embarassment
"You take your chances talking to me Raymond. I play it loud in case someone might miss something in the cheap seats at the back."
He emits a deep sigh.
"But do you really believe in all that religion stuff?" he persists genuinely curious.
I lean towards him and answer sincerely.
"All I'm saying Raymond is that Jesus is real. And he's standing right this moment at John Coleman's shoulder."
The pharmaceutical chemist John Coleman looks up sharply.
"And he's saying in John Coleman's ear: Give James Healy a hundred thousand dollars."
"And John Coleman is saying not bloody likely," puts in John Coleman robustly.
"Keep it down," pleads the drug dealer to me again.
"Hallelujah," I roar. "Long live Jesus Christ the king."
The drug dealer backs away.
"I'll see you around," he mumbles exiting stage left.
There is a stunned silence.
Raymond Murrough Flaherty never walks away from a conversation when he has cornered a victim.
Never.
It's unprecedented.
I have bored the most boring man in Kilcullen into backing off.
I have wearied the wearisome.
I have become insufferable to the insufferable.
Oh frabjous day.
"There's something you don't often see," murmurs the ex vampire hunter John Coleman watching speculatively as Raymond M retreats hastily via the shop door into the street.
"It's an Easter miracle," I breathe.