CHAPTER ONE
Father George Curtis loves films. Just as much as he loves hard rock. There are film favorites that seem obligatory for a Catholic priest: It's A Wonderful Life (1946), The Ten Commandments (1956), Ben Hur (1959), Sister Act (1992), Silence (2016). It is Father Curtis' favorite music acts that ruffle some cassocks throughout his diocese: AC/DC, Alice Cooper, Ozzy Osbourne, Metallica, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, Rage Against the Machine. These preferences may seem misaligned. Perhaps, if times continue to change in certain ways, Father Curtis will be short-listed for an exorcism, perhaps laicized, if not outright executed. In 2017 though, love, faith and hope, especially in Catholic Churches in The United States of America, are all things to be conjured by any means necessary.
So far, the 21st Century has been an era of acceleration. Though nobody agrees much about which direction our space-age American society is rocketing in, it is undoubtedly moving rapidly, almost evaporating in the process. Father Curtis is fortunate enough to be sharp-witted, but slow moving. A natural impedance to most types of change. A humble bit of friction with a dynamic voice and stellar diction. I will follow his example and slow down. I want you to know the man, Mr. George Curtis and the younger man, George. Like the mysterious trinity, all three of these personalities converge. When he heard me describe him this way, he was sure to add, “My spirit was born first, then I discovered my body, then I became a thoughtful being. I’m only human.”
Mr. George Curtis could never see the world through numbers, be they dates on a calendar or numbers on a clock, and we can forget calculus or trigonometry. He was late with school assignments and late to production meetings. He always dreamt of engineering a modern cathedral, but trigonometry eluded him. He was never discouraged by his shortcomings because his charm and wit got him out of plenty of trouble and his slow movements either evoked pity or impressed upon others a sort of enigmatic wisdom about him.
Until 1987, George was preparing for a life as an actor. The problem? Other actors. Or rather the shark tank of agents, producers, assistants and scouts that recruit actors. These business folk often place their friends, creditors, blackmailers, lovers and anyone they could exploit, in positions of influence. Very seldom does a carpenter meet an electrician, director meet a costume designer, an actor meet an actress. Personalities meet across the long and wide and revered altar of fame. All in search of a private, untraceable route to the fountain of immortal influence. The circus of professional entertainment is a buzzing bit of egocentric circuitry. Cast eons ago, amped up by modernized self promotion, social media publicity, fabricated or infamous scandals, merciless shame and more. The whole show biz ectoplasm hums and buzzes and burps, casting casts and crews from gig to gig, from show to sham, from hit to shit and back again. For George Curtis, there was no center. No home. No thoughts. There was drifting through shapeless bars and flopping in flimsy motel rooms and abusing shoddy impulses.
So, eventually, for George it all stopped. He mindfully missed his connecting flight to the United States in Barcelona in the spring of 1987. Instead of humping his bags to the airport again, chatting up producers who never remembered his name again, memorizing blocking and lines and cues and deconstructing "constructive criticism" again, George Curtis stayed in Catalunya from 1987 through 1996. He was pleased with his decision. It took him time to forgive himself for not leaving "the business" sooner. Not out of any guilt, but George was always proud when he felt he thought things through. Nevertheless young George was incessantly frustrated at the amount of effort and time it took him to reach landmark decisions. On January 1, 1997, after nine years in Barcelona that will be related to you in nine subsequent chapters, George Curtis heard a Catholic mass in Manhattan. By the end of a thoughtful homily, George knew exactly why he returned to New York City. He cancelled his return flight to Barcelona, booked a bus ticket to visit his sister Chloe in Pennsylvania, and bought them both tickets to a Metallica show in Chicago, IL.
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