Monk

Despite the expect-anything native New Yorker attitude baked into me, I was somewhat surprised to spot a monk in TD bank on 42nd St. I think it was the incongruity of my associations of chanting and ancient monastaries vs the neon glare ad hypercapitalism of the bank. "But," I told myself, "even clergy have to do the mundane tasks of life." Waiting there in line, my mind went back years to a fundraiser for VOCAL-NY that was held at the Frying Pan, a boat turned venue space moored off the west side of Manhattan. Jenn was still in charge at VOCAL then, and the Church Ladies had been asked to perform. I don't usually wear a nun costume in the Church Ladies, but for a reason I can't remember, Sister Mary Cunnilingus and I were both in full fake habits. It was a pretty hot day, and we were melting under the layers. After the show, we found our way to a nearby park and began taking off pieces of costume. I noticed a man watching us closely and tensed up, expecting something disgusting to come out of his mouth. But as he got closer, I noticed his look was more awestruck than lecherous. "I always wondered whether nuns wore stockings," he blurted out, blushing. As long-time co-conspirators, Sister Mary and I didn't even have to look at each other to know we were staying in character. How could we disappoint this man who thought he had finally found the answer to his catholic school-boy's question? We waited until he was well out of range before continuing to transform back into a pair of secular activists.