Ronald

Ronald thinks I'm lying when I say the priest isn't in here.  He's friendly enough, dressed professionally, doesn't smell like alcohol.  He wants to see the priest, he says, but I think he wants money.  The priest really isn't in his office, and I'm just sitting on a bench trying to eat my lunch in the sun before the garden is engulfed in the shadows by the skyscrapers again.

"Ok, I'm going to stop playing games, here.  Can I just have three dollars?"

I look in my wallet.  It's empty.  "Sorry, I don't have any cash on me." 

"Sorry.  What's there to be sorry for?  I just don't believe certain people.  Certain people who say they're believers but can't even spare three dollars."

I am pretty sure I'm one of those certain people.  Ronald leaves and I think of rude things I could have said as I write down his words for later use.