I ring the buzzer of the 19th century Victorian mansion across the alley from the church. A pleasant female voice allows me in. I cross the threshold. “I’m here to see Tim?” I ask.
“Oh, one moment.” The sister turns and murmurs into an intercom, “Father Tim, you have a visitor.” A pause. “He’ll be with you in a moment.”
I gravitate to the veranda. “I’ll be outside, admiring the veranda, if you don’t mind.”
She looks at me in my Atticus suspenders, slightly puzzled. “O.K.”
The door closes behind me and I am on a wide, deep corridor that wraps around the outside of the house. Across the street is Lincoln Park, a civil war encampment turned urban oasis with chess tables. Bums and whores congregate for the daily lunches supplied by the church. I’m pinching the paw of a disinterested cat when Father Tim comes out. He looks more like a Manson worshipper than a priest. I hide my surprise at his dirty Michael Landon mane, his bony, leathery face, and his floods as I stick out my hand to shake his. “Ulysses Bloomsday.”
“Theresa told me you were someone who could answer some questions I have about civil disobedience. Would you like to head to the park and talk?” I agree and we cross the street to the park and find a bench.
“Some friends of mine have this idea to protest the war and the administration. Labor Day. The air show, downtown. I’ll be talking with them about this in days to come and I hoped you could give some advice.”
“First of all, I can’t advise anyone to break the law. I can only advise you of the consequences of your decisions. What to expect. What your rights are. Possibilities and probabilities and potentialities.”
“That sounds rather mathy,” says Father Tim.
“Mathy?” I say.
“Possibilities, probabilities, potentialities: aren’t those calculus terms?”
“Oh, yes. There is a calculus to what I do. There is science in the law. But it is a heretical science, Father. Some call it alchemy.”
“Are you confessing that you are a heretic, Mr. Bloomsday?”
“I don’t have to confess, Father. I am in a state of perpetual absolution.”
“Oh, so you are a heretic.” A broad smile crossed his face.
“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, Father.” I went on to advise the priest on the laws of civil disobedience, trespass, free speech, aggravated disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, as well as procedural matters relating to court appearances, pleas and bond. “Ultimately, whenever one of your friends winds up in court answering to a charge, I’ll know about it and I’ll be there.”
Father Tim studies me. He hesitates before asking, “Are all these stories about you true, Mr. Bloomsday? There seems to be quite a mythology about you.”
The church bells signal noon. As the dregs shuffle through the summer effluvium towards their free meals, I can’t seem to muster a response.