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straight barbarian/bohemian.
    I sit up, shake my head out, rapidly blink to rejoin the world.
    She shouts out, “And what is your purpose here?”
    Verbal judo, just like I predicted. Father McFadden nods so I relax a bit, leaning against the rainworn pillar of the shrine. Her sign reads, HOY MARCHEMOS, MANAÑA VOTARAMOS .
    I don’t like her arrogance or the way she stands, with one hand on the high end of her thin hip, neck slightly tilted toward the same side, so I say, still sitting, “The sign is wrong.”
    â€œExcuse me?” she says, like a drill sergeant.
    â€œThat sign is wrong.”
    â€œWhat someone like you needs to understand,” she says, “is that these people have a right to be here. They’re working the jobs that people like you should be working.”
    â€œI’ve been employed by McDonald’s,” I lie, “for the last five years of my life.”
    She’s stifled, can’t say a word. I’m not an envious wino trying to pilfer from the cause. I’m just someone who knows how to win an argument. Genuine in purpose, I like to think, or hope, however disingenuous in fact.
    I push out the McMuffin. “Bite?”
    â€œI won’t go near dead bovine.”
    â€œIs there another kind?” She exhales really loudly. “By the way, nice leather purse.”
    â€œIt’s pleather.”
    â€œMy name’s Paul,” I say. “And you are?”
    â€œBusy,” she says.
    Father McFadden says very politely, “This is Athena, Paul.”
    â€œI can introduce myself, Stanley.”
    Stanley. I never knew. I nod at the father to assure him that, despite my theological issues, I’m definitely not on her side. To prove it, I say, “Athena? Birth name?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    â€œSort of. I mean, if one takes the name of a Grecian goddess of wisdom and war, it matters. You know. Like if I called myself Zeus or Thor.”
    â€œI matter,” she spits out. “And that’s all that matters.”
    â€œDoes conjugation matter?”
    â€œYou’re drunk.”
    â€œI wish. But I’m only hung. Over.”
    â€œAnd vulgar.”
    â€œThe sign’s wrong, Madam Athena. As I said before. It should read HOY MARCHAMOS, MAÑANA VOTAREMOS .
Los verbos estan marchar y votarer
.”
    The father nods. Spanish, a good Latinate language. Perhaps he remembers my parochial promise back in the day when I was aneducatee of the Jesuit institution that wouldn’t hire him because he didn’t have the scholarly chops. But I always liked his intellectual humility.
    The goddess is looking back at the paisas, then at me, comparing notes. Am I a Mexican farmer incognito? Too tall, too muscular, no cowboy hat, no accent, too American sassy. No chance, just like her.
    â€œI guess you haven’t taken your GE in Spanish yet.”
    The arrogance comes back, like rushing blood. “I will take care of this immediately,” as if it’s my fault for pointing out her error. I smile, she shouts, “Hereberto! Go get that marker for me, will you?”
    I say, “I don’t think he speaks your native tongue.”
    She says, walking off, “Don’t go anywhere.”
    â€œWhy would I dare move when you’re all that matters?”
    â€œI prayed for you and your troubles, Paul.”
    There is pity on the father’s face. It’s good pity, not condescending pity. I don’t need it, but say anyway, “Thank you, Father.”
    â€œI was worried about your soul.”
    I feel the old smallness rise up in me. I’m not so sure it’s bad. “Me too, Father.”
    â€œYou haven’t been to church in a long time.”
    â€œProbably longer than a decade.”
    â€œWhy don’t you come to mass this Sunday?”
    What the hell can I say,
Tempi cambi?
    What the good father doesn’t know is that I probably know the verse better than he